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I could find a place in the city and hide in plain sight. The closest I had ever come to freedom had been college, and even then, I’d had a dorm room but had rarely been allowed to stay there. Mother wanted me home every night, which was fine. I’d told myself it was a reasonable compromise, but now…
I needed that time. For most people, college was their first taste of freedom and how they became who they were meant to be. I needed to figure out who I was, what I wanted, and what I was capable of. I needed the chance to fail.
Thinking about what I was going to do next, I stood up, brushed the dirt from my dress, and wandered aimlessly through the gardens, looking to the statues for some inspiration.
Even if I did return to the city and made it on my own, it left one large gaping hole in my life.
Luc Manwarring.
Even after hearing everything he’d said in his office, I wanted him. I hated myself for it, but it was true. I missed him in a way I didn’t know was possible, that went bone deep.
A particular bronze statue caught my eye, and I headed toward it.
It was called First Love, and it was beautiful. Two figures sat next to each other, the more feminine one leaning on the chest of the more masculine one.
They were intertwined in an embrace, apparently completely absorbed in that intimate moment, like nothing happening outside of their own little world was relevant. As long as they had each other, nothing could touch them.
That was what I wanted, a man who saw me as an equal, who was as enraptured with me as I was with him.
Was that kind of love too much to ask for?
If I had been asked yesterday if Luc was capable of that connection, I would have laughed.
That was before he’d played the part of my dark prince and pulled me out of my mother’s clutches. The way we’d talked, the way he’d touched me, aiming to give pleasure instead of taking it… I just didn’t know.
Then I’d heard him with his father, and I no longer knew which Luc was the real one. Was he the sweet man who’d fed me chocolate and marshmallows, the lonely boy who’d grown up in a drafty boarding school, or the ruthless man who’d laughed about blackmailing my mother to win my hand and my father’s business deals?
Were any of them the real Luc? Were all of them? How was I supposed to determine which were real and which were acts?
My gut told me the lonely boy was the real Luc, but how was I supposed to know for sure? How could I trust that my gut wasn’t lying to me because I missed his touch? Love had to be the enemy of logic.
This statue made me think of him, and I hated it for that.
It made me think of the way Luc held me the night before in front of the fire. It made me remember how it felt to be next to him, laughing and eating s’mores like a regular couple wanting to know more about each other. Wanting to know secret things, intimate things, things only the other knew.
I wanted the kind of intimacy those words promised me, the kind of intimacy given for its own sake, not to feign attachment with lies for power and money.
“Amelia.” He called my name, and I wasn’t even surprised he’d found me.
I thought I always knew it didn’t matter where I went, he would find me. “Amelia.”
He was dressed in his usual designer pants and black polo shirt, a style that made him appear both relaxed and somewhat sinister. My heart raced at just seeing him. I wanted to run into his arms and make him promise to never let me go.
I didn’t.
He ran toward me, and I considered fleeing, but it was no use.
I stood my ground.
I turned and looked up at the statue again, perched up high on a stucco wall, and I wondered if that was the key to this piece. It looked so close; it looked achievable until you neared it, and you realized the figures were perched so far above you. That relationship, that kind of security, would always be just beyond my reach.
“Amelia.” Luc finally reached me, panting. Upon closer inspection, he was a mess. His hair was disheveled, his clothing wrinkled, and small bags had formed under his eyes.
I didn’t say anything and waited for him to share whatever he had come here to say. Maybe if he said the right thing, looking at him wouldn’t hurt so much. Maybe he would say the words that would make me realize he could be the man I wanted him to be.
“Amelia, come home.” He reached for my hand, and I took a step back.
That wasn’t it.
