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“Are you really asking me that? This isn’t the first time they’ve printed some shitty story about you or me…or anyone. The press are hungry dogs—they don’t care what you feed them; so long as their pockets are full, they’re happy.”
“We have to do something!” Her fist comes down hard on my thigh. “If people see that…”
Shuffling onto the lower step, I kneel in front of her. The storm brewing inside me quietens as it recognises her need for my calm. All the volatile feelings burning inside me dim, and all I feel is the love I have for Arabella.
Stroking her cold, flushed cheeks and trying to clear up the mascara smears around her eyes, I tell her soberly, “It doesn’t matter who sees it. It’s not you. I’ve seen every fucking inch of you, and that girl has nothing on you. She doesn’t have your air or your spirit. Her skin isn’t as golden as yours, and more importantly, her body doesn’t have the history yours has etched into it. She’s nobody, and you are somebody.”
I want to rip myself open and clothe her with my being so she can feel the weight of and know all the things she is to me. I wish I could show her the true extent and meaning of her existence to me. “You are everything to me.”
“But that’s not what everyone else will think. That’s not what they’ll see.”
“Fuck everyone else. Fuck what anyone else thinks. It doesn’t matter.”
My chest aches with the rampant rhythm of my heart. I hate feeling her hurt.
“What do we do now, then?” Running her fingertips over my jaw, her thumbnail scratches over my stubble.
“We become bigger, badder, better monsters than the ones trying to destroy us.”
Arabella smiles.
I smile back.
Without loosening my hold on her face, I kiss her lips softly. They’re so cold that her warm breaths scorch the air between us.
When I pull away, she nods. “Okay.”
Taking her hand, I hold it tight in mine as I stand and bring her up with me. We get back in the house, lose our coats, and head back to the drawing room.
Chapter 38
Arabella
It feels strange being back at the Sinclair house. At one point it felt like home, but now all I can think is of the room next door that was meant to be Carina’s nursery. The hairdresser finishes curling my short hair into relaxed waves as the make-up artist smokes out the dark cocoa liner he opted for with the gold-and-coffee toned shadows he’s used.
I don’t want to go to the event Cassie and Leo’s mother have put together. Good cause or not, I would rather write out a juicy cheque and avoid the whole show. But that’s exactly what we’ve been ordered to do to fix the damage the headlines have done.
A united front. A perfect marriage. Unspoiled.
“All done.” The hairdresser smiles. “The gold on the ends is really coming out now. It looks fabulous.”
“It does.” I smile, but the tug of my lips only makes the tension in my chest grow deeper.
“Now I know you said subtle.” The make-up artist takes a step back, pulling a familiar black bullet out of his paraphernalia belt. “But it’s Christmas, and with the gold in your hair and on your eyes…I think a vintage wine red would go beautifully with the red velvet of your dress.”
Looking at the red ankle-length number hanging on the back of the glass shower wall, I sigh. “It would, but I think something neutral would be better for tonight.”
He comes closer, uncapping the lipstick he has in his hand. “Don’t cower away. That’s what they want. If they see any weakness, they’ll feast on it.”
Nodding, I try to smile a little wider.
“Besides, you have the perfect lips for this colour.” Taking a small pencil brush, he lines my lips with a dark shade of red before taking a wider lip brush and filling the rest of my lips in with a slightly brighter shade. “Now, a gloss would make it killer sexy, but the matt…very Elizabeth Taylor and less pin-up.”
He puts the bullet into my hand and squeezes it shut. The hairdresser starts packing her utensils away with the exception of her tongs and hairspray.
“Remember, you dab the top-up, no swiping. It keeps it classy.”
That makes me laugh. It’s always the last thing he says before he declares me all done.
