Chapter 27
27
Emery
T he Ghibli expo is even better than I imagined. The exhibition space is crammed with stunning artworks, from mosaics to handmade ceramics, all depicting scenes and characters I love.
Leon insists on holding my hand, his grip warm, steady, and possessive, as if reminding the world—and me—that I’m his.
Now that we’re out in public together, the dream-like feeling has receded, and the weirdness is all too real.
My father didn’t help; I spoke to him on the phone earlier. He cried and apologized, saying he never knew how bad things were. When I told him Leon had said he’d release me in a month, Dad sounded relieved, like he was off the hook.
Then I asked him why he’d bet everything on Dante, and he had no excuse except that he wanted me married and my future securely tied up with my husband. That way, no one would try to get to his fortune by using me.
I was stunned into silence and hung up. How dare Dad reduce me to chattel, a feeble female of no value except as a bargaining chip.
No wonder Dante had the gall to mistreat me. Dad didn’t know how bad it was until Leon told him.
I’ve always known my father loved me but didn’t know how to show it. He feared the world too much, and I wonder if we’ll ever truly recover from the distance it carved between us.
I want the dad of my childhood back, the guy who carried me home from school on his shoulders and made my mom’s breakfast every morning.
I barely remember those days, but my heart still seeks my parents as they used to be. When all this is over, maybe we’ll be able to speak honestly, like adults, and spill a few home truths.
“You’re quiet, val’kiriya ,” Leon says, taking my hand. “Are you still thinking about Desi?”
“Kind of. I have a lot of things on my mind. This whole situation is messed up.”
He nods. “Yeah, I know. Maybe this will help.”
We stop before a beautiful planter, terracotta but dipped in ceramic. It’s primarily black, but the details make me squeal in delight.
“It’s Jiji!” I say. “He’s the cat from Kiki’s Delivery Service. Although I love them all, it’s my favorite Ghibli movie.”
I look at the price tag and let out a low whistle. “Fifteen thousand? I’ll rummage behind the couch and see if I can rustle up some loose change!”
I groan and point at the podium’s red ‘SOLD’ sticker. “Ah, damn. I guess I’ll have to find another piece of pottery to spend a fortune on.”
Leon frowns. “You’re smarter than this. I refuse to spell it out for you.”
“I don’t—oh!” My eyes widen, and Leon laughs. “You bought it already?”
“This event was invite only; to get an invitation, you had to make at least one purchase via the catalog before the exhibition opened. I went online earlier this week and got into a bidding war for this planter. Fifteen was the starting price, but it’s okay; I have a platinum Amex and an excellent accountant, so I can probably write it off against something.”
I stare, astonished. “What the Hell did you end up paying?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s not for you, anyway. It’s for Phil.”
“I thought you were jealous of him.”
He wrinkles his nose. “A little. But he has no hands, feet, or anything else you might prefer in a man. There’s a joke here about deflowering, but I’m not smart enough to work it out, so can I have the laugh anyway?”
I giggle, and his eyes light up. “Wait,” I say. “A platinum Amex. Was it your card on Krissy’s account for the wedding stuff?”
“I thought you knew that already,” Leon says, shaking his head at me. “Damn. And I thought I wasn’t getting enough appreciation for my generosity.”
He counts off his points on his fingers as he talks. “I sent you the flowers, called up your wedding planner, and gave you a limitless budget?—”
“—and sneaked into my home, listened to me masturbate, jerked off in the dark beside me, then noticed my Studio Ghibli stuff?”
A woman stares at me, and I lower my voice. “You’re problematic, Leon, you really are. Thank you for the planter, although I have no idea how I’ll get it back to my place when I leave.”
A flash of pure misery crosses Leon’s face. It’s fleeting, but it punches a hole straight through me. He hides it with a practiced smile, but its weight lingers, heavy and unspoken.
He’s so hard to read. I wonder if he hides behind wisecracks and charm so I won’t see how hard he’s fighting himself.
I know he’s keeping things from me—dark things. But I can’t bring myself to push, not when glimpses of his sadness and regret make me think there’s more to him than obsession.
“Your stuff is at my place now, courtesy of Viktor and his movers,” Leon says, his tone deliberately light. “So I guess he’ll take it back when our month together ends. Don’t ask for a warehouse full of gold bullion, or it might take several trips.”
At Leon’s apartment, I set about unpacking my things. I insist on tacking up my posters and shifting several abstract ornaments to make space for my trinkets.
I thought the invasion of his space would annoy him, but he sits in an armchair and watches me, a smile playing on his lips.
It’s the kind of quiet, reflective expression that softens his sharp edges, but there’s something else there, too. A melancholy he doesn’t know how to put into words.
“Don’t you care about any of it?” I ask. “This is your home, and I’m ruffling it up, ruining the order.”
“This place was never a home,” he replies, “but it is now. Your touch warms every cold corner, val’kiriya .”
I stop and look at him. “What does that word mean?”
“ Val’kiriya ? It’s Russian for Valkyrie. They were the female warriors in Norse mythology who decided who would die in battle and conducted them to Valhalla.”
“And you thought that nickname suited me?”
“From the moment I met you. Except the battle is yours. You don’t decide; you fight for everyone, breathing life into people with one foot in the hereafter.”
He pauses, looking me up and down. “Ever thought of fighting for yourself, Emery?”
His words land hard, and I sit on the couch, considering the question.
“I used to. There was a time when I liked myself and thought I deserved good things. Then my mom died, and nothing was the same. Dad and I drifted apart, afraid to love one another like we used to for fear of feeling the pain of loss all over again.”
Leon’s face is unreadable. “And do you think you deserve good things now?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Leon closes his eyes. “I get it. My parents died too, and I’ve been running from it ever since.”
We fall silent for a while, adrift in our memories but increasingly aware of what we have in common.
The room is subdued, and several low lamps cast an amber glow.
Outside, Manhattan twinkles and bustles, the flash of lights almost manic against the surge of people and cars below us. It’s snowing lightly, a smattering of flakes twirling in the wind, but we’re cozy here, wrapped in warmth and a deepening atmosphere of intimacy.
For all his bravado and confidence, a part of Leon seems lost—wounded in ways that no amount of wealth or power can heal.
“I can’t imagine losing both my parents,” I say. “What happened?”
Leon crosses the floor to his drink cabinet, pours a measure of vodka, and downs it. I wonder if he’ll shoot another, but he returns to his seat, bringing the bottle and two glasses.
“I’ll need to blur the edges if I’m gonna tell the whole tale,” he says, half-filling the glasses. “Have one, moya zhena ; it’ll help. And if you hate me after this, I’ll understand.”
I take the glass but hesitate. He’s done terrible things, things I still don’t fully understand, but the idea of hating him feels wrong.
I pick up my drink and settle down, ready to listen. Leon takes a deep slug and wipes his face with his palm.
“My parents were wealthy too,” he says. “My father made a fortune in real estate after inheriting an investment portfolio. My parents were good people, you know—philanthropists. They wouldn’t play nice with the morally bankrupt scum that plagued the city back then. That was a mistake they paid for dearly.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper, riveted by the strain in his voice.
“The powerful always have long memories,” Leon says darkly. “When they’re riled, they go after what matters most.”
His hand tightens on his glass. “The first thing I gotta say is this.” He raises his eyes to mine. “It was all my fault.”