Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m too embarrassed to leave my room for dinner. Instead I lie in bed, all bundled up in pajamas after shedding that sexy robe, staring at the ceiling and feeling… I don’t even know how to put a name on it. Hurt, confused, disappointed. Rejected.
It seems so unfair that Claude and I can both want each other so badly, but be held back by the contract I thought I wanted. Now we’re trapped in a way I still don’t fully understand, with Lord Ambrose somehow involved.
My ceiling holds no answers, so after a while, I scroll through my phone instead.
I want to vent to someone, but who? My mom still hasn’t been in contact for months.
I don’t want to talk about the details of my sex life—or lack thereof—with Benjamin.
And Sophie and Elaine… they have real problems to deal with.
I won’t burden them with an issue that is entirely my own fault.
But a memory bubbles up from the depths of my brain.
A certain valentine blog that went viral recently.
An anonymous blog, that takes anonymous confessions and offers advice.
I roll onto my stomach as I open the web page.
It feels odd to pour my heart out to a stranger.
But that’s what Anonymous Confessions of a Valentine is for, after all.
A place to vent to someone who might understand, even just a little bit, how I feel.
It’s hard to get started. But then my fingers start darting over my phone screen. Dear Anonymous Valentine, I say. My patron sees me as his new muse, but I want to be more than that…
By the time I hit send, it feels like I just purged a poison from my soul. I sigh, drop my phone, and rest face-down on my pillow. It’s good to get it out, but I still feel hopelessly at a loss.
Now that my embarrassment has faded, I can admit that Claude was right to reject my half-baked proposition. One night of casual sex isn’t the solution to this confusing mess of feelings.
Especially since I was the one who insisted that I didn’t want our relationship to be romantic. I hate to think I would’ve woken up regretting what we did.
Would I regret it?
I don’t know anymore. But I need to think about my future. My career. My entire life, I’ve sought stability, and it’s finally within reach. I’m not going to throw it all away for a man, no matter how badly I want him.
Because I do still clearly recall what Benjamin said would be the consequences for me breaking a contract: dismissal without pay, and being blacklisted from ever being a valentine again.
* * *
As days pass, the strangeness between us lingers. Claude seems just as determined to pretend the other evening didn’t happen as I am. But it’s impossible to ignore the new tension between us.
When I start waking up earlier to make my own coffee and breakfast, Claude doesn’t comment. I hate the part of me that misses him spoiling me, but… it’s better that I don’t get used to it. This situation is temporary, after all.
Claude still feeds from me, still cooks for me and sits at the dinner table, though he doesn’t always eat. That is the only time we spend together, and our conversations are polite and distant.
He doesn’t try to paint again, and I don’t push him to.
I drift from night to night, uncertain about my purpose here, until…
“We’re going out tonight,” Claude announces at breakfast.
I set down my fork. “Another party?” I ask, unable to conceal my reluctance. I knew attending events would be a part of my job when I signed up as a valentine, but I’ll admit I had hoped Claude wouldn’t be attending many. Attending one with things so awkward between us sounds disastrous.
Stress renders Claude’s expression in hard lines. “It’s a Vulpe event.”
“Oh.” I frown. “But… I thought you said you’re never invited to Vulpe parties?”
“I’m not. But Ambrose wants me there.” He hesitates. “If you would truly hate to go, then I can attend on my own.” His brow furrows. “Maybe that’s for the best, anyway. It’ll be—”
“No,” I say, before he can go on. “I’ll come.”
It’s only because I’m studying him that I note the way his shoulders relax, the ease of tension from his jaw. He hesitates, and then says, “Very well. We’ll depart in an hour and a half. The dress code is formal.”
As I head to my room to shower and get ready, I’m not sure what possessed me to insist on going.
It’s just that for a moment, Claude looked…
sad. And it made me remember how he was after Ambrose’s first visit, those long nights of despondence.
My feelings about Claude confuse me, but I know for certain that I don’t want to see him like that again.
Maybe I can’t help either way, but the least I can do is stand at his side when he’s going into a nest of vipers.
I choose a floor-length, pleated chiffon dress in pale green, hoping it’s enough to satisfy Claude’s vague dress code requirements.
But when I meet him near the door around the time we’re set to depart, he barely spares me a glance.
It’s odd for him not to have a kind word for me, but as we get into the waiting car, it becomes all the more obvious that he’s not himself.
He stares out the window, arms folded over his chest, uncharacteristically silent.
Even his outfit is understated, just a gray suit and a white shirt beneath—perfectly fine, but perfectly ordinary, which makes it quite unlike his usual style.
He doesn’t even reach for the wine, though I can’t decide if that’s a good sign or a bad one.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
He blinks as if just remembering I’m there, and shifts on his seat, leaning back against the plush cushioning. “Nervous is not precisely how I’d describe it.”
“Then how would you describe it?”
“Mm…” He tilts his head from side to side. “I don’t know. Perhaps a deep and pervasive sense of dread?”
“Ah.” I’m not sure what to say to that. I’ve never been very good at this whole comforting thing—I’m more of a “practical solution” person than a “talk it out” one—which makes me all the more aware of how poorly suited I am for this kind of job. “Is there anything I can do?”
He purses his lips, shrugs, looks away. “No,” he says. He fiddles with his rings, a couple of plain titanium bands rather than his usual ornate ones. “I’m still not sure I should have brought you.”
“Well, I’m happy to be here with you.” I scoot closer, and after a moment’s hesitation, place my hand on his knee and squeeze. “I’m sure it’ll be alright. We’ll get through it.”
He looks at my hand, and then at me, and offers a wan smile. “You’re being kind. I must really seem pathetic.”
“Mm, maybe a little,” I say, teasing. “But in an endearing way. Like a cat who fell in a bathtub.”
He huffs a laugh. “Now that’s more like the Nora I know.” He reaches down and takes my hand, twining his fingers with mine. “Does this count as intimacy?”
I bite my lip, hating the way my heart races at the simple touch. His thumb rubs slow circles on my hand, sending electricity tingling all the way up my arm. “I don’t think so.”
He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “How about this?” he murmurs against my skin, his eyes still locked on mine
The sparking spreads beneath my skin, turning my insides warm and bubbly. “You’re on thin ice,” I whisper, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.
Claude smirks and flips my hand over. He presses a slow kiss to my palm that feels far more sensual than it has any right to, and then returns our clasped hands to his lap.
He holds my hand the entire ride to the party, and even by the time we arrive, my heartbeat still hasn’t slowed.