Chapter forty
Luc
She’s my muse.
I ’ve never talked about my ADHD to anyone. Not because I’m ashamed—it’s just that I don’t want people to see me differently. But with Rylee, it felt easy. Necessary, even. Like sharing it was the only way to show her she wasn’t alone. I hope someday she’ll trust me enough to share her own pain, too, whenever she’s ready.
“Come on, let’s get you dressed,” I say softly against her hair, breaking the intimate moment we’re having. For a second, I hesitate, my thumb playing with her hair. I don’t want to move, don’t want to let go of her warmth. For a second, I want to stay like this forever. The way her body melts into mine, trusting me in a way I have a feeling doesn’t come easy for her.
I step out of the tub first, wrapping a towel around my waist. Grabbing another towel, I turn back to her. “Here.” I hold it open. Her fingers brush mine briefly as she pulls it around her body.
I guide her to sit on the edge of the tub. Kneeling in front of her, I grab the lotion, wanting to smooth it over her skin. “Let me.” I reach out for the lotion cap.
Her shoulders stiffen, and her hands tug the towel even tighter around herself. “I can do it myself,” she says, her gaze fixed somewhere past my shoulder.
I pause, studying her face. “Rylee, I won’t look if you don’t want me to. But those little scars? They don’t change how I see you. Beautiful. Strong. Smart.”
Her shoulders stiffen, her jaw tightening as though my words hurt her. She looks down, avoiding my eyes, and it feels like she’s pulling away again. The quiet stretches between us until I can’t take it anymore.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her lips part then press together again, and her hands fidget with the edge of the towel. Finally, she shakes her head, her shoulders hunching as if to protect herself.
“No, it just…” She stops, her eyes meeting mine before leaving looking away again. “I can do it myself.”
There she goes, putting the walls back up again. Part of me wants to lash out, to demand she let me in. But I can see that her scars are more than skin deep and that will only push her further away.
A sharp ache cuts through me. I don’t know what hurts more, the walls she’s putting between us, or her needing to put those walls up in the first place.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to nod and smile. “Okay,” I say, quieter now. “I’ll give you privacy to get dressed.”
Standing, I move toward the door, each step heavier than the last. My hand lingers on the frame, and I turn my head, just enough to catch a glimpse of her sitting on the edge of the tub, her towel still wrapped around her.
She doesn’t look at me.
I’m a patient man, mon amour. I’ll wait for as long as it takes.
I walk into the closet, grabbing a gray sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. I put them on before I make my way to the couch where I wait for her. She steps out wearing a pair of pink sweatpants, and she’s never looked more beautiful. She’s like the first ray of sunrise or the last golden light of sunset. She’s everything.
“Hi,” she says, looking a little nervous.
The sight brings a smile to my face
“I wasn’t sure what to wear,” she continues, glancing down. “But I can always change if I need to.”
“It’s perfect.”
I had a whole day planned of things we were supposed to do. But right now, I’d be happy to stay in this room with her all day. But I have a better idea.
“Come on.” I stand and reach for her hand.
“Where are we going?” Her brows draw together.
“You’ll see.” I lead her down to the stairs. When we reach the door to the room, I stop turning to face her, my pulse quickening.
“Okay, close your eyes.”
“Why do I have to close my eyes?” She crosses her arms, her lips pursed together.
“Please.” I give her my most charming smile.
Her gaze lingers on my face. “Why’s his smile gotta be so damn beautiful?” she mutters in Spanish.
I arch a brow at her with a smirk.
Her eyes widen. “Fuck, I forgot you speak Spanish,” she blurts, her cheeks flushing. She lets out a small huff, crossing her arms. “I hate you.”
You don’t hate me, Mon Trésor.
“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” I say, tracing the soft curve of her cheek, the faint warmth lingering beneath her skin. To anyone else, her blush might not be noticeable, but I see it. And I like knowing that I can do this to her.
“Close your eyes for me, please.”
Her barriers slip, just a little, to give me a stolen glimpse into the parts of her she keeps locked away.
“Okay,” she says with a small laugh, the sound light but intimate.
Forget being a CEO. My new job is making her laugh like this as often as I can.
“No peeking,” I warn, raising an eyebrow for emphasis.
“Okay, no peeking.” She bites down on her lip to suppress another grin.
Taking her hands, I guide her toward the double doors. Her fingers fit perfectly in mine, and I want to hold on longer than necessary. I stop in front of the doors, glancing at her closed eyes before pushing them open.
“Okay, open,” I say unable to hide the anticipation in my voice.
She blinks, her eyes widening as she takes in the room. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line one side. A long ballet barre stretches across the wall. Her steps are hesitant at first, like she’s afraid to believe what she’s seeing.
“You still dance, right?” I whisper close to her ear, watching as her gaze lingers on every detail.
Her hand reaches out, her fingertips grazing the barre. “Luc, what is this?” She turns to face me, her brows drawn together.
“My sister used to dance ballet. So I have a studio in every home I own.” It’s not a lie, not entirely. My sister did dance once, years ago. But this studio? It wasn’t for her.
It’s for the woman standing in front of me now. After I watched her move with a grace that left me speechless, I realized I wanted to give her a space where she could be completely herself. I made sure all of my residential homes had a ballet studio. But I can’t tell her that. Not yet. That kind of confession might scare her away.
Instead, I watch her as she takes another step forward, her fingers trailing along the barre. Her eyes light up, and her lips part in quiet awe. It’s everything I hoped for.
“Ready to dance?”
She glances down at her slippers, her lips pressing into a slight frown. “I don’t have my ballet shoes.” She brings the toes of her slippers together.
“Don’t worry,” I say, nodding toward the dressing room. “You’ll find everything you need in there.”
She glances back at the door and back to me. Slowly. She takes a step toward the room but pauses to look at me over her shoulders.
I offer a small smile, encouraging her to keep going.
My eyes follow her as she disappears inside. My phone buzzes with a call, pulling my attention away from the door.
I pull it from my pocket, glancing at the screen, seeing a call from my assistant. I hit decline, whatever it is, it can wait. This is my time with my wife and nothing else matters. Sliding the phone back into my pocket, I look up just as she reappears.
And she takes my breath away.
She’s wearing a pink bodysuit, a white skirt on top. A pair of tights that matches her skin tone, and a pink pair of ballet shoes. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail secured with a pink hair bow that makes her look so sweet.
“Wow!”
A small, almost shy curve of her lips. “Not only do you have a dance studio, but you also seem to own a ballet boutique.”
“I’m a man of many resources,” I shove my hands into my pockets. Lucien Kingley nervous? What is this woman doing to me?
“Ready?” I ask, clearing my throat. “If you want me to leave, just say the word.”
She studies my face for a few minutes, and I wonder if she sees the longing in there. I want to watch her dance but this is about her not me. “I want you to stay,” she says.
Relief washes through me. “Okay,” I say, exhaling slowly. “You can connect your phone to the Bluetooth. It’s a surround sound system.”
She connects her phone and hands it to me. I glance at the screen, and she’s chosen “when the party’s over” by Billie Eilish. Moving to the center of the room, she gives me a slight nod to let me know she’s ready. I hit play, and the soft intro of the music fills the room.
A faint smile tugs at her lips like she’s allowing herself to disappear into the melody. The way she stretches her legs, her arms. She isn’t just dancing; she’s interpreting every word of the song. She is the music, and the music is her.
I can’t help the lump that forms in my throat as I watch her. She falls to the floor and gets up again, stretching her legs toward the air. Her expression is raw, focused, free, and alive. She moves as if gravity itself bends to her will, every mirror reflecting the art she creates with her body.
She is my muse, and I could watch her for hours.
When the music ends, she collapses onto the floor, her back pressing against the cool surface, arms above her head.
“Rylee?” I rush toward her to make sure she’s okay.
Then she laughs.
That laugh. It always catches me off guard, like stepping into the sunlight. She pushes herself off the floor, bringing her knees to her chest. I sit down beside her, my long legs stretch out in front of me.
“You were incredible,” I say, turning my head to look at her face. She’s staring into distance. Her laughter fades into a small, hesitant smile, but I catch it, the shadow hidden beneath her sunshine.
“When I was little, my mom used to take me to ballet classes,” she begins. “I couldn’t wait to be there. The other kids would fool around, but not me. I practiced every step, every position. I wanted to be perfect.” Her fingers trace absent patterns on her tights. “My teachers told me I was talented, and I believed them. I’d sit in the car after class, telling my mom everything they said. We’d laugh, sing along to the radio, and she’d tell me I was going to make it big one day.”
Her shoulders curl inward. “But that was before Dad left. After that, she changed. Turned into someone I didn’t even recognize.” She exhales, her breath trembling as she looks past me, her gaze far away. “I miss that version of her. It’s like grieving someone that’s still alive,” she whispers. “And I hate that my sister never got to meet her.”
I keep still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter whatever fragile piece of herself she’s letting me see.
“She became bitter. Started drinking. Getting high. Sometimes she forgot I was even there.” Her lips tremble, and she presses them together before speaking again. “When my sister was born, I thought maybe… maybe she’d change. You know? For her.” She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her. “But it got worse. I was only eleven, and I had to raise my sister.”
Her hand tightens around her knees. “She’d bring men around. At first, they made her happy. It was like I had my mom back for a little while. But it never lasted. There was always a point where it all fell apart.” Her fingers twitch, her breath hitching. “And that’s when the reminders started.”
I tilt my head, leaning in slightly. “Reminders?”
“‘Women in our family are cursed, Lily. No man will ever love us. They’ll never stay. Just like your daddy.’” Her voice cracks, and I feel it like a sharp sting in my chest. “‘Just like every man after him. Once they get tired of you, they’ll move on to the next.’”
Her jaw tightens, and her shoulders sag as if the weight of those words still presses down on her. “She said it started with my great-grandmother. She left the man she loved for someone else. That man left her, and ever since… no man stays. They come and go.”
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until my lungs ache, and I feel like I might pass out. I let it out slowly. How could someone say that to her? How could anyone make her believe she’s unlovable?
I reach out, my hand trembling a little as I place it over hers. Her fingers twitch beneath mine, but she doesn’t pull away. “Rylee,” I say, my thumb brushing over her knuckles. “You’re not cursed.”
How do I tell her that I can’t function without her? She’s in my head, my blood, my soul, and my heart. But what if I say it wrong? What if I scare her off, push her back into those walls I’ve only just started to crack? Instead, I shift closer, my other arm slipping around her shoulders. I pull her against me, her body tense for just a moment before she relaxes.
My cheek rests against her hair, fingers trailing slowly over her arm, soothing, silent.
Please feel this. I’m here, Mon Soleil. I’m not going anywhere.
She presses her face against my chest and exhales.
If she’s cursed to be unlovable, then I’m cursed to love her forever.