24. Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Four
Not Yours to Give
Luca
Francis’s birthday invitation has been sitting on my nightstand since before the crash.
This morning, I resigned from his company.
Tonight, I’m attending his sixtieth birthday celebration.
Not because Francis summoned me.
Because Simone asked if I was coming.
I said yes.
After leaving Francis’s office, I returned to my mother’s house to shower and change. Now my suit jacket hangs over the back of a kitchen chair while I lean against the counter and watch Mom stir something fragrant on the stove.
The kitchen smells like chicken, curry, and home.
Normally, I’d be eating directly from the pan while she complained that I was ruining dinner.
Today, I’m barely aware of the food.
I’m thinking about Simone.
What she’ll look like tonight.
Whether Francis told her I resigned.
Whether she believes I’m pulling away when every decision I’ve made since leaving the island has been an attempt to move closer to her.
Mom glances at me over her shoulder.
“You’ve been staring at that wall for five minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That usually looks less painful.”
She tastes the sauce from the wooden spoon, adds something from a small bowl, and continues stirring.
“I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Miserable and happy at the same time.”
“I’m not miserable.”
“You’ve checked your phone four times since entering the kitchen.”
“She may need something.”
“Of course.”
Mom smiles.
“The woman surrounded by private security inside a fortified estate might suddenly require your assistance.”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s written all over your face, Luca.”
I fold my arms.
“What is?”
“That you’re in love with her.”
She says it as though we’re discussing the weather.
I look toward the doorway, making sure the twins aren’t close enough to hear.
“They’re upstairs,” Mom says. “And they already believe you’re acting strange.”
“I’m not acting strange.”
“You wore a suit to dinner.”
“It’s a formal event.”
“You changed your shirt three times.”
“The first two didn’t fit properly.”
“You own them.”
“I may have lost weight.”
She laughs.
I’m glad my emotional crisis is entertaining.
Mom turns off the stove and faces me fully.
“I always wondered whether you noticed how Simone looked at you.”
My eyebrows rise.
“She was a teenager.”
“And you never encouraged her.”
“No.”
“I know.”
The humor leaves Mom’s expression.
“That’s why I never worried.”
I don’t like the direction of this conversation.
“She had an obvious crush,” Mom continues. “She followed you and Bran around whenever she could. You pretended not to notice.”
“I didn’t notice.”
Mom gives me the look she reserves for particularly transparent lies.
“Fine. I noticed.”
“I thought so.”
“I kept my distance.”
“You did the right thing.”
Her voice is gentle.
“But she isn’t a girl anymore.”
“I know.”
The memory of Simone naked beneath me beside the pool flashes through my mind.
I know exactly how much of a woman she is.
Mom studies my face.
“And she loves you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“She told me.”
A pleased smile appears.
“And you told her?”
“Yes.”
“Using the actual words?”
“Multiple times.”
“Good.”
She wipes her hands on a towel.
“Then why do you look as though you’re preparing for an execution?”
“Because we aren’t on the island anymore.”
“I noticed the absence of the ocean.”
“Everything is different here.”
“Your feelings aren’t.”
“No.”
“Neither are hers.”
“I know that too.”
Mom approaches and places both hands against my face.
She has done this since I was a child.
Whenever she needed to make sure I was listening, she held my face and removed every possible escape.
“You’re making it complicated.”
“It is complicated.”
“Only because you insist on carrying every possible consequence before it happens.”
Her thumbs brush my cheeks.
“You resigned?”
“Yes.”
“Does Simone know?”
“Not yet.”
Mom frowns.
“She heard from Bran, probably.”
“That is not the same as hearing it from you.”
“I’m seeing her tonight.”
“Then tell her.”
“I will.”
“And tell her why.”
“I’m not resigning only because of her.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Mom’s gaze remains steady.
“You are leaving because you finally understand you deserve a life that belongs to you. Loving Simone may have helped you see that, but the decision is still yours.”
Sometimes I forget how thoroughly she knows me.
“I don’t know what I’ll do next.”
“You’ll decide.”
“What if I make the wrong choice?”
“Then you’ll make another.”
Her answer is immediate.
Simple.
As though a wrong decision isn’t a prison sentence.
As though I’m allowed to change direction.
Mom lowers her hands but keeps hold of my arms.
“I worried about you after your father died.”
My muscles tighten automatically.
She notices.
This time, I don’t pull away.
“You didn’t cry when I told you,” she says. “Not at the funeral either.”
“I cried.”
“Not where anyone could see.”
I look past her toward the window.
It has been years since we discussed those first months after his death.
Maybe we never truly did.
“I believed you were grieving in your own way,” Mom continues. “Everyone does. But you became so serious.”
A sad smile touches her mouth.
“You smiled less. You treated every responsibility as though failing at it would make the world end.”
“I had to help you.”
“You were sixteen.”
“I was the oldest.”
“You were my son.”
Her fingers tighten around my arms.
“Not my husband. Not your brother and sister’s father. My son.”
The correction reaches somewhere I don’t usually allow anyone to touch.
“You decided you had to replace him,” she says. “At home. At work. Everywhere.”
“I didn’t.”
“You took his place beside Francis.”
“He offered me an opportunity.”
“And you believed refusing would dishonor your father.”
I say nothing.
Mom’s eyes shine.
“I lost him too, Luca.”
“I know.”
“I know what it is to blame the job. To blame Francis. To blame the road, the weather, and every decision that put your father in that car.”
Her breath trembles.
“I blamed myself for not asking him to stay home.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“Neither could Francis.”
The statement lands without accusation.
I know she’s right.
I’ve known it for years.
Knowing never stopped the resentment.
“Your father’s death was an accident,” she says. “That doesn’t make it less painful. It doesn’t make it fair.”
Her voice softens.
“But grief cannot be allowed to choose the rest of your life.”
I look at her.
“You don’t need to forget him. You don’t need to stop being angry that he was taken from us.”
She touches my cheek again.
“But you must stop treating happiness like a betrayal.”
My throat tightens.
“I don’t know how.”
“You start by going to that party.”
A laugh escapes me.
“That’s your solution?”
“No.”
She smiles.
“My solution is that you stop standing outside the life you want and pretending the door is locked.”
“She deserves more than I can give her.”
“Did she say that?”
“No.”
“Then stop answering for her.”
That sounds suspiciously like something Simone would say.
Mom steps back and looks at the suit hanging over the chair.
“If you want this woman, go after her.”
“I already have her.”
“Then behave like it.”
The certainty in her voice settles something inside me.
I take the suit jacket from the chair.
Mom smooths one hand over my lapel after I put it on.
“You look like your father.”
The comparison doesn’t feel like a chain this time.
Her expression changes before she adds, “But you’re not him.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
She kisses my cheek.
“Bring Simone to dinner sometime.”
I stare at her.
“What?”
“I want to meet the woman who finally made you resign.”
“You’ve met her.”
“Not as your woman.”
Heat moves through my chest at the phrase.
My woman.
“I’ll ask her.”
Mom smiles.
“You’ll bring her.”
For once, I don’t argue.
I will never enjoy large crowds.
Francis’s invitation described tonight as an intimate birthday dinner.
Apparently, intimacy means three hundred guests, a string quartet, two bars, and enough flowers to bankrupt a small country.
His sixtieth birthday has become a full-scale political event.
After the attacks, canceling might have made him appear frightened. Francis Rochefort would rather invite half of New York into his home than let his enemies believe they altered his plans.
Security is tighter than I’ve ever seen it.
Guests pass through multiple checkpoints before reaching the ballroom. Bags are searched. Invitations are verified against photographs. Armed personnel occupy every entrance, and plainclothes agents circulate among the guests.
The estate grounds are illuminated from the gates to the tree line.
It should reassure me.
It doesn’t.
The pilot is still missing.
So is the person who authorized the attacks.
A celebration this large creates too many variables.
I remind myself that I’m not working tonight.
I’m a guest.
Still, I identify the exits the moment I enter.
I note the security personnel positioned along the walls and the cameras covering the staircase.
Habit doesn’t disappear because I submitted a letter.
Crystal chandeliers cast gold patterns over the polished floor. Wealth and power fill the room in shades of midnight blue, black, and metallic gold.
I chose a dark-blue suit to avoid drawing attention.
It doesn’t matter.
Several people recognize me from the coverage surrounding the crash. Others know me as the man who has stood behind the Rochefort family for years.
Tonight, for the first time, I’m not standing behind anyone.
The sensation is unfamiliar.
I find Bran at the bar with Cassie.
She notices me first.
Her face brightens as she crosses the distance and wraps both arms around me.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.”
I return the hug carefully.
“Thank you.”
“Bran told me about the crash.”
Her eyes move over me as though checking for damage.
“I was terrified for both of you.”
“All right.”
Bran gestures for her to release me.
“That’s enough affection. He’ll start believing I care.”
Cassie ignores him.
“He was losing his mind.”
“I was not.”
“You threatened to commandeer a military aircraft.”
“It was available.”
“It belonged to the government.”
“Details.”
Cassie looks at me.
“He didn’t sleep.”
Bran lifts a shot glass.