Chapter 10 #2
“He was …” I tried to find the right word. “Brilliant. Charismatic in a way that made everyone want to be close to him. The kind of professor who could say a sentence and people would write it down like it was scripture.”
Amaya’s mouth tightened in the smallest way.
“He noticed me,” I continued, and the simple fact of saying it out loud made my stomach twist. “Not in an obvious way. Not like a man at a bar. It was … subtle. He’d ask what I thought.
He’d remember something I’d said weeks earlier.
He’d tell me my work had ‘depth’ like it was a secret only he could see. ”
I forced a laugh that wasn’t real. “God, I sound pathetic.”
“You sound like a girl being trained,” Amaya corrected.
The word snapped something in me.
Trained.
I had always told myself it was love. Or at least a complicated version of it. That I’d been mature. That I’d chosen.
But when Amaya said trained, my body reacted like it recognized the truth.
“He was married,” I said quietly.
Amaya stared at me, unblinking. “Of course, he was.”
“He never said he would leave her,” I added quickly, as if that made it better. “He never promised anything. That was … part of it. He didn’t have to lie. He just let me fill in the blanks.”
Amaya’s eyes narrowed, not angry at me—angry at the ghost of him.
“He’d email me late at night,” I said. “Not explicitly. Just … questions. A quote. A link to a photograph he thought I’d like. He’d say things like, You have a mind that will ruin men, and I’d read it over and over like it was romantic instead of dangerous.”
My throat tightened. I took a sip of wine too fast and felt it burn.
“He never touched you?” Amaya asked softly.
I hesitated.
He had. Not in ways that left bruises or evidence.
But there were always fingers, hovering.
“You know,” I said, voice thin. “Little things. A hand on my shoulder when he walked behind me. A touch at my lower back guiding me out of a room. The kind of contact that made you feel chosen in public and owned in private.”
Amaya’s jaw clenched.
“And you learned,” she said.
“Yes.” My voice wavered. “I learned how to live in the almost. How to wait. How to be grateful for attention even when it hurt. I learned that wanting was something you did quietly so you didn’t embarrass yourself.”
Amaya leaned back, eyes still on mine. “And now Connor?”
I swallowed. The name did something to me—an immediate heat, low and sharp.
“Connor doesn’t feel like almost,” I admitted. “He feels like … impact.”
Amaya’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
I frowned. “Good?”
“Yes,” she said. “Because almost is where girls get trapped.”
The words hit hard. Too accurate.
I stared at my apartment—my pale walls, my restrained furniture—wondering how many years I’d built my life around being the kind of woman who could survive almost.
Amaya stood and set her empty glass down. “You have dinner.”
My heart jumped. “Yes.”
“Are you excited?”
The honest answer came out before I could edit it. “Yes.”
Amaya nodded once, satisfied. “Then don’t punish yourself for it.”
I stood, too, feeling suddenly restless. “What if I’m making it bigger than it is?”
Amaya’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Maybe you are. But you’re allowed to be a woman who wants.”
My throat tightened again. I hated that wanting still felt like a thing I had to earn permission for.
Amaya moved toward the door, sliding her shoes on. “Text me when you’re at dinner,” she said.
I blinked. “Why?”
She gave me a look. “Because you’re new.”
Then she leaned in and cheek-kissed me like she’d done a hundred times, like we were sisters, like intimacy was normal instead of earned.
“Bonne chance,” she murmured. “Be brave.”
When she left, the apartment felt quieter than before. Not safe-quiet. Anticipation-quiet.
I checked the time and felt my pulse spike.
I showered again even though I didn’t need to. I wanted the ritual. The reset. The feeling of water washing off the old version of myself—the one who’d learned to want in secret.
I dressed carefully this time, not for the room, not for the gaze of strangers, but for the idea that I might be seen by someone who didn’t reduce me.
A dress that skimmed rather than clung. Shoes I could walk in. Earrings small, gold, like a whisper.
I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my own face.
There was a softness there that felt new. Not naive—awake.
I looked like a woman who’d been touched without being taken.
My phone buzzed.
Connor: I’ll be there in fifteen.
My stomach flipped.
I typed back Okay and then deleted it, retyped it, deleted again.
Finally, I sent: See you soon.
Two seconds later, he replied:
Connor: Looking forward to it.
That was all. Four words.
And yet they made heat spread through my body like a slow match.
I grabbed my coat, then paused at the door.
For a moment, the old fear tried to rise—the message from last night, the shadow in the window, the idea that Paris had layers and I was walking into one of them without knowing the rules.
Then I remembered the truth I’d been circling all day.
I didn’t come here to be numb.
I opened the door and stepped into the stairwell, boots hitting the worn stone steps. Down one flight, then another, then another, the rhythm steadying me.
Outside, the street was washed in early evening light, the air cool and alive.
I reached the sidewalk and stopped.
A dark car was parked at the curb—clean, understated, wrong for my street in a way that made my pulse jump.
The back door opened.
Connor stepped out.
He looked … unfair.
Not flashy. Just controlled—dark coat, dark shirt, the kind of presence that made the space around him quiet itself. His gaze found me immediately, and something in his face shifted, subtle and honest.
Approval.
Desire, contained.
He walked toward me without rushing, like he wasn’t going to spook me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I replied, breath catching stupidly.
His eyes flicked over me—shoes to collarbone to mouth—then back to my eyes.
A beat.
“I’m excited,” I admitted, because I couldn’t seem to lie to him.
His mouth curved just slightly. “Good.”
He held out his hand, offering.
My heart thumped once, hard.
I looked at his hand.
Then I put mine in it.
Warm. Steady. Real.
He squeezed—barely—like a promise he wasn’t saying out loud.
“Ready?” he asked.
I inhaled, tasting Paris on the air.
“Yes,” I said.
And together, we turned toward the car—toward dinner—toward whatever came next.
Right before the door closed, Connor glanced down at me and murmured, almost too quiet to hear, “You look … stunning.”
My cheeks warmed.
I didn’t look away.
“Don’t ruin me before we even get there,” I said, half joking, half not.
His eyes darkened. “I’m trying not to.”
Then he opened the door for me, and the night waited.