Chapter 18 The Melody
THE MELODY
EMERY
The plane begins to taxi, and I stare out the large window at the disappearing terminal.
The engine rumbles, an unsettling reminder of the distance between Damon and me.
A pang of guilt tugs at my chest. I should've stayed with him. It feels wrong leaving him alone. But what was I supposed to do? Drag him? Tie him to a seat on Quin’s jet? Force him to join us?
He’s an adult. A grown-ass man. And he’s capable of making his own decisions. Maybe he’ll spend the next seventy-two hours trying out a million other hobbies. Quin mentioned he saw a horse-riding pamphlet on Damon’s desk. Damon on a horse. It’s an odd image. But if it makes him happy then so be it.
The sharp sound of a lighter being flicked draws my attention, and I turn my head to find Amir seconds away from lighting a cigar. My eyes widen in disbelief as I swiftly grab the cigar from his mouth.
"Are you crazy?” I hiss. “What are you doing? You’re going to get us kicked off the fucking flight.”
Amir blinks, clearly caught off guard. "Am I not allowed to smoke?"
I point to the illuminated no-smoking sign above our cabin. "Seriously? Smoking on a plane has been banned since like the 90s or something."
“Even in first class?”
Is this a joke? “Everywhere.”
Amir sighs, pocketing his lighter. "My apologies. I didn't realize it was a rule. I've never flown commercial before."
I shoot him a glare. "You really are a little prince, aren't you?"
He smirks. "Well, technically, a very late and distant cousin of mine was a—"
I hold up my hand, cutting him off. "Don’t start with that again. In no universe will I ever address you as My Royal Highness.”
“I’m just saying…” Amir chuckles, dropping the topic as he glances over his shoulder. "I don't mean to alarm you, Miss Jones, but there are two rather large men three rows behind us who can’t seem to stop staring at you."
I follow his gaze, inwardly cringing. "Just ignore them."
Amir purses his lips. "You know who they are?"
I could lie but there's no point. Amir will undoubtedly notice them following us around all weekend. "Yes, they're my...bodyguards. Barry and Larry."
Amusement glimmers in Amir's eyes. "Barry and Larry?”
I suppress a sigh, trying to maintain composure. "Listen, I didn't hire them or name them, okay? So, just pretend they're not here. Please."
“Did Damon hire them to keep an eye on you this weekend?” Amir grins as the plane takes off, and I grip the armrest. “Is he still worried I’ll somehow charm you into cheating on him?”
I roll my eyes. “You’ll be pleased to know that you’re probably the least of Damon’s worries at the moment.”
“Uh oh. That doesn’t sound good. Trouble in polygamy paradise?”
I glower at him. “Technically, polygamy is defined as the practice of having more than one spouse. We’re not married.”
Amir smirks. “Do you want to be?”
“Are you proposing to me?” I ask, tilting my head. “That’s very inappropriate Mr. Hadid.”
He expels a rough laugh. “While I think you’re an attractive woman, Miss Jones, I prefer my women a tad more submissive in nature. You’re a bit too…independent for me.”
I scoff. “How incredibly sexist.”
Amir hitches a casual shoulder. “We all have our preferences, Miss Jones. Simply because I’d prefer to be with a dependent woman doesn’t mean I wouldn’t treat her like a goddess.” He casts me a knowing wink. “Or a princess, if you will.”
I roll my eyes. I shouldn’t judge him. I know he’s right. One man’s copper is another man’s gold. And vice versa. Amir is just impeccably talented at getting under my skin. Perhaps he does it on purpose for fun.
“You never answered my question,” Amir hums, waving over a flight attendant. “A gin and tonic, please.” He turns back to me. “Well? Do you?
“Do I what?”
He releases a long, dramatic sigh. “Do you want to be married?”
A deep pain suddenly pulses in my temples. “That is a highly inappropriate question to ask your subordinate.”
“I’m asking as a friend,” he clarifies, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Not as your boss.”
Jesus. This is going to be a long fucking flight.
What an intrusive question. What a stupid question.
What a stupid concept. I mean, yes, when I was little, a child, I’d throw a pillowcase over my head and pretend it was a veil.
But as I got older and sicker that fantasy faded, and I was hit with the cold hard truth of my reality.
But I’m not sick anymore. Not really. My heart is healthy.
My blood tests are normal. I’m here and I’m breathing.
I’m living. For the first time in a long time.
When Damon proposed to me last year, it was too soon, too frantic.
We hardly knew each other. It was rash. He said he loved me.
I don’t think it was love. It was pain and lust and infatuation.
But now… Now it is love. I know he adores me.
I know he’d walk through fire to keep me safe.
But so would Quin. He also had a ring. The promise of forever lingered on the tip of his tongue.
He just never got a chance for the question to reach my ears.
But now what? Two rings? Two men? Two sets of ‘I dos?’ Not only is that illegal in the United States, but it’s complicated. Even more so than our current situation. Do I want to spend the rest of my life with these two men? I do. Do I love them beyond all logic and reason? I do.
Aren’t those ‘I dos’ enough?
“I’ve got you thinking, haven’t I?” Amir hums. “I’m only asking because I know Quin believes in the sanctity of marriage.
He was engaged to that woman before…” He pauses, thinking.
“Alison, I believe.” He winces slightly.
“Although, I heard what happened at their engagement party.” His curious gaze meets mine.
“You must be quite special, Miss Jones, for Quinny and Damon to put aside their differences.”
This conversation shouldn’t be causing me anxiety.
Neither Quin nor Damon have mentioned marriage since we returned to New York.
They haven’t pushed the subject. They haven’t bought me rings, aside from the emerald I wear to Club Hades.
I shouldn’t feel nervous, or on edge, but I do.
If marriage is what Quin wants, if marriage is what Damon wants, am I being selfish by keeping them away from their dreams?
No. I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and speculate.
I’ll drive myself crazy. I need to talk to them.
Ask them. Kids and marriage. These are two topics we have yet to cover.
Granted, given the drama we’ve been dealing with—Toni, Alison, my parents—it makes sense we haven’t had these particular discussions.
At least Toni hasn’t been an issue lately. One less problem to solve.
“Wake me up when we’re about to land,” I say to Amir, emotionally exhausted. “You’ve officially given me a headache.”
I drift off to sleep to the sound of his tongue clicking.
The iconic red carpet of The Beverly Hotel greets us as the valet opens the car door.
I keep my expression neutral despite the grandeur of the estate.
Top executives from prominent Fortune 500 companies waltz in and out of the entrance; women draped in couture and men with cufflinks more expensive than a small house in Oklahoma.
“I feel underdressed,” I mutter to Amir as we head inside the hotel.
Amir chuckles. “Less is more, Miss Jones. Trust me.” We approach the check-in counter, and I let out a gasp as my waist is pinched. Amir’s gaze snaps over my shoulder, and he smirks. “Quinny boy. Early bird, I see.”
My posture reflexes as I crane my neck toward him. “Good afternoon, Dr. Marquis. How was your flight?”
“A tad lonely, I must say.” Quin smiles at me, and I can see the restraint in his body language as he fights the urge to lean down and kiss me.
We’ve agreed that we should remain professional in public this weekend.
While the tabloids have already surmised the nature of our relationship, I’d prefer to keep it as private as possible.
He glances at Amir. “How was your first commercial flight, Hadid? You didn’t die from shock, so that seems like a good sign. ”
Amir rolls his eyes. “Apparently, smoking is prohibited aboard all aircraft carriers. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
“I suppose you’ll have to find another way to put innocent bystanders at risk of lung cancer,” Quin hums cheekily.
Amir snorts. “Please. You smoke cigars.”
“A terrible vice,” Quin quips, his hand roaming up and down my back. He leans down and whispers into my ear. “I’m in bungalow five.” He slides a key card into my pocket. “Perhaps I’ll see you before the opening ceremony.”
“You booked a Bungalow for a two-day summit?” Amir tuts, getting our room keys from the front desk associate. “And you say that I’m a snob.”
Quin glances at our keys, lifting a brow. “I would argue that the presidential suite is equally as pretentious, if not more.”
Amir clicks his tongue, handing me my card. “I’ve booked you a deluxe suite. I hope it’s up to your standards.”
I snatch the card out of his hand, desperately needing a shower. “I’m sure it’ll do.” I glance up at Quin. “I’m going to go freshen up before dinner.”
“If you must.” Quin leans in and subtly licks the side of my neck. I shiver under his touch. “But I quite like the taste of you.”
Bungalow five. I’ll have to remember that.
With the swipe of a key card, I enter Quin’s bungalow. Classical piano music floats into my ears, the melody so haunting and deep. Swallowing, I grip the train of my custom-tailored evening gown and silently make my way into the main living room, my pulse quickening with each enchanting note.
I find Quin seated at a grand piano, his eyes closed in concentration as his fingers dance gracefully across the keys. If love could be captured in notes, it would sound just like this.
“I didn’t know you played.”
Quin’s eyes flutter open, a faint blush blooming on his cheeks as he looks up at me. He clears his throat. He looks flustered. It’s adorable. “I don’t. Well, I didn’t.” He swallows. “Not until recently.”
I float closer to him, drawn to the piano by both the music and the man creating it. “What changed?”
His fingers linger on the keys, his gaze soft and kind and all-consuming. “Everything.”
He silently beckons me to the bench, and my heart hammers in my chest as I sit beside him, resting my head on his shoulder.
I close my eyes as he begins to play again.
I’ve never heard this song before, this melody.
Every note resonates inside of me, raw and composed. Dark and light. Hopeful and solemn.
“It’s beautiful, Quin,” I breathe out, smiling. “What’s it called?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he hums. “It’s a work in progress.”
“You wrote this?”
“I did.” He lets out a soft breath, the song coming to a gentle, beautiful finish. Quin's hand finds my cheek, and I glance up into his tender gaze. “I’m thinking of calling it la chanson d'Emery.”
I blink. “Emery’s Song? You wrote this for me?”
He smiles. “What can I say, darling? You’ve inspired me.”
I find comfort in his warm touch, warm words. “Did you play for her too?”
It seems like an uncomfortable question. But whether we like it or not, she’s a part of us. A part of me. Her story ended so mine could begin.
Quin swallows. “All the time.”
I expel an airy sigh. “I’m glad.”
“You are?” he asks, slightly frowning.
“Yes,” I say. “Everyone should experience this type of intimacy at one point in their lives. I’m glad she got to share it with you.”
Quin places a chaste kiss on the top of my head. No words needed. Just music. Notes. A melody that lasts a lifetime.
And that’s what I want.
A lifetime.
I do.