Chapter 24 #2
Recognition floods through me so fast I feel dizzy. I start to open my mouth—
"You clumsy old fool." Prescott's voice cuts through the moment like a blade. His face flushes red, veins standing out in his neck. "Do you have any idea how much that dress costs?"
Anthony bows his head, the picture of contrition. He pulls a napkin from his pocket and starts dabbing at the champagne spreading across my dress.
His hand brushes mine.
"Go to your room." The words are barely a breath. So quiet I almost think I imagined them.
Then he's stepping back, apologizing profusely in a voice that carries across the room—making a scene and drawing attention.
"Let's not make this worse." I place my hand on Prescott's arm before he can escalate further. Force a laugh that sounds almost genuine. "It's fine, darling. Accidents happen."
His jaw works. The calculation is visible—make a scene or let it go. Finally, he nods. Stiff. Angry. But controlled.
"I should change." I turn to him, widening my eyes in what I hope passes for apologetic. "I won't be long."
He frowns. Studies my face for signs of deception. I keep my expression neutral. Slightly embarrassed. Nothing more.
"Be quick about it." A command, not a request.
I nod. Start toward the stairs. Each step measured. Careful. Not too fast or he'll get suspicious.
But my pulse pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. In my fingertips. In the champagne-soaked silk clinging to my skin.
The staircase stretches endlessly. I climb deliberately slowly, aware of eyes tracking my movement. Of Prescott watching from below. Of guests pretending not to stare while absolutely staring.
Finally, I reach the landing. Turn down the corridor toward my room.
The sounds of the party fade. Laughter and conversation give way to the muffled quiet of the private quarters.
I reach my door. My hand trembles as I turn the handle. Push it open.
Close it softly behind me.
For a moment, everything is still. The room is dark except for moonlight spilling through the windows. Shadows pool in corners. The air smells like the jasmine perfume I wore earlier. Like the champagne drying on my dress.
Then a shadow moves.
I freeze. Every muscle locks. My pulse roars in my ears.
From the darkest corner near my wardrobe, a figure emerges. Silent. Controlled. Like he's part of the darkness itself.
Paul.
He steps into the moonlight, and the breath leaves my lungs in a rush.
Months. It's been months since I've seen him. Since the engagement announcement, when everything changed.
His hair is different—dyed a mousy brown that washes out his features. Makes him forgettable. Colored contacts dim his eyes to a muddy hazel instead of the striking charcoal gray I remember.
But I know him. Would know him anywhere.
He's leaner. The athletic frame I remember has been honed to something harder. More dangerous. His suit—perfectly tailored, expensive—does nothing to hide the power coiled in his shoulders, his thighs.
My gaze drops to his hands. Those beautiful, capable hands that paint masterpieces. That touched me like I was art. They flex at his sides, fingers moving restlessly.
He's grown stubble. Just a shadow along his jaw, but it changes his face. Makes him look older. Rougher.
And his mouth. God, his mouth. Full lips pressed into a thin line of concentration. Lips that whispered poetry and filth against my skin. That made me come undone with words alone.
Every cell in my body recognizes him. Reaches for him. Like my soul knows his and is trying to bridge the distance.
"Paul." His name falls from my lips. Barely a breath. A prayer.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. The space between us crackles with tension. With months of separation and desperate hope.
Then we're moving.
I don't remember deciding to go to him. Don't remember crossing the room. But suddenly we're colliding—a tangle of arms and desperate hands and mouths seeking mouths.
Paul wraps his arms around me, crushing me against his chest. I cling to him, fingers fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.
He smells like paint and coffee and something uniquely him. The scent floods my senses, makes my eyes sting with tears.
"Vivianne." My name on his lips sounds like a benediction. Like salvation. His voice is thick, rough with emotion. "God, I've missed you."
I pull back just enough to see his face. To drink in every detail like I'm dying of thirst and he's water.
My hands come up, cupping his cheeks. The stubble is rough against my palms. Real. Solid. Here.
"You're here." The words shake. "You're really here."
His eyes—even dulled by contacts—burn with an intensity that steals my breath. One hand tangles in my hair, cradling my head. The other wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
His pulse pounds against my chest. Racing. Matching my own frantic rhythm.
"I'm here, ma chérie." The endearment breaks something inside me. "I'm here."
Our lips meet.
The kiss is fire. Desperation. Months of need concentrated into this single point of contact.
His mouth moves against mine—urgent, hungry, claiming. I open for him, and he deepens the kiss immediately. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, exploring, reclaiming territory that's always been his.
I pour everything into the kiss. All my fear. All my hope. All the love I've carried like a torch through these endless months.
Paul matches me. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding up my ribs. Not sexual. Just desperate to touch. To confirm I'm real.
A low moan escapes my throat. Paul answers with a growl that vibrates through his chest into mine. His grip tightens. The hand in my hair tilts my head back, changing the angle, somehow making the kiss even deeper.
I can't breathe. Don't want to breathe. Just want this. Him. Us.
When we finally break apart, we're both gasping. Panting. Paul rests his forehead against mine, and for a long moment, we just breathe each other's air.
"I'm getting you out of here." His voice is low. Fierce. Each word a vow. "Tomorrow. I promise. I won't let you stay in this godforsaken place any longer."
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Relief. Joy. Love. All of it overwhelming.
"I love you." The words spill out. "I love you so much."
His thumb brushes across my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "I love you more, ma chérie. And I always will."
"How?" The question comes out shaky. Uncertain. "How will you save me? My father—he's... and Prescott—they watch everything. Every door. Every window. Every—"
"I have help." His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You'll know when it's happening. But not tonight."
My pulse stutters. "Then why—" I pull back slightly. Confusion cutting through the relief. "Why are you here now? Why risk—"
"I need to know something."
The shift in his tone sends a chill down my spine. The fierce lover becomes something else. Something focused. Determined.
Mission-driven.
"What?" My frown deepens.
"I need to know where your father keeps the Swan."
The words land like a slap. Physical. Stunning.
My pulse stutters. Stops. Restarts at double time.
"Why?" The word barely makes it past my lips. "Why would you—"
"The Swan is more than a family heirloom." He's still holding my face, but his grip has changed. Less tender. More intense. "It was entrusted to your grandmother for safekeeping during the war. But it was never meant to be kept."
"I don't understand."
"It holds something. A secret. Information." His eyes search mine. "People are willing to kill for it. That's why it needs to be returned to its rightful owner."
"Returned?" The word tastes bitter. "You mean stolen."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. "I mean recovered."
I pull free from his grasp. Step back. The distance between us suddenly feels vast.
"You want to steal it." Not a question. A realization. "That's why you're here."
"No." He reaches for me, but I dodge his hand. "I'm here for you. Always for you. But Vivianne, that pendant—"
"Is my family's." The words come out sharp. Defensive. "It's been in our family for generations."
"It was never theirs to keep." His voice hardens. "Your grandfather—Henry Faulks—took it. Stole it from the woman it was entrusted to. Brigitte kept it hidden during the war, but it was supposed to be returned—"
"My grandmother." The pieces click together. Slowly. Painfully. "The letters. Anthony. The pendant in your painting—it matched her earrings because it was part of a set."
"Yes." He steps closer. I hold my ground. Barely. "Anthony entrusted the Swan to her before he went to war. She was supposed to keep it safe until he returned."
"But she married my grandfather instead."
"Yes."
The betrayal cuts deep. Not just Grandmother choosing the wrong man, but keeping something that wasn't hers. Building a legacy on stolen property.
Just like Father said—our family's wealth comes from making hard choices.
How many of those choices were theft?
"Paul." I press my hands to my face. "You can't—"
"I must." He closes the distance between us. His hands close over mine, pulling them away from my face. "Please understand. If the wrong people get their hands on it, they'll use it to destroy more than you can imagine."
"What's inside it?" I search his face. "What secret?"
"I don't know." The admission costs him. "But Anthony spent his entire life searching for it. And people have died trying to keep it hidden."
"And you think stealing it from my father will somehow make things right?" Anger flares hot in my chest. "That taking it will—"
"I think leaving it here will get you killed." His voice drops. Goes cold. "Your father knows someone's coming for it. He's preparing. And when they come, Vivianne, you'll be caught in the crossfire."
The words hit like ice water. "What?"