37. Violet
thirty-seven
Violet
DAY 77 AT SLVER LEAF... ONLY 9 TO GO
Three days later, I still don’t know what I should do. I sit at the desk in Chord’s home office, open my email from the headquarters of Leonardo Bellucci, and read it for what feels like the thousandth time. The words are so familiar, and the ones that make the most impact leap off the screen.
Junior designer. Three-year opportunity. Immediate start.
Bridal couture.
Milan, Italy.
A couple more phrases float before my eyes, even though they exist only in my head.
Everything you’ve worked for.
The life you’ve always wanted.
A dream come true.
But no health insurance, I remind myself firmly. No way to take care of my dad and no possibility of him coming with me. No family. No friends. No studio in San Francisco. And no Chord.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, and for the hundredth time, I tap out my reply. A polite and long-winded way of saying, Thanks but no thanks.
And for the hundredth time I delete it all and start the process all over again.
Junior designer. Three-year opportunity. Immediate start. Bridal couture. Milan, Italy. Everything you’ve worked for. The life you’ve always wanted. A dream come true.
I can’t say yes. And I can’t bring myself to say no. My head tells me to do one thing, my heart aches for something so very different, and I desperately wish one would grow loud enough to drown out the other.
I move the cursor to another tab and my screen lights up with the Violet James—Bridal Couture website that Chord had built for me. The colors and branding match my new studio perfectly, and the web designer did a fantastic job repurposing my social media content to make it look like I have much more experience than I do. My “about” page features a bio that makes me wonder who this talented, sought-after Violet James person is and a contact page that includes a photo of my new storefront. A street location. An email address. A way for me to conjure up new dreams and chase them on my own.
No. Not on my own. With Chord.
I bounce my knees and navigate back to my email account. Open the job offer, then click on “reply.”
“Hey, Wallflower,” Chord says, popping his head into the room. “I was wondering where you got to.”
I startle, slam my laptop closed, and jump to my feet, then try to pretend I didn’t.
“Oh, hi.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I was just, um, you know. In here.”
Chord gives me a lopsided smile and moves all the way into the room. There’s nothing materially different about him today —he wears a t-shirt and jeans, his hair is neat but a little longer now than it was at the start of the summer, and his feet are bare inside the house—but he’s exceptionally beautiful for some reason, and I swallow the lump in my throat.
He takes a step forward. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yes. I’m great.” I stand and slide my palms down the front of my jeans. “Were you looking for me?”
“Um, yeah.” He crosses his arms, watching me like he knows something isn’t right. “I’m starving, and I noticed you barely ate any breakfast this morning. Do you want to walk up to The Hill for lunch?”
I glance out the window at the view that’s been mine for more than two months. The never-ending blue of the California sky. The vineyards. The gardens. The mountains. The ranch. A whole life. And I burst into tears.
Chord rushes around the desk and gathers me into his arms. “Hey. Don’t cry. Whatever’s wrong, we’ll fix it.” He smooths a palm over my hair and kisses my head. “Tell me what it is. Let me take care of it.”
I cover my face and lean into his chest, the frustration and despair of the last few days crashing against me in a wave of overwhelm. I cry until my hands are wet and his shirt is soaked, and when the tears stop and my breath evens out again, Chord moves his hand up and down my back in long, soothing strokes.
“You have to say yes,” he whispers.
I jerk back and crane my neck to look up at him. “What?”
“You have to say yes to the job in Milan.”
“Chord, no. I—”
“Let’s just talk about it, okay?”
I sniffle, and he takes my hand, leading me through the foyer to the living room, settling me onto the sofa, and tucking me in under a blanket. He holds up one finger, then leaves the room, and by the time he comes back with two steaming cups of tea, I’ve calmed a little, and he knows it.
“Better?” he asks as I accept my mug.
“Yes.” I inhale the steamy aroma of peppermint curling from my cup and let out an exhausted breath. “Thank you.”
“Good.”
He seats himself next to me, then indicates I should swing my legs up over his lap. Soon, we’re snuggled in together, Chord’s large, heavy hand on my thigh, both waiting for the other to speak first. This time, it’s not me.
“I’ve been thinking about this thing with Charlie,” Chord says, surprising me. “With the ranch and the wine and the money. I saved her when she didn’t ask to be saved, and when she finds out the truth, it’s going to hurt both of us.”
Empathy swells in my chest. “You did it for all the right reasons, and when you explain that to her, she’ll understand. She has to.”
His mouth tips up at the corner, like he appreciates my faith but doesn’t share it. “Maybe.” He squeezes my thigh. “But the reason I’ve been thinking about it is because I’ve gone and done the same thing for you, haven’t I?”
Emotion catches in my chest because he’s right, but it would hurt too much to say it. “Chord—”
He clears his throat. “Just be honest, Wallflower. Nothing you say could be wrong, and I’m not going to get upset or angry as long as we’re telling each other the truth.” He smiles encouragingly. “Do you want to go to Europe?”
A single tear tracks down my cheek. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Okay.” He nods to himself. “That’s okay. So… Let’s talk about it. Let’s figure it out. Together.”
It takes courage to say the things in my head, but I’ve kept my hopes and fears locked away for so many years that, on some level, I know that if I never let them out, I’ll also never have the things I want.
“I love you,” I whisper, “but I’ve spent the last ten years loving another person—my dad—more than I love myself, and it didn’t bring me happiness.”
Chord’s brows draw down, and his mouth is flat, but he nods and circles his palm over my leg. “I know. You’ve sacrificed a lot to be the person your father needs.”
“And I could keep doing it. I could stay here and negotiate a part-time position with the Fury so I can keep covering my dad’s therapy bills and still have time to run a studio.”
“No.” Chord scowls. “You’re better than that job. I don’t want you to have to do that anymore.”
I smile sadly. “Staying is the selfless thing to do. The responsible thing. The safe thing. Probably even the right thing. But…” I close my eyes and dig deep for strength. “But if I stay here instead of taking the chance to live a life I’ve always dreamed about…” I shrug and scrub another tear from my cheek. “What will happen then?”
Chord stares at his hand where it rests on my leg. “I never want to be the reason you look back on your life with regret.”
I snatch up his hand and press his fingertips to my lips. “I could never regret you. That’s not it at all. But Chord… If I stay, I’ll always wonder if any success I have is mine. If I’m here in California, designing in a studio you bought for me, starting a career I never had to work for, how can I be sure that I earned it? Deserve it? Am worthy of it?”
He sniffs and sets his tea on the coffee table. “Can you help me understand what Milan and Leonardo Bellucci will give you that I can’t?”
My heart breaks, but I’m not going to lie to him now. “Three years of working for a world-class designer will teach me things. And while I’m there, anything I design won’t have my name on it, so if people love what I do, it’ll be because it’s good—not because I’m on your arm on red carpets or being photographed with you in private moments. I need to prove to myself that I’ve earned this, and I’m not getting it just because I’m your girlfriend.”
Chord hunches forward and drops his head into his hands, fingers clutching his hair. My heart gallops hard and fast enough to hurt, and I wish I could take back everything I just said.
“Chord, I’m sorry. I don’t mean…”
He doesn’t look up. “I hear what you’re saying, Violet, and I understand. I wish I didn’t, but fuck, I do. But if you could just see yourself the way I do. You’re extraordinary. You’re smart and driven and talented, and these people who want your designs love you for you. They might not know it yet, but they will, and you don’t have to do it alone. Let me be there for you, Violet. Let me give you the life you want. Not because you didn’t earn it or don’t deserve it, but because I want to. Because I can. Because I love you.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, letting the tears fall. “I’m so sorry.”
His head moves in what I think is a nod, and when I set a hand on his back, his muscles are hard as stone under my palm.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he says, staring at the floor, “and fuck if this doesn’t make me love you more. I’ll take care of your dad. I’ll set him up with a proper job here at Silver Leaf. Full benefits. And if he doesn’t want to live permanently on the ranch, I’ll get him his own place in Aster Springs. If he needs new doctors, I’ll take care of that, too. You don’t have to worry about him while you’re gone.”
My ribs pull so tight I can barely breathe. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I do.” He stares at his open palms. “If you’re going to do this, you can’t be worried about what’s going on back here. This opportunity needs to be all about you. It’s time to be selfish. You’ve earned it.”
Panic hits me as I try to work out what he’s saying, but I don’t get a chance to ask before he lurches to his feet, hand worrying the back of his neck, not quite meeting my eyes. I set down my tea as he paces a few steps from the sofa, and when I reach out like I can draw him back, he glances at my hand and then drags his focus to my face.
I’m afraid the answer to my question might be written in his glassy blue eyes.
“I can do this for you, at least,” he says. “I can give you the freedom to chase the life you deserve. Don’t worry about a thing, Wallflower. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Chord! Wait!” I throw back the blanket and jump to my feet, but he’s already out the front door. By the time I step out onto the porch, he’s jogging in the direction of the main house, and all I can do is watch him go, my throat tight and my cheeks wet.
I’ve always known this about dreams: they require sacrifice. And I think I just lost the best thing to ever happen to me in exchange for a future I gave up on a long time ago.