23. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
Come to Me
Simone
God, I missed New York.
I missed stepping outside without smelling fish, smoke, and seawater.
I missed climate control, room service, and the ability to buy whatever I want without first determining whether it might be poisonous.
I missed expensive coffee.
Hot showers.
My closet.
I even missed the city’s constant noise.
What I didn’t expect was how quickly the attention would become exhausting.
I’ve always loved being watched.
The cameras.
The headlines.
The satisfaction of entering a room and knowing everyone noticed.
For years, I treated attention like oxygen.
I told myself I simply enjoyed performing, but some part of me needed the constant validation. I wanted to remain everyone’s favorite scandalous heiress.
Their glamorous nepo baby.
The woman who could do anything she wanted and look perfect while doing it.
Then I survived an assassination attempt, a plane crash, and several days on an island where no one cared who my father was.
The villagers didn’t recognize my name.
They didn’t know my follower count.
Most of them had never heard one of my songs.
And Luca still looked at me as though I was the only person worth seeing.
Not Simone Rochefort.
Not the celebrity.
Me.
Unfortunately, Luca has always seen the least polished parts.
He has seen me cry until my face swelled.
Watched me behave selfishly, irrationally, and occasionally like an absolute nightmare.
He knows I’m brave and terrified.
Generous and spoiled.
Confident and desperate to be taken seriously.
He saw all of it.
And loved me anyway.
After experiencing that kind of attention, paparazzi flashes don’t feel as satisfying as they once did.
Mostly, they make my eyes hurt.
The media has surrounded me since I returned.
Photographers camp outside the estate gates. Reporters wait near my penthouse and studio. Helicopters have passed over the property twice despite Dad threatening legal action against every network involved.
The tabloids have christened me Miracle Simone.
One outlet prefers Crash-Proof Princess.
Both are terrible.
Dad refuses to let me return to my penthouse while the pilot remains missing, which means I’m temporarily back at the estate beneath enough security to defend a small government.
It has been three days since we left the island.
Three days since I last saw Luca.
We’ve exchanged messages.
Brief ones.
Did the doctor clear your concussion?
Yes. Are you with your family?
Yes.
Are you safe?
I’m inside Dad’s fortress. I may never escape.
He responded with a single:
Good.
Romance is clearly his spiritual gift.
This morning, he told me he had a meeting with Dad and would try to come afterward.
He didn’t explain what the meeting involved.
He hasn’t said anything since.
I know Luca loves me.
He said it clearly.
Repeatedly.
I felt it in the way he held me during our last night on the island and in the way he took my hand in front of Bran when we boarded the rescue vessel.
But loving me on an isolated island and choosing a life with me in New York aren’t necessarily the same thing.
Here, Dad’s expectations return.
So does Luca’s job.
His grief.
His belief that he owes my family something.
I’m afraid the distance between our worlds will start feeling real to him again.
The car approaches the estate gates.
Paparazzi surge toward the road, cameras raised.
“Simone!”
“Over here!”
“Just one statement!”
“How did you survive the crash?”
“Were you kidnapped?”
“Is your father withdrawing from the election?”
“Is it true you left the country because you were pregnant with Adrien Belcourt’s baby?”
I close my compact mirror and slide it into my Birkin.
That rumor is one of my favorites.
According to the tabloids, Adrien and I secretly married in Switzerland, conceived twins during a yacht trip, separated after he cheated with a European princess, and reconciled while I was recovering from plastic surgery.
None of those events occurred.
The back seat contains enough shopping bags to suggest I’m personally funding Gucci’s next fiscal quarter.
I shop when I’m anxious.
Or angry.
Or tired.
Or attempting to fill an emotional void with Italian leather.
The purchases usually help.
Today, they didn’t.
Nothing has felt quite as satisfying since I returned.
Not the clothes.
Not the attention.
Not even sleeping in my own enormous bed.
On the island, I had almost nothing.
But every night, I had Luca’s body around mine.
Mark drives us through the gates as security closes them behind the vehicle.
The reporters disappear from view.
I consider asking him whether he has seen Luca.
Mark was part of my security detail before the gala. He might know whether Dad reassigned him after our return.
But asking one of Dad’s employees to report on the whereabouts of the man I’m sleeping with feels deeply unwise.
I remain silent.
Staff carry the shopping bags inside while I enter the mansion.
Bran descends the stairs from Dad’s study.
His eyebrows are drawn together, and his mouth is set in the expression he uses when someone has made a decision without consulting him.
He barely acknowledges me before walking into the kitchen and opening a beer.
It isn’t even noon.
This should be entertaining.
I release my hair from its ponytail and follow.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
Bran pulls the tab.
“Did buying the entire store cure your post-crash depression?”
“No.”
I take a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
“It turns out handbags can’t fix everything.”
“Tragic.”
He drinks half the beer.
Then he gives me the information without warning.
“Luca resigned.”
The missing piece falls into place.
His meeting with Dad.
His restrained messages.
The vague promise to visit afterward.
Luca isn’t pulling away from me.
He’s tearing himself out of the role that kept us apart.
Relief and pride rise so quickly that I have to hide them behind the water bottle.
Bran continues glaring into the refrigerator as though it personally accepted Luca’s resignation.
“Dad offered him a larger role.”
“What kind?”
“Director of executive protection. He’d oversee security for the estate, corporate offices, and political operations.”
“That sounds terrible.”
Bran turns.
“It’s a promotion.”
“To you.”
“His salary would double.”
“So?”
“He’d work fewer field assignments and have an entire team beneath him.”
“You’re really selling the nightmare.”
Bran closes the refrigerator harder than necessary.
“He handed Dad a resignation letter instead.”
I lean against the counter.
“And that’s the problem?”
“What?”
“You’re obviously angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re drinking beer before lunch and trying to intimidate an appliance.”
His eyes narrow.
“What exactly are you angry about? That Luca made a decision for himself, or that he didn’t ask your permission first?”
“He’s my best friend.”
“That isn’t ownership.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Bran takes another drink.
“He didn’t even hesitate. Dad offered him everything he’s worked toward.”
“Maybe that isn’t what Luca has been working toward.”
“He didn’t want the promotion to feel like a reward for saving you.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He said he doesn’t want to be dependent on our family.”
“That also sounds like him.”
“I don’t understand it.”
I stare at my brother.
“Of all people, you should.”
“Excuse me?”
“You grew up beside him.”
“So did you.”
“No.”
I set the water on the counter.
“We grew up here.”
I gesture toward the enormous kitchen.
“In this house. With staff, money, and a father whose power opened every door before we reached it.”
“Luca practically lived here.”
“Practically isn’t the same as belonging.”
Bran’s jaw hardens.
“He was family.”
“Did anyone ever ask whether he felt like family?”
“He and I are brothers.”
“To you.”
The words land harder than I intend.
But they need to.
“His father worked for ours. Then his father died while handling something Dad asked him to do.”
“The accident wasn’t Dad’s fault.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Luca knows that.”
“Knowing something intellectually doesn’t erase grief.”
Bran looks away.
I continue.
“After his father died, Luca stepped into the same machine. First because Dad helped his family. Then because he felt loyal to you.”
“He chose the work.”
“He was sixteen when his father died. How many real choices do you think he believed he had?”
“He could have left whenever he wanted.”
“Could he?”
My voice rises.
“Or would leaving have felt like betraying his father, abandoning you, and rejecting everything Dad did for his family?”
Bran says nothing.
“Luca has spent his entire adult life protecting our family.”
I press one palm against the counter.
“He almost died doing it. The same way his father did.”
Bran’s face changes.
“He survived a plane crash too,” I continue. “Everyone keeps talking about what happened to me as though Luca simply walked away untouched.”
“He was doing his job.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
I glare at him.
“He threw himself over me while the plane was going down. He pulled me out of the wreckage. He went back for supplies. He kept me alive while an armed pilot was somewhere on that island.”
My throat tightens.
“He could have died protecting me, and now you expect him to accept a promotion that ties him even more tightly to the life that nearly killed him?”
Bran sets the beer on the counter.
“Since when are you his spokesperson?”
“I’m not.”
“You sound like one.”
“I’m defending his right to make a decision without everyone treating him like he’s confused.”
Bran studies me.
“Three weeks ago, you hated him.”
“I didn’t hate him.”
“You threatened to have him fired.”
“He was annoying.”
“You threw a shoe at him.”
“He deserved it.”
Bran’s eyes narrow.
“What happened on that island?”
My pulse jumps.
I hold his stare.
“A plane crashed.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“You’re deflecting because you know I’m right.”
“No, I’m asking why my sister suddenly understands Luca better than I do.”
“Maybe because I listened to him.”
The words silence him.
A flicker of guilt crosses Bran’s face.
I soften slightly.
“You should talk to him.”
“He should have talked to me.”
“Then tell him that.”