Chapter 56
The red dress was the right choice. I had stared at it for a long time before putting it on, running my fingers over the wine-red fabric, remembering the night I had worn it last.
The bar, the golden lights, the room full of men in dark suits. The way I had walked in, drunk and heartbroken, and sat in his lap like I owned him. I hadn't known then that he would become my everything.
I smoothed the dress down, checked my reflection one last time, and walked out the door.
He was waiting by the car, leaning against the door, his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the sun pendant glinting at his throat. His eyes found me the moment I stepped out, and I watched them go dark.
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
"You look..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't have words."
I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest.
"That's a first."
He opened the passenger door for me, and I slid inside. He got in beside me, started the engine, and drove.
The drive was quiet, but not heavy. He kept glancing at me, his eyes soft, like he was still taking me in. I caught him once, and he didn't look away.
"Stop staring," I said.
"Never."
I bit my lip to hide my smile.
The pottery studio was tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place you would never find unless someone took you there.
The windows were large, letting in the afternoon light, and the walls were lined with shelves of finished pieces, bowls and vases and mugs in every shade of earth and sky.
It smelled like wet clay and faintly of something floral, and the soft lighting made everything feel warmer, softer, more intimate.
Caspian had reserved the entire studio for us. And I realised it was just his way of doing this.
We sat down at the wheel, side by side at first. He watched me fumble with the clay for a few minutes, my fingers awkward and uncoordinated, the lump wobbling dangerously. I tried to centre it, but it kept slipping, and I let out a frustrated huff.
"Here" he said. "Let me show you."
He moved behind me. His legs bracketed mine, his chest pressed against my back, and his arms came around me. His hands found mine, large and warm, covering them completely.
His palms were warm, rough with calluses from a lifetime of doing things I didn't want to think about. My hands were smaller, softer, and when his fingers wrapped around them, my breath caught in my throat.
His much larger hands dwarfed mine, strong fingers closing over my smaller, delicate ones as he guided them to the clay. The pottery wheel spun beneath us, but it was impossible to tell whether we were shaping the vessel or simply finding reasons to touch.
Clay smeared across our skin, our fingers sliding and pressing together in a rhythm that felt far more intimate than artistic.
"Relax..." he murmured, his lips near my ear. "Don't fight it. Just let the clay move."
I tried to focus on the clay, but all I could feel was him. His chest against my back. His hands over mine. His breath warm on my neck.
I was very aware of the aprons we were wearing. His was dark, tied loosely around his waist. Mine was white and slightly too big. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the warmth of him behind me.
"Good" he murmured. "You're doing well."
I wasn't doing anything. He was doing everything. I was just sitting there, trying to remember how to breathe. Every brush of his skin against mine sent a shiver down my spine, and the rhythm of the wheel was hypnotic, lulling me into a daze.
Then he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the back of my neck.
I shivered. Goosebumps erupted across my skin, and my back arched involuntarily, pressing into his chest. My hands jerked, and the clay wobbled, the side of our creation collapsing into a messy, lopsided slump.
He chuckled, low and warm and entirely too pleased with himself.
I couldn't speak. I didn't trust myself to. My voice would come out several pitches higher, and I would never live it down!
"That's one way to shape it..." he said.
I elbowed him. He just laughed again, and I felt the vibration of it through his chest, against my back.
"Let's try again..." he said, his voice soft.
His hands found mine again. The clay spun. Our fingers tangled. And this time, I let myself enjoy it. I let myself sink into the warmth of him, the safety of his arms, the way his hands moved with mine like we had been doing this together for years.
We finished the pot. Or rather, he finished it. I had contributed approximately three percent of the effort, but he still insisted that we paint it together.
"You can paint" I said. "I'll watch."
"You're not watching. You're participating."
"I am. I'm participating with my eyes."
He gave me a look. I gave him one back. He won.
We painted our pieces in comfortable silence. His was a perfect, symmetrical bowl. Mine was lopsided and slightly misshapen, with a crack near the rim. I loved it anyway. I loved it because I had made it. I loved it because he had guided me.
When we were done, we exchanged them. He held my misshapen pot like it was something precious.
"This is mine now," he said.
"You can't-"
"I can. I earned it."
"You earned nothing. You did all the work."
"Exactly. I earned it."
I laughed, shaking my head. He smiled, small and soft, and tucked the pot into a box.
"Come on," he said. "I have more to show you."
Lunch was at a small restaurant tucked away in a side street, the kind of place you would walk past without noticing.
But inside, it was warm and intimate, with white tablecloths and fresh flowers on every table.
The windows were open, letting in the afternoon breeze, and soft music played from somewhere unseen.
He ordered for me. Not in a controlling way, but like he already knew what I would like. He had remembered. He always remembered.
We talked about nothing and everything. The way the light caught his eyes. The way his fingers looked wrapped around his glass. The way he laughed at something I said, low and warm, like he hadn't expected to find it funny.
I found myself staring at him. At the way his jaw moved when he spoke. At the way his thumb traced the rim of his glass. At the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing. The way he smiled when he caught me staring.
"I'm not complaining" he said.
"Complaining about what?"
"You staring at me like I'm the main course."
I felt my face heat up. "I was not staring."
"You were definitely staring."
"I was looking. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I felt my face warm. "You started it."
"That will never stop."
The watchmaker's studio was next. It was a small, cramped space tucked between a bookshop and a café.
The windows were dusty, and the sign above the door was faded, but inside, it was a treasure trove of tiny gears and springs and delicate tools.
The old man behind the counter nodded at Caspian like they knew each other, then disappeared into the back, leaving us alone.
"You're going to make a watch?" I asked.
"You are going to make a watch," he corrected. "For me."
"For you?"
"I want something you made. Something that tells time. So whenever I look at it, I'll think of you."
I stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.
I sat down at the workbench and started assembling the watch. It was tedious and meticulous, and I had no idea what I was doing. But he watched me the entire time, his eyes soft, his smile small.
When it was done, I held it up. It wasn't perfect. The hands were slightly misaligned, and the strap was a little crooked. But it was mine. I had made it.
"For you..." I said, handing it to him.
He held it like it was the most precious thing in the world. Like it was worth more than all the gold in the estate.
"I'll wear it every day." he said.
"You'll ruin it."
"Then you can just make me another one."
I smiled, and he kissed my forehead, and I felt like I was floating.
The art museum was next. The building was grand, all white marble and tall columns, and the air inside was cool and quiet.
The floors were polished, and the walls were lined with paintings from centuries past.
I had never been to one before. Not really.
I had walked through a few, glancing at the paintings, but I had never stopped to look.
Caspian stopped.
He walked me through the galleries, stopping at paintings I would have walked past without a second glance. He explained them to me, the artist's intention, the hidden details, the emotions buried beneath layers of paint.
"You know a lot about art..." I said.
"My mother loved it. She used to bring me here as a child." He paused, looking at a painting of a woman in a field of flowers. "She said that art was the only honest thing in this world."
I looked at him. At the softness in his eyes, the vulnerability in his voice.
"She sounds like she was wonderful...." I said.
"She was."
We moved through the galleries, and I saw him differently. He wasn't just a mafia boss. He was someone who had been shaped by loss, by love, by the people who had cared for him. He was layered, like the paintings he loved.
I wanted to know every layer.
Dinner was at a restaurant with candlelight and soft music and the incredible view of the city. The room was dim, the tables spaced far apart, and the windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showing the glittering lights of the city below.
I had never felt so beautiful, so seen.
He looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth looking at, and I felt myself falling all over again. It was terrifying. It was wonderful.
Caspian stood and offered me his hand. "Dance with me."
I took it.
The dance floor was empty, just the two of us under the night sky. His hand settled on my lower back, warm and steady. My hand rested on his shoulder. We swayed to the music, slow and close, and I forgot about everything except the warmth of him.
"Kitten...." he murmured.
I looked up. His eyes were dark, soft, searching.
Then he kissed me.
It was soft at first, tentative, like he was asking permission. And I gave it. I leaned into him, my fingers curling into his shirt, and the kiss deepened. The world disappeared. There was only him, his warmth, his taste.
When we pulled away, I felt something cool against my collarbone.
I looked down. A necklace. Delicate diamonds, small and elegant, perfectly my style. It rested against my skin like it had always been there.
I looked up at him, my eyes wide. "When did you-"
"While you were distracted," he said, his smile soft.
"Cas..."
"It's not too much. It's not too little. It's just right for you. Just as you like."
I looked down at the necklace again. The diamonds caught the light, scattering tiny rainbows across my skin. It was beautiful. It was perfect.
"I love it...." I said.
He kissed me again, and I forgot about everything else.
We were standing outside the restaurant, the city lights glittering in the distance. He had his arm around my shoulders, and I was pressed against his side.
"I don't want the night to end...." I said.
He looked down at me, his eyes warm. "Then let's keep going."
The ice cream parlour was near my old apartment. The one we used to go to when he was "unemployed." It hadn't changed. The same faded sign, the same worn booths, the same smell of sugar and waffle cones.
We sat in the corner booth, sharing a triple-scoop sundae with way too many toppings. I had ordered the most expensive one, just to see his face. He didn't even blink.
"This is a lot of ice cream," he said.
"You told me to get whatever I wanted."
"I didn't think you'd test my generosity."
"Generosity?" I said. "I thought you were rich."
He laughed, shaking his head. I smiled, and I took another bite, and I let myself enjoy the night.
He paid extra to have the parlour emptied just for us. The owner didn't ask questions. He just smiled and locked the door behind them.
I ate my ice cream, and he watched me, his chin resting on his hand.
"What?" I asked, my mouth full.
"Nothing. I'm just enjoying the view."
I felt my face warm. I shoveled another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth to hide my smile.
When I finished, I licked the spoon clean. His eyes followed the movement. I pretended not to notice.
We walked out hand in hand, the city lights soft around us.
His phone buzzed.
He glanced at it, and his expression shifted. Something flickered across his face, something I couldn't read.
"Wait here..." he said. "It's important. I'll go get the car."
He squeezed my hand once, then let go.
I watched him walk away, his phone pressed to his ear, his shoulders tense. He was getting the car. He would be back in a few minutes.
I leaned against the wall and smiled, the necklace cool against my skin.
The day had been perfect.
Everything was perfect. And I had no idea that it was about to shatter.