Chapter 38
The second he says it was worth it, my pulse spikes so hard it drowns out the noise around us.
Matt is standing backstage like he owns the place.
Like his mere presence here isn’t risking months of undercover digging, years of hunting for answers.
It’s so stupidly Matt that I want to scream and shake some sense into him, and yet at the same time, a knot wedges its way at the back of my throat.
Before I can speak, Isabella’s voice cuts in, bright and breathless. “Lily! The judges loved your piece. Did you see them? They couldn’t take their eyes off you. You’re going to get the best write-up, just wait.”
Then she spots him, and her grin falters. Dark eyes narrow, and all traces of softness vanish in an instant. “And… who’s this?”
Matt flashes that polite, dangerous smile that never reaches his eyes. “Just someone who got tired of pretending he could stay away.”
I open my mouth to tell him exactly how bad an idea this is, but another voice cuts through the tension—Louis. He’s still in his all-black getup from earlier, camera strap slung over his shoulder, confusion clouding his features.
“I was coming to ask if you had plans after the show but…”
Matt’s jaw flexes. The air between them snaps tight like a wire stretched too far.
“Louis, this is—” I start, but Matt steps closer, cutting me off with a hand at the small of my back.
“Her boyfriend,” he says smoothly.
My breath catches. “Matt—”
He doesn’t give me time to argue. His fingers slide higher, firm and possessive in a way that sets every nerve in my body alight. The world seems to pause—the chatter, the laughter, even the music dimming beneath the pounding of my heart.
I should push him away. I should tell him he’s about to ruin everything. But the heat of his hand between my shoulder blades, the curve of his body against mine, the danger in his eyes—somewhere between reckless and divine—makes logic burn out like a fuse.
Then he kisses me. It’s not gentle. It’s years of longing and fury and something darker tangled together, heat crashing through me until I forget the noise, the people, the risk. Somewhere in the blur, I hear Isabella gasp and Louis mutter something that sounds like a curse, but none of it matters.
When Matt finally pulls back, his eyes burn into mine—wild, certain, impossible to look away from. “We’re done pretending,” he says quietly, just for me.
My heart lurches, tangled between exhilaration and terror. The backstage lights feel too bright, the air too thin, my pulse too fast. I want to shove him away, want to tell him this is insane. But the ache in my chest—the part of me that’s always belonged to him—keeps me rooted.
I find myself whispering, “Then don’t make me regret it.”
He takes my hand before I can change my mind, threading his fingers through mine as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment, before pressing a kiss to my wrist.
Isabella’s still staring, eyes bright and unblinking.
Louis has already turned away, Jamie’s been swallowed by the crowd pressing in around us, and my classmates are a distant blur of energy and chatter, already making plans to go out, to celebrate, to stretch this night into something loud and unforgettable.
But Matt doesn’t join the noise. He just squeezes my hand once, grounding, deliberate. A tether. Then he leans in, his presence solid at my back, his voice low and steady against my ear.
“Let’s get out of here.”
For once, I can’t bring myself to care about the fallout, not when Matt’s here, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, putting me first even as every instinct screams that his presence is reckless.
He’s risking everything just to be near me, threading danger through the very air between us even as he threads our hands together, and the tension between us feels ready to snap, pulling us both under, and yet I can’t look away.
The second we step outside, the night air hits like a slap—cool, sharp against my overheated skin. I shiver, and before I can even think, Matt slips his leather jacket around my shoulders. The scent of him—smoke, pine, something dark—wraps around me, and suddenly the chill isn’t just on my skin.
The noise from the venue fades behind us—laughter, camera flashes, the hum of fashion and chaos dissolving into the soft, murmuring sounds of Lyon after dusk.
He doesn’t speak, a comfortable silence filling the space between us as his hand stays wrapped around mine, warm and steady, guiding me through the narrow side street that spills onto the riverfront.
I catch our reflection in a darkened shop window—him in a dark shirt and jeans, me still in my dress, a trail of silk brushing the cobblestones behind me.
“Matt, this is—” I start.
“Exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he finishes without an ounce of hesitation.
The words should comfort me, but they twist something deep in my chest instead. I can’t tell if it’s relief or fear. Maybe both.
We walk for a few blocks before he finally slows outside a small bistro still open, the kind that smells of melted butter and espresso.
A few late diners sit beneath hanging lights, their laughter low and unhurried, the scene almost too ordinary to belong in our world.
I should be backstage, packing up, getting out of this dress, and celebrating with my classmates.
Instead, I’m here with the man I still can’t stay away from, even when he’s the one who taught me how it feels to break. And for the first time, a small, fragile part of me dares to hope this could be different, that maybe tonight, he won’t leave.
Maybe for the first time in his life, he’s choosing something other than expectations and duty. Or maybe—terrifyingly—he’s choosing me despite them.
The thought is dangerous. But once it takes hold, I can’t stop it.
He pulls out a chair for me, deliberate, slow, as if this were a date and not a crime.
“You need to eat something,” he murmurs, voice low, brushing against my ear in a way that leaves goosebumps in its wake as he pushes my chair in. “Knowing you, you haven’t stopped moving since this morning.”
The normalcy of it—the way he doesn’t demand, doesn’t judge—twists in my chest like a blade.
It drags me back years, to a teenager haunted by Jen’s sharp words, picking at my plate while he cracked a joke just long enough for me to swallow, to breathe, to forget for a moment that the world outside that kitchen was hell.
That quiet, steady care, it’s still here, threaded beneath the tension, and it hurts more than I can name.
While he orders, I study him, from the shadows under his eyes, to the faint stubble on his jaw, to the barely noticeable twitch in his leg. He looks exhausted, on edge, and the sight spikes my worry as well as something deeper, hotter.
When the waiter leaves, I whisper, “You shouldn’t have come. It wasn’t worth the risk.”
He doesn’t flinch. His gaze locks on mine, sharp and certain. “I disagree. I’m done watching from the shadows, Lil’. You deserve someone in that audience, someone here just for you. I might not have pulled it off perfectly, but I’m not letting you think you have to do it alone.”
A shiver rolls through me. Not entirely from the cold. “I wasn’t alone.”
“You mean the photographer?” His jaw tightens, but his eyes never leave mine.
I roll my eyes, trying to reclaim my composure. “You don’t get to be jealous.”
He smirks, fire dancing in his eyes. “You kissed me back, Lily.”
My breath hitches. He’s not wrong, and hearing it aloud makes my pulse spike painfully. I want to run, but I also want to stay. God, do I want to stay.
“I shouldn’t have.”
“Maybe not,” he agrees quietly, with a shrug that suggests what we’re doing isn’t the single stupidest mistake we’ve both ever made. “But you did.”
The waiter returns with two glasses of white wine and a plate of croque-monsieur, cheese still bubbling.
I’m grateful for the interruption. Matt sits back, pretending to give me space, though his knee presses lightly against mine under the table, a reminder that his presence is a tether I can’t escape.
For a few minutes, we eat in silence. The city carries on around us—laughter drifting from somewhere down the street, a car passing, the Rh?ne flowing close by.
The silence is heavy, charged, but not uncomfortable.
Sitting in silence, especially at night, was always one of my favourite things to do with Matt.
To simply exist in the same moment without outside pressures.
When I finally look up, he’s watching me again.
“What happens now?” I ask, voice barely above the soft clink of cutlery.
His expression shifts, softening into something unguarded that has my walls lowering another inch.
“Now?” He pauses, his fingers brushing mine beneath the table, light but deliberate. “You finish your wine. I walk you home. And then…” His gaze holds mine, steady, impossible to look away from. “You can invite me in. Or you can send me away. The ball’s in your court, baby.”
Something in the weight of his gaze lights a fire inside me.
Even though I should tell him no—even though logic screams that this is a disaster waiting to happen—I can’t.
I want tonight to be different. I want this to be the moment he stays.
The moment we’re allowed to exist without rules or fallout… even if it’s only for a little while.
By the time we leave, the city feels almost emptied out. The wind cuts sharper, and he slips his jacket around my shoulders again. The leather is still warm, carrying the faint trace of his cologne. I lean into it without thinking, into him, into the feeling of safety, even as I know I shouldn’t.
We walk without talking, the space between us stretched thin.
Every step feels measured, like we’re both braced for something we don’t want to name.
Our footsteps are the only sound and when his arm shifts, when his fingers graze my wrist, the awareness hits hard and low, lighting up places I’ve tried not to think about.
His hand finds mine. Once. Then again—unhurried, intentional. A quiet test.
I give in, threading my fingers through his. His breath catches, rough and unguarded, as he curls his fingers tighter around mine, and the weight of his ring against my finger draws up emotions I don’t want to name, sharp and insistent.
The night stretches around us, slow and weighted with everything we’re not ready to say.
Desire lives beneath caution, beneath memory, beneath fear.
Every glance, every brush of skin, every subtle press of his hip against my side turns the walk into something inevitable—beautiful and perilous—and I’m done trying to fight it.