Chapter 38
Is it possible to mourn a relationship that was only behind closed doors? Google keeps telling me no. But I fucking feel like I’ve just been dumped on a public stage, because, hey, the universe really does love to fuck with its favorites.
“Aurora.” Madeline clicks her fingers in front of my face, pulling me out of my daze.
“What?” I grumble, not in the mood at all to be my usual cheery self, but we’ve had a few candle orders come through, and Madeline is helping me pack them up.
“I asked if you were all right—but given the way you just bit my head off, I’m going to say I answered my own question.”
My lips pinch as I grab another stupid bondage candle that keeps selling out and wrap it in Bubble Wrap. “How very astute of you.” Madeline really didn’t deserve my shitty mood.
“You know, they say the best way to heal from a breakup is lots of chocolate and lots of sex.”
“He wasn’t my boyfriend; we were people sharing a bed—at best.”
“Aurora, I thought we established you have a really crap poker face. I know you’re lying through your teeth. But that’s fine, the first step is admitting it.”
The intricate bow I was attempting to tie falls from my fingers, and my gaze narrows on her. “I think you should stick to your day job. Psychology isn’t really your strong suit. That, or you need to find a better place to get your advice.”
“I’ll have you know my grand-mère was amazing at breakup advice.” She scoffs, and I rub that spot on my forehead that won’t stop throbbing.
“Yeah, look, how on earth are you supposed to be getting sex if you’ve broken up with the guy who was giving it to you on the regular? The chocolate thing, though—might be a good point.”
“Yeah, no, not sex with the guy who tore your heart out and stomped on it to smithereens.” She rolls her eyes like the miscommunication was oh-so innocent.
“Obviously,” I deadpan.
“A new one.” She smacks my shoulders. A new one? Like Luc is a pair of used shoes I should just throw away because he’s given my toes one too many blisters.
“I don’t want a new one,” I breathe. I’m not even really sure I want the old one—okay, that’s a fucking lie.
“Ha!” She sticks her finger out at me triumphantly. “So you admit you had an old one.”
I rub my temple. This is going to be a long day. A buzzing sounds through the chateau—the crude doorbell we had Henry install.
I use the excuse happily. “I better go see who’s at the gate.” I dust my hands off on my apron and make my way down to see who our visitor is.
“Can I help you?” I ask the delivery driver standing beside the van, when I get a bit closer.
“Are you Aurora Allard?” the man asks in a gruff voice; I quickly peek a glance over my shoulder. From this far, Madeline can’t see my face. I rub my tattoo.
My voice is a barely cracked whisper, “Yeah.”
“These are for you.” The driver hands me a package through the bars of the twisted iron. I take the box, do a quick check of the mailbox, tuck the letters under my arm, and walk the short distance back inside. The instant heat from the fireplaces makes me shiver as I step inside.
“Who was at the gate?” Madeline pokes her head through the doorway.
“Delivery guy.” I hold up the box, inspecting it before throwing the letters on the table.
“Are those chocolates from Giacomo’s shop?” Madeline is beside me in an instant, bouncing on the balls of her feet. We both have a soft spot for Carcen’s master chocolatier. “Oh em gee, it is!” She points to the well-known logo. “Who got you chocolate delivered?”
“No clue, it didn’t come with a note.” I give her the box, which she quickly tears into. I snag one of the dark chocolate bonbons while I start going through the letters—our order-packing taking an intermission. Most of them are junk, but one envelope grabs my attention. It has my name printed on the front, and in the corner of the envelope is embossed in gold leaf with the words Art. Culture. Société.
Let me guess—the art community is going to revoke my privileges? Or maybe it’s some event to celebrate my dad’s legacy. I think out of the two, the second one seems more reasonable.
“Well?” she asks.
I stare up at her, blinking. “What?”
“Are you going to open it?”
I take another bonbon, needing the sugary courage. “I’m scared,” I reply, swallowing the ooey-gooey goodness.
Madeline’s face softens, her arm coming to rest around my shoulders. Out of all the things that have happened to me these last few months, a beautiful-looking letter in the mail should be child’s play. But for some reason it’s not. It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever faced. The buzzer from the gate sounds again, offering me a reprieve. The letter can wait. Madeline pats my shoulder. “I’ll get it.” She leaves me no choice but to be alone to read the letter. I take a deep lungful of air, turn it over, and open it using my finger to make a cut along the top crease. I pull the paper inside out, and I’m surprised to find the thick, luxurious paper. This isn’t a normal letter.
The top of the letter has the same coat of arms that was on the front envelope. Not bothering to scan what was written, my eyes zoom in on the bolded: Artiste finaliste régionale. My muscles freeze, the tiny hairs on my arms raise, and the words blur together on the shaking paper in my hands. After a few calming breathes, my eyes finally focus enough to read the whole letter.
“Sooo, either you have a secret admirer orrr…” Madeline trails off when she walks in holding a giant bunch of roses. “What’s wrong?” She throws the flowers on the table.
I rest my arm on the kitchen island to support my weight as my head spins like a ballerina is practicing pirouettes on my brain. My breaths form in shallow pants as my vision swims.
“Aurora?” Madeline’s brow creases as her eyes flick up to meet mine. “You look like you’re about to faint.”
I shake my head. Everything is most definitely NOT all right. In fact, it’s so far from all right, the word can’t even be considered an adjective anymore.
Holy shit, is this really happening?
No, it can’t be?
Is this some sort of sick joke?
And who the fuck entered my paintings into a competition?
“I—” I stammer, not really sure how to form words, or even what I’m trying to say. I clear my throat. “My painting is in the finals for a regional art competition,” I finally manage to choke out, still not believing it as the words leave my mouth.
“What?” Madeline’s face morphs into one of surprise. I lift the letter and give it to Madeline, who reads it for herself. Her eyes skim it, her gaze bouncing between me and the letter. “This is the best news,” she breathes, her arms circling me in a warm embrace.
I swallow. “But I don’t understand, I didn’t even enter into this. I don’t even know what it is.” I hold the letter up. “What painting are they referring to?” I continue, becoming frantic, worrying I’ve gotten my hopes up for something that was as valid as Mathilde’s letter.
“Aurora, relax, take a deep breath.” She lightly rubs along my shoulder. I slowly suck in a deep breath, letting the endorphins running through my system calm down.
“I’m just struggling to believe the regional art board has selected my painting among the four other finalists when they can’t possibly know I exist.”
“Well, they obviously do, and they clearly have great taste.”
“Aurora, did you get my gifts. I wooed you like you said,” Luc calls as he walks in through the front door. Madeline and I turn to Luc. I guess that answers that question. The flowers and chocolates came from him.
Too bad the damage is done, and I’m left to question every single thing in the timeline of my relationship with Luc.
“Aurora, what happened?” Luc asks as he walks into the kitchen, resting his small laptop bag on the kitchen island. He stops in front of me, bending slightly at the knee to meet my eyes. “Impératrice?”
I slowly lift my face to meet his stare, blinking rapidly, my eyes dry from staring. “Why are you still calling me that?”
“Because you will always be mine,” he replies. It seems that’s a term Luc likes to use to describe everything. His.
“As much as I’m loving this little reconciliation moment…” Madeline interjects.
“It’s not,” I grit out.
“Aurora, we need to talk about this.” She waves the letter in the air.
“What’s that?” Luc grabs the letter from Madeline and scans the contents.
“Impératrice, I am so proud of you, I knew you could do it.” The sheer joy radiating from Luc’s face was enough to make me crack. Luc grabs the unopened bottle of champagne from the fridge and pops the cork, pouring me and Madeline a generous glass and one for himself. “I think now I should tell you something,” he announces as he gives us each a glass. I accept it, because even though there is now a ten-foot wall between me and Luc, I’m also not going to say no to celebrating this letter.
I still, the glass a weight in my hand. “Go on,” I say, my eyebrows raised in question, patiently waiting to hear what he’s going to say.
“I entered your painting in the competition.” Madeline gasps beside me. If I thought I was falling in love with him before, I now know that for the rest of my life I can pinpoint the exact, earth-shattering moment when I realize I’m already madly in love with him. “Aurora, you have so much talent, you should be sharing it with the world, screaming from the rooftops. Your work should be commissioned by European royalty and government officials. The Burgundy art competition is one of the most prestigious competitions this side of France.” Luc finishes speaking. His Adam’s apple bobs like he’s swallowing a nervous thought as he starts to second-guess if he made the right decision to send my painting in. “I hope you’re not too mad that I entered your painting,” he finally says, insecure about his actions. I place my glass down on the table, and my eyes flick over to Madeline, who is staring back at me with a giant grin. I launch myself into Luc’s arms, and he barely catches me, his champagne glass crashing to the floor as his hands secure around my legs. This doesn’t change anything. But it also changes everything. No one has ever fought for me the way he has. It both warms my heart and breaks it.
“Aurora?” Luc asks, concern lacing his voice.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” I chant, repeating over and over my praise in his ear as my hold on him tightens. Luc doesn’t realize just how much this means to me. The fact that he took the time to enter my painting because he deemed it worthy is enough to make me melt into a puddle of goo. No one has ever believed in my work. My work hitting the finals just cemented this day as the best day of my life. Well, second to the day Timothé knocked on my door.
“So, you’re not mad?” he asks, a little worried over my delayed reaction.
I release my hold on his shoulders and pull back to look into his face. “Mad? Are you kidding? This is the single most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me,” I whisper, my eyes searching his.
“Aurora, your work is breathtaking, and now you know I’m not the only one to see it.”
“Just as a matter of curiosity, which painting did you enter?” My mind races, cataloging all the paintings I’ve done since living in France.
Was it the one of the front fa?ade of the chateau, or the garden images I’d spent the whole of summer on? Both were favorites of mine, because the muse was the thing that breathed life back into my bones.
“I entered the one you did when you first arrived, the painting of your father and Louis Monet.”
I still in his arms. “Really?” A small tear forms near the corner of my eye; that painting held a special place in my soul, etched in each stroke is my vulnerability. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to share that with the world yet. I pull out of his arms, the smile falling from my face. Suddenly remembering that this could just be part of his giant plan. Set my art career off so that I’ll forget about the chateau and leave it all to him.