Chapter 34 Keira
THIRTY-FOUR
KEIRA
The stylist arrives at noon with three garment bags and a case of tools designed to turn me into someone else.
Her name is Margot. She's been doing this for years—flying in from Paris whenever Ewan needs me presentable for important guests. Sharp cheekbones, platinum hair pulled back into a tight bun, eyes that have never once looked at me like I'm a person.
Because to her, I'm not.
I'm a canvas. A project. A mannequin that needs to be dressed and painted before it can be displayed.
I'm so tired, and it doesn't help that I had another eventful dream last night. This one more vivid than the last. And with only Tristan.
I can still feel the ghost of his fingers between my thighs. Still hear the rough command in his voice when he told me to use my words. To come for him. That I belonged to him.
My face burns just thinking about it.
Margot unzips the first bag without acknowledging my presence. "Mr. Calder mentioned the red specifically. The one that has a low back and a high slit. We'll need to tape the bodice to avoid any incidents."
She's talking to her assistant, a young woman named Elise with nervous hands and beautiful dark brown hair. I watch them set up the makeup station by the window, their voices washing over me like white noise.
When I woke up, my body was still buzzing, still pulsing from the aftershocks. I'd actually gotten off. In my sleep. In Ewan's bed.
There's something deeply wrong with me.
First it was the dream with Henri in the garden, where he morphed into Tristan halfway through. Then last night, no transition at all. Just Tristan from the beginning, in his office in New York. Covered with a mask at first, but then it was a whirlwind of sex without stopping.
I don't understand what's happening to my brain.
For years, sex has become dreadful. Something Ewan takes whenever he wants, regardless of what I want. I learned to disappear during it. To float somewhere above my body until it was over.
But suddenly I'm dreaming about other men? Waking up drenched? Aching for something I haven't wanted in so long I forgot the feeling existed?
Maybe it's some kind of trauma response.
I've read about this. The way the mind sometimes overcompensates. Hypersexuality as escape. Fantasy as a pressure valve for everything the body can't process while awake. Maybe my subconscious is giving me a reprieve. Inventing scenarios where desire isn't something to be afraid of.
Maybe it's just my psyche's way of keeping me from completely withering away.
Except…
I know I didn't imagine the shitty reception and good coffee. And Henri said it like it was nothing, as if he was there in that memory.
It's not possible.
Tristan has no reason to come for me. I made sure of that when I destroyed everything between us. He moved on. Built a life. Probably forgot I existed the moment I walked out of his.
Why would he show up now, after all these years? How would he even find us? After we saved Cat and Aaron, Ewan extracted me like I was never there.
But there have been times when Henri's accent disappears.
And then there's the way he looked at Hale in the nursery. Cataloging every detail of my son's face with a deep intensity, like he was looking at something that belonged to him.
"Hair up or down?"
"Up. He likes her neck visible."
He likes her neck visible.
I file that phrase away with all the others. The small humiliations that remind me I'm not even in charge of my own hair in this house. I'm a curated image designed to communicate one thing: look what I own and control.
"Arms up."
I lift my arms.
Margot slides the tape measure around my ribs, then to my waist. She's done this dozens of times, but she always measures again.
I should be here for this. Pay attention so I can make sure Ewan stays happy for the next couple of days, but my mind keeps drifting.
Every time I try, I see gray eyes where brown should be. I hear a voice without the French accent, rough with promise. I feel phantom hands sliding up my thighs and a mouth against my ear, whispering everything I've been dying to hear.
"You've lost weight." Margot's voice cuts through the spiral. "The dress will need to be taken in."
"I'll handle it," Elise says, pulling out a sewing kit.
I stand very still while they work around me, prodding and adjusting, voices dissecting my body like it belongs to them. The red fabric is heavy in Margot's hands.
"Pay attention. I need you to step into the dress now."
I blink. "Of course. Sorry."
She rolls her eyes, hating every bit of this as I step into the dress. I try not to think about Tristan or Henri as they pull the material up over my hips, my ribs, my breasts. The dress is cold against my skin, a silk cage closing around me.
Margot surveys her work. "Turn."
I turn.
"Again."
In the mirror, I catch Elise watching me. She looks confused—and maybe a bit concerned. I hold her gaze, refusing to break first. When she draws in a breath, pity fills her eyes.
I don't want her sympathy. I want her to stop looking at me like I'm a cautionary tale she'll share over drinks with her friends.
"The neckline needs adjusting," Margot announces, reaching for her pins. Elise looks away. "And we'll need to do something about those circles under her eyes. She looks exhausted. It's not attractive."
I am exhausted. I've been exhausted.
But I don't say anything, standing there while they pin and tuck and discuss my flaws like items on a repair list for a house they don't own.
Margot gets to leave when this is over. Back to Paris. Drink champagne and sleep in a bed she bought. Elise gets to go home to an apartment with her name on the lease. Kiss someone who doesn't own her. Make plans for a future she thinks she controls.
I get to wear the dress.
Lucky fucking me.
The fitting lasts two hours.
When it's finally over, my dress hangs in the closet like a guillotine. Makeup tested. Hair pinned into an elaborate arrangement, ready for this evening.
I'm granted thirty minutes of "rest" before Ewan expects me downstairs for a briefing on tonight's expectations.
I use the time to walk.
Ewan doesn't like me wandering near Hale's study schedule, but he needs me compliant for his party tonight. Which means he'll tolerate small misdoings today. He may use them against me later, but I want to see my baby.
Hale is in the hallway when I round the corner, his small hand wrapped in his nanny's grip as she leads him toward the playroom.
He's wearing the blue sweater I bought him last winter—the one with little sailboats on the sleeves—and his hair is sticking up in the back the way it always does after his afternoon quiet time.
Just seeing him well and happy wipes away all the exhaustion I've been carrying.
He spots me instantly. "Mamma!"
I crouch and open my arms wide, every cell in my body desperate to hold him.
He tries to run to me, but the nanny's grip tightens, holding him back.
Her face is apologetic, but her hand doesn't loosen. She has her orders. We both know what happens to staff who disobey them.
I pause for a second before standing and slowly approaching them.
"Hey, my love. I missed you."
"Can I show you my drawing? I made a dragon. It has three heads."
I glance up at the nanny, and she shakes her head.
Fuck her.
"That sounds amazing, baby. I—"
"Mrs. Calder. Mr. Calder asked that Hale not be disturbed during his afternoon activities." Her voice is pointed.
His own mother is a disruption. A problem to be managed.
I force down the consuming rage. "Of course."
Hale's face crumples. "But I want to show Mamma—"
"Tomorrow." I smile through the splinters in my heart. "You can show me tomorrow, okay? I promise."
He pouts, unconvinced, but lets the nanny lead him away, looking back at me over his shoulder—confusion and hurt swimming in those big, beautiful eyes.
Tristan's eyes.
My son has his father's eyes, and his father has no idea he exists.
Or does he?
Stop. Just stop.
I'm driving myself insane with this. Seeing patterns that aren't there. Wanting something so badly that I'm willing to twist reality to make it fit.
Henri is not Tristan.
Henri is a guard who showed me unexpected kindness, and my stupid brain is trying to make that mean more than it does.
That's all.
I leave the area as soon as Hale is gone, deciding to head back to my room—but my eyes keep wandering on the way.
I don't mean to look for him, but he's not in any of the usual spots.
Other guards are, but Henri is nowhere to be found.
My feet slow near the main foyer. Still no sign of him.
It doesn't matter. He's probably on a different rotation.
There's an anxious flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with Ewan or the party or any of the things that should be unnerving me right now.
I want to see him.
After everything that's happened recently, I should be avoiding him. This dance of ours is becoming dangerous, and I should be putting as much distance between us as possible until I figure out what the hell is going on.
But I'm walking around like a moth seeking flame.
I find a quiet corner and stop, pressing my back against the wall.
When Henri looks at me, I remember what it feels like to be seen.
Not as Ewan's wife. Not as Hale's mother. Not as a possession or a problem to be managed.
Just…me. Whatever fractured, buried version of me still exists.
The last time—no, scratch that. The only time I've ever felt like this was with Tristan.
He used to look at me the same way.
No conditions. No expectations. Just pure, undiluted attention that made me feel like I could just be.
Henri makes me feel that way.
And if he's really Tristan, and he's been here this whole time, hiding in plain sight—
I don't know whether to feel rescued or furious.
And if it is Tristan, then he knows about Hale somehow. That I kept this secret from him for years.
Would he even want to save me after that?
Or is he here for revenge? Giving me hope before ripping it all away from me?
My head is pounding. I can't separate what I want from what I fear might actually be true.
You need to focus. The party is tonight. Ewan is watching. One wrong move and you could lose Hale forever.
I push off the wall and keep walking.
Whatever—or whoever—Henri is, I don't have time to figure it out right now.
Hale is the only thing that matters.
So I bury the want. The confusion. The hope.
I keep walking, one foot in front of the other, back to my room where the red dress is waiting to turn me into someone I can't stand.
You can do this.
One dinner. One night of disgusting men.
I've survived worse. I'll survive this too. And maybe when it's over, Ewan will let me see more of my son.
Tonight is about performance.
But tomorrow, I'm going to find Henri and demand to know the truth.