17. Lucille #2
“He sold me to you,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I’m crying. “My father looked at his grieving daughter and saw an opportunity. A chance to cement an alliance, secure the family’s position. He dressed it up as caring about my future, but it was a transaction. I was a transaction.”
Hugo’s face has gone pale.
“Lucille…”
“And I went along with it because I didn’t know what else to do.
Because my mother was dead and my father was distant and I thought maybe, maybe if I was useful enough, compliant enough, good enough, someone would finally love me.
” The tears are falling freely now. “That’s why I spent two years trying so hard.
That’s why I fixed your clothes and waited up for you and never complained when you disappeared.
Because I thought if I just did everything right, you’d finally see me. ”
“I see you now.”
“But you didn’t then.” I meet his eyes. “You had two years to ask about my mother. Two years to notice that I carried her sewing kit with me everywhere. Two years to wonder why I hummed when I worked, or why I couldn’t watch medical dramas, or why I fell apart every October on the anniversary of her death. ”
“I didn’t know…”
“Because you never asked.”
He’s silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
“I’m asking now. Every memory, every grief, every joy I missed. I want to know all of it.”
“It’s too late for some of it.”
“I know.” He tightens his grip on my hand. “But it’s not too late for everything. It’s not too late for you to tell me about the first dress you ever made, or how she smelled, or what song she used to sing when she was working. It’s not too late for me to hold you when October comes around.”
The tears keep falling, but a tightness in my chest starts to loosen.
“She smelled like lavender,” I whisper. “She kept sachets of it in all her fabric drawers. Sometimes I buy lavender soap just to…” I break off, embarrassed.
“Just to what?”
“Just to remember her. Just to feel like she’s close.”
Hugo stands from the table and comes around to my side, and then he’s kneeling beside my chair, his hands cupping my face, thumbing away my tears.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry I didn’t see what you were carrying.”
“It’s not your fault she died.”
“No. But it’s my fault you had to carry it alone.” He presses his forehead to mine. “I’m here now. Let me carry it with you.”
I don’t know who moves first.
One moment we’re forehead to forehead, and the next we’re kissing, soft and slow and tasting of tears. It’s nothing like the desperate collision in Alice’s guest room. This is gentle. Searching. A question rather than a demand.
“Come inside,” he murmurs against my lips. “Let me hold you.”
I let him lead me into the house.
The living room is warm with firelight.
Hugo must have started the fire earlier, because it’s burning steadily now, casting light that dances across the walls. He guides me to the rug in front of the hearth, and we stand there facing each other in the amber glow.
“Can I?” His hands hover at the hem of my sweater.
“Yes.”
He pulls the sweater over my head slowly, reverently, like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t deserve. His eyes trace the skin he reveals, and his expression is almost pained.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed,” he says. “And I was a fool to look anywhere else.”
“Hugo…”
“I mean it. Every time I watched you from across a room, every time I noticed the way you moved or laughed or bent over your work, I saw you. I just didn’t let myself feel it.” He reaches for the clasp of my bra, pausing. “Can I?”
“Yes.”
The fabric falls away, and his breath catches. His hands come up to cup my breasts, gentle and warm, and I lean into the touch.
“I want to worship you,” he murmurs. “Will you let me?”
I answer by reaching for his shirt.
We undress each other slowly, trading pieces of clothing for kisses, until we’re both bare in the firelight. He lowers me to the rug, bracing himself above me, and his eyes don’t leave mine as he settles between my thighs.
“I spent two years not seeing you,” he says. “I’m not going to miss anything tonight.”
His mouth finds my neck, traces down to my collarbone, lingers at the hollow of my throat where my pulse beats fast. He maps my body with lips and tongue, taking his time, learning every curve and dip like he’s memorizing a new song.
When he reaches my breasts, he pauses to worship each one, soft kisses, gentle suction, the scrape of teeth that makes me arch off the rug. I thread my fingers through his hair and hold on while he works his way lower, down my stomach, over my hip, toward the place where I’m already aching for him.
“Can I?” he asks again, his breath warm against my inner thigh.
“Yes. Please, yes.”
His mouth finds me, and I cry out.
He takes his time here too, slow, deliberate strokes that build the pleasure in waves. Every time I get close, he eases back, letting the sensation crest and recede before building it again. It’s torture. It’s exquisite.
“Hugo,” I gasp. “I need…”
“I know what you need.” He looks up at me, his eyes dark in the firelight. “But I want to give you more than that. I want to give you everything.”
He returns to his task with renewed focus, and this time he doesn’t ease back. He takes me higher and higher, the pleasure building until I shatter with his name on my lips, waves of sensation rolling through me while he holds me steady.
Before I’ve fully come down, he’s moving up my body, positioning himself at my entrance.
“Look at me,” he says.
I open my eyes.
“I love you.” He slides inside me slowly, inch by inch, filling me completely. “I love you, Lucille. I should have said it a thousand times. I should have said it every day.”
“Say it now.”
“I love you.” He begins to move, slow and deep. “I love you.” Each thrust punctuated by the words. “I love you.”
The firelight dances across his face, and I see everything there, the vulnerability he’s always hidden, the fear he’s finally letting me witness, the love he’s been too scared to speak.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
He stills.
“Say it again.”
“I love you.” The words come easier the second time. “I’ve always loved you. I just stopped trusting it.”
“Trust it now.” He starts moving again, faster, deeper. “Trust me. I’m not going anywhere.”
We find our rhythm together, give and take, push and pull, the ancient dance that feels brand new because we’re finally doing it with our eyes open. I watch his face as the pleasure builds, watch the way his control starts to slip, watch him fight to hold on because he wants this to last.
“Let go,” I tell him. “I’ve got you.”
His hips stutter, his rhythm faltering, and I wrap my legs around him and pull him deeper. We tumble over the edge together, calling each other’s names, holding on like we’ll never let go.
Moments pass and we stay tangled on the rug, the fire crackling beside us, our breathing slowly returning to normal.
“Stay with me,” Hugo murmurs against my hair. “Not just tonight. Forever.”
“That’s a long time.”
“I know.” He tightens his arm around me. “But I’m done with half measures. I’m done with arrangements and obligations and going through the motions. I want you, really want you, for the rest of my life.”
I’m quiet for a long moment, letting his words settle.
“The divorce papers are still active,” I say finally.
“I know. I haven’t signed them.”
“I don’t want you to sign them.” I lift my head to look at him. “I don’t want the divorce to go through. But I don’t want to dismiss the petition either. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because we still have a mess to clean up. Ginny. The scandal. The narrative that’s been spinning out of control for months.” I trace a pattern on his chest. “I want us to face that together. I want us to fight side by side before we officially declare the war over.”
“So we stay married but keep the divorce petition open as a… technicality?”
“As a reminder.” I meet his eyes. “A reminder that I chose to stay. That this isn’t an arrangement anymore. That we’re here because we want to be, not because we’re trapped.”
He considers this, his fingers trailing up and down my spine.
“Okay,” he says finally. “We face the mess together. And when it’s over, we close the petition and start fresh.”
“Deal.”
He pulls me down for a kiss, slow and sweet.
“I love you,” he says against my lips.
“I love you too.”
We stay by the fire, talking until dawn bleeds through the windows.
About the future, about the past, about all the things we want to build together.
About the showcase and my career and how to balance his world with mine.
About forgiveness, not the kind that comes easily, but the kind that’s worth fighting for.
I forgive him.
Not because he’s fully earned it. Not because the anger has disappeared. But because the anger weighs more than letting it go, and I’m tired of carrying what isn’t mine.
By the time the sun rises fully, we’ve made a plan.
“We go back today,” I say, sitting up and stretching muscles that are pleasantly sore. “We face Ginny and the scandal and whatever else is waiting for us.”
“Together.”
“Together.” I stand and offer him my hand. “No more hiding. No more letting her control the narrative.”
Hugo takes my hand and rises, pulling me into his arms.
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“I’m sure I’m tired of running.” I kiss him softly. “It’s time to go on offense.”
We pack quickly, moving through the house that’s become a sanctuary over the past days. I take one last look at the terrace where we ate terrible pasta, at the fireplace where we found our way back to each other, at the hills that gave us the space to heal.
Then we get in the car and drive south, toward Los Angeles and the scandal and everything we left behind.
But this time, we’re driving toward it together.
And for the first time, that feels like enough.