Chapter 12 #4
My fingers meet his shirt and the muscle beneath it, just there, under the fabric, makes me feel things I should not.
His lips hover above me, calling me, begging me to oblige the most indulgent temptation I have ever tried to steer away from.
Time stops as I hold my breath, rising onto my tiptoes, accepting his invitation into a world of possibilities.
My senses catch fire, and I snap my fingers once, checking my own vitals.
This is not a dream. My lips find his, both of us holding back as if indulging in this kiss would be our downfall.
I close my eyes. Featherlight. Weightless.
The motion is soft and careful, contrasting with the wave, bigger than a building, crashing over me as I stay still.
We part, his thumb gentle at the corner of my mouth, his scent invading me like inevitable fog.
How can he be so gentle when he looks so…
as if he came out of a boxing match and straight into a suit?
Every cracked part of me wants to hide in the crook of his neck and beg him to take me far away, yet another part has both feet rooted in the bitter taste of reality.
I am just a distraction to him, an open window into a cage he needs to free himself from for a few moments.
And then he will go back to the mundane, the fancy, the beautiful women wearing gems and designer coats.
Women who can actually make small talk and converse about the economic state of the world and their last holidays in Paris.
Trying my best not to ruin the moment, I close my eyes, photographing yet another new memory.
Words dance in my mind, poetry filling the cracks of my heart.
afternoon walk.
from an ancient love
under the library
may that kiss
protect me
from the inevitable
f
a
l
l
“I’ve been waiting a lifetime for you,” he murmurs against my skin, the dim light reminding me that this is all we will ever be. Hidden.
Because how could we ever exist in the light?
Tristan
Some may think showing her private letters from a forbidden love back in the day was a simple chess move, a premeditated action based on my observations and personal gain.
To which I would argue: almost. It turns out that after staying up at night trying to find a good enough reason to catch her attention and convince her to see what I saw, I remembered an article on this couple in a historical review I used to enjoy reading as a teenager.
To each their own. History has never been my thing, but when I was stuck in a youth facility, and the only escape I had besides sport was the library, I would rather roam through all the magazines than indulge in the world of fiction, which would not have brought any comfort since none of it was ever true.
Political, economic, and historical reviews became a distraction from my world expanding through knowledge, and I would then try to memorize each piece of information, soaking it all in to use later, to know the rules of the game, to make my father proud.
That’s how I found out about Eleanor and Thomas.
About their letters, found in the ruins of a barely standing house that had been abandoned.
The house had been purchased by a private collector, then passed to each of his heirs until one day, without any attachment to these writings, one of them decided to give them away to the public.
Given the state of the letters, they had to be transferred here, where a skilled curator was tasked with cleaning and displaying them for the world to see, only to discover that their advanced deterioration would not allow daylight to touch them.
They were currently kept here, in the archives of the Westhaven public library, waiting to know where they would go next.
And just as I finish my sentence, breathing against her cheek, inhaling her perfume of soap and lavender, I close my eyes.
Was this what Thomas felt like too? An impossible pull, dragging his heart out of his ribs with a tool, forcing him to kneel to a woman and beg her to accept his affection?
Did he struggle to sleep at night, wondering if she was safe?
Unharmed? Did he also fail to stomach the idea of watching her hold another man’s hand?
Did he wonder if she would let go of the differences between them and accept the evidence of them, or was he eaten alive by worries of his world hurting her?
A sudden urge to trap her against a shelf grows inside me, and I have to look away, blinking.
Her breathing is uneven as she tugs at my sleeve.
“Thank you for showing me this. I love it.” She looks down, too shy to meet my gaze, and it only drives me closer to the edge of my resolve. “Could I…read them for a few minutes? I won’t be long, and…”
“Take your time, sweetheart. There’s no rush.
I will be right there,” I cut her off, signing before pointing to a shelf behind her.
“Take all the time you need,” I assure her, then make my way behind her, sensing calls vibrating in my pocket.
Nate. Refusing to disrupt her peace, I write to him while keeping an eye on Ella, who is deliciously bent slightly above the glass, her index finger tracing lines, perhaps opening her mind to the possibility of us.
I clear my throat. Why is her dress this short?
No one should be allowed to see what I am seeing right now.
And to think that others must have gawked at her in the streets makes me want to punch a wall.
Me: What’s the matter?
Nate: Development. Cole is nowhere to be found. Rumor has it he’s gone into hiding.
Me: Who has been given the lead, then?
Nate: One of his men. I think he is giving orders through his hiding place.
Me: Any other unusual stance?
Nate: Large payments made to different firms in the country and one in Westhaven.
Me: Ethereal Design?
Nate: How did you know?
Me: Find out the terms of the loan agreement.
Nate: On it.
Me: Where are you on the McHallan contracts?
Nate: Done. Everything is legitimate. We are ready for the buy.
Me: Do it today.
Sliding my phone into the inner pocket of my suit, I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Heat pulses behind my brows as a migraine seems to take birth.
The McHallan Building belongs to the Vodianov clan and is on their territory, up north of town.
Still, I have found a way to force them into selling it, which will, by the end of the day, allow Ashford Holdings to own it and begin the short and effective raid of acquisitions on all the assets in their territory.
Since they could not fund any of their acquisitions themselves, they relied too heavily on external investors.
And do you know the good thing about investors?
They could not care less about who owns whom as long as they receive their fat check at the end of the quarter.
Most of them did not even require threats to sell me their shares, only business enlightenment, while others had to be shown the dirt I had on them, courtesy of Brenton, and then obliged.
Which made me the majority investor in many of their companies, able to vote on my own for the sale of the company to Ashford Holdings, along with their buildings.
Checkmate.
What I need now is to find out what Mara Brooks and Cole shook hands on.
No doubt he is injecting money into her firm, dirty money for sure, surely hoping to clean it through her state-of-the-art, unquestionable facade.
If it were only this, I would not bat an eye, but…
What if she fails to return his investment? How would she pay then?
Ella straightens, tugging at her dress as if the hem could miraculously grow inches. What a beauty. Hopefully, she will not look back right now and catch me gawking at her. Would she actually mind? Or perhaps secretly enjoy it? I guess the latter.
“I have to go home,” she signs, striding toward me.
“I’ll drive you back.”
“It isn’t necessary.”
“I was not asking, Ella.” I offer my hand. “It was me stating a fact.” She welcomes it, tugging at her lips, as if something were bothering her.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice breaking the spell of our comfortable silence as she lets go of my hand.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Mara didn’t seem really happy about me working for your company this morning. I don’t know…”
“Did she hurt you?” Could Mara Brooks betray her promise already? She shakes her head.
“I am going to be straight with you, Ella, because this is not okay, and I am not the kind of person who lets things go off course. If she ever raises a hand against you, I am asking you to tell me immediately so I can intervene and fix it.”
“Fix it?”
“If she does, I trust you will tell me exactly what she did so I can protect you.”
“What do you mean, intervene?”
“What hand did she slap you with?”
“What…”
“What hand did she slap you with?”
“The right one, but…”
“If she ever does it again, she will find herself sorry to lose the hand she used on an innocent being. Have I made myself clear?” My father’s voice whispers to me, see, you and I are the same. You can’t escape your blood.
“Violence is terrible, Tristan.”