Chapter 19
Cornelia
My paternal grandmother isn’t your typical comforting, cookie-baking grandmother like you see in the movies. She’s not exactly comforting at all. And she probably doesn’t even know how to bake cookies, but she sure as hell knows how to throw a good party.
There isn’t a real reason for the party, but nobody questions it. No one would pass up the opportunity to come to my grandmother’s estate for a party thrown by her.
The only thing I thought might bother people was the no-phone rule, but I think most guests actually appreciate it. Without the worry of anything leaking online, they feel freer and more willing to indulge in behaviours they usually wouldn’t.
My grandmother used the excuse of wanting a relaxing, private evening to justify banning cell phones, but that’s not the real reason.
If it were, she wouldn’t have hired professional photographers.
What she really wanted was to be the only one with proof of what happened, ensuring that no matter what goes down, she can control the narrative.
The moment I saw TJ walk in with Amelie, dressed in a mustard-colored dress that attacked my eyeside, I knew she had made the right call. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I knew it bothered me more than it should. So, I’m doing one of my favourite things to cope—pretending it’s not happening.
Although I was against this sham of a party at first, I find myself actually enjoying it—well, two things about it.
The first is dressing up. I love wearing ball gowns, and tonight I’m in a silver Oscar de la Renta dress, Giuseppe Zanotti heels, Graff’s classic butterfly round diamond earrings, and a breathtaking 75-carat Mozambique Paraiba cocktail ring from Lydia Courteille on my right middle finger.
It’s pure art—I’d love to wear it more often, but it’s widely impractical for daily wear.
The only downside to the outfit is that I had to take off my Jessica McCormack ring, as the yellow gold clashed with all the silver.
It makes me feel kind of naked, but the moment this party ends, it’s going back on my hand where it belongs.
The second thing is the dancing. I love dancing and watching others dance, especially ballroom dancing.
There’s something so romantic and intimate about it.
TJ and I used to dance at these events until our feet gave out.
Now I can’t dance because I need a partner—one of the downsides of not having a boyfriend.
But maybe I don’t need a boyfriend to dance. Maybe I just need to find someone else.
Where is Laurie?
Or better yet, where is Lucian? He really knows how to dance. I look around, but they’re nowhere to be found.
What I do find is TJ heading straight towards me.
I quickly look away before he catches me watching him. He looks so handsome, and he is wearing a tuxedo.
Men in tuxedos are my weakness, but nothing beats TJ in a leather jacket.
He stands in front of me, saying nothing for a few seconds until the music changes and the band begins playing an orchestral rendition of “All of Me” by John Legend. Our song.
TJ extends his hand. “Can I have this dance?”
I stare at his hand, saying nothing.
“Come on, you know you want to,” he adds with a teasing smile.
I do want to.
But I shouldn’t.
But I want to.
I hesitate for a second, my hand hovering midway, but I finally take his hand and stand up. “Fine,” I sigh. “But no talking.”
Every time we talk, it seems the only thing we accomplish is getting into a fight.
He responds with a playful gesture, miming locking his mouth with a key and tossing it away, then guides me to the dance floor.
We reach the middle of the dance floor, and he places one hand on my lower back, pulling me closer.
Close enough to make me forget for a second how to breathe.
His other hand finds mine, and our fingers brush softly before settling together.
I look up into his eyes—those deep, alluring greyish-blue eyes.
My legs feel weak. His eyes are like a precipice I could so easily fall into.
He leads effortlessly, every step sure and smooth. He’s good—he ought to be. He was my cavalier at Queen Charlotte’s Ball and at Le Bal des Débutantes in Paris.
We dance slowly, feeling the music wrap around us. The melody stirs up the memory of the first time we ever danced to this song, which was in this very same room.
I was fifteen. It was winter break, and we all came here to stay for a few days. My grandmother has her faults, but she also has her good sides. Like how she always lets us come here whenever we want, without asking, and act as if it’s our home. We each even have our own room.
The first night, TJ brought me here.
“I found our song,” he told me.
Three weeks earlier, we’d been in one of Edelweiss’ common rooms, watching The Notebook. When the scene came on where Allie and Noah are dancing on the street, I told him every couple should have a song.
“What’s ours?” he had asked.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, leaving it up to him. “What is it?”
I like to control everything, and I was a bit afraid he’d pick a song I wouldn’t like, but I wanted to know his answer more.
He didn’t get a chance to reply because then West arrived and sat between us. He used to do that to annoy me.
The room was empty except for a chair he’d brought in from another room and a small speaker. He connected his phone to it and played this song with the lyrics. He placed his hands where they are now, and we began to dance.
“Why this song?” I asked as we swayed.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear. “Because I feel like this song captures perfectly how I feel about you. Listen to the lyrics.”
I did.
“You’re my end and my beginning,” he whispered, repeating the words. “You have always been.”
He kept going, his voice low. “Cause all of me loves all of you. Love your curves and all your edges. All your perfect imperfections.”
Then he added, under his breath, like the thought had slipped out, “Everything about you is perfection.”
He chose the perfect song—one that perfectly encapsulated one of the main reasons I fell in love with him.
He never once made me feel like I was too much.
That my mind was too much. Even when I thought it was too much.
At least not before everything that has happened lately.
Maybe… he always felt that it was too much and lied about it.
Back in the present, with that memory burning in my chest, I look up at him. The curve of his lips, the way he holds my gaze, the heat of his breath. My heart races. I can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to kiss him, how his touch feels electrifying, like a necessity.
Just as I’m about to let temptation win, TJ twirls me, bringing me back to earth.
“Where’s Amelie?” I ask him as he stops twirling me.
He begins a whip turn, pushing me away, and as he reels me back into his embrace, he says, “Didn’t we agree—no talking?”
“Shouldn’t you be with her? You did bring her as your date, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he replies.
I grit my teeth. It makes me mad that I feel like a jealous girlfriend.
I’m not his girlfriend anymore. I don’t have a valid reason to be upset—he’s allowed to date.
I have, but being present while he’s doing it revolts me.
If he wants to date someone, I’d prefer it if he did it in an obscure corner of London.
I think it’s enough time spent together. Why tempt fate?
I try to pull away, but he pulls me back. “But I’d much rather be here with you,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “No talking,” he adds.
I nod weakly.
It kind of brings me back to high school, when he used to make me feel like the most special person in every room, especially when older girls would throw themselves at him, making me jealous. He never paid attention to them. He was always so gentlemanly, the perfect, loving boyfriend.
But then I remember him and my mother. Sometimes it feels like he’s two different people—one, the person who cheated on me with my mother, and the other, the guy I fell in love with. Maybe he has an evil twin.
His eyes catch mine, and he sees I’m puzzled. “Don’t think, just dance with me,” he says softly.
And that’s exactly what I do. I push all my thoughts aside and enjoy dancing with him, like we used to. Like I wish we could do forever.
As the song ends, TJ dips me, and our lips get so close I can feel his breath on my skin. The warmth of it makes my pulse quicken. I have to remind myself of everything that’s happened, every reason I shouldn’t, just to stop myself from closing the distance
After the dance, I had to get away from TJ. Too many tempting thoughts about him were playing in my mind. So I went to the one place I knew he wouldn’t follow me—the loo.
I didn’t need to go, but I slipped into a stall anyway to avoid standing around looking stupid.
A few minutes later, I step out and find Amelie at the sink, touching up her makeup. I should have gone to the bathroom in my room, but it was a long walk to it. And TJ could have followed me there. Having him in my room right now? Bad idea.
I could duck out, and maybe she wouldn’t see me, but there is no way I’m going to skip washing my hands after touching the stall lock. And I also want to… well, not want, exactly—more like I feel the need. A little less now that she came with TJ, but still to clear the air with her.
I go to the sink beside her. “Hi,” I say while beginning to wash my hands.
“Hi,” she replies, barely looking at me.
I turn on the sink faucet and pump soap into my hands—one, two, three, four times—and begin washing them.
I repeat it one, two, three times. She side-eyes, but then returns to look at her reflection.
I do it one more time. Then I splash some water on the faucet so it’s clean when I touch it, turn the water off, dry my hands, and turn to look at her.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about.
” That gets her attention, and she turns to look at me fully, though her expression is indifferent.
“You’ve probably seen the tabloids by now, and…
I wanted to let you know nothing happened between Nate and me while you were together. ”
For all the things they wrote, they left out one of the most important ones.
“Hasn’t there always been something between you two?” Amelie says, her voice sharp with anger. “There were always three people in our relationship.”
I look at her, confused. “What?”
Is she implying I had an affair with Nate?
“Don’t play dumb,” she says, irritated.
“I’m not playing anything.”
She lets out a bitter chuckle. “You don’t know.” She shakes her head. “Of course you don’t know. It must be really nice to be you.”
I ignore the part about how it must be nice being me because any answer would make me sound like an arsehole.
If I say no, I sound like a pretentious girl who doesn’t value the privileges she has; if I say yes, I sound like an arrogant bragger.
The truthful answer is sometimes, but if I say that, I sound like I can’t choose between the first two.
I frown. “Know what?”
“That Nate has been in love with you since you were kids.” Amelie sighs.
“I guess I can’t blame you for that. I did get into a relationship with him knowing he was in love with you.
” She turns to look at herself in the mirror.
“I willed myself to believe he’d forgotten you and fallen in love with me, but it didn’t happen.
” She pauses, and I recognise that pause all too well.
It’s the kind you take when you’re trying to hold back, struggling to pull yourself together.
I get it—we know each other, but not well enough to cry in front of each other.
“And when you and TJ broke up, I felt Nate slipping further and further away, and I knew exactly why,” she continues, her voice shaking. “I… I just couldn’t stay with him, waiting for the day he would leave me for you.”
I feel bad for her—unrequited love is a horrible thing. I want to say something, anything, to console her, but I don’t really know what to say.
I’m gobsmacked. While I considered the fact that what happened between us meant more to him, I never thought he was in love with me. Now I’m replaying every interaction we had in my mind to see if there were signals I didn’t notice or if, in some way, I enabled those feelings.