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leclsrc · 2 years ago

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see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways.

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety.

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.”

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water.

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you.

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening.

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family?

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh.

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!”

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family.

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it.

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills.

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone.

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place.

You slide him five euros over breakfast.

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards.

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you.

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses.

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes.

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room.

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.”

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face.

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles.

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating.

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings.

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh.

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes.

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him.

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply.

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off.

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts.

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months ago

Text

1968 [Chapter 4: Zeus, God Of Thunder]

A/N: Can you believe we're already 1/3 done with this series?? I sure can't! I hope you enjoy Chapter 4. I'm so excited to show you where we're headed. The times are indeed a-changin'... 😉

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 7.3k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji @sunnysideaeggs @minttea07 @babyblue711

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You unzip the floral suitcase that Alicent gave the nurses to pack for you. Inside are the hundreds of greeting cards sent by people from the Atlantic to the Rockies; downstairs, Eudoxia is distributing a dozen bouquets of flowers throughout the house with appropriate grimness, and more arrive each hour. You lift cards out of the suitcase by the handful and lay them down on your bed. Every movement feels slow, every thought muddled, bare feet in cold wet sand that swallows you to your ankles. The windows are open, the sheer curtains billowing. The wind whips in off the ocean, smelling of brine and sun glare, life and death.

Aemond emerges from the bathroom in a gale of steam. He finishes adjusting his eyepatch and then dresses himself: white shorts, blue polo. Aemond wears a lot of blue. It is Greek, is it American, it is the Democratic Party, it is the color of the sky that was once believed to hold Olympus, it is everything he’s ever been or wanted to be. He’s humming The House Of The Rising Sun. It’s the first time you’ve truly been alone since the night before he caught his flight to Tacoma.

Beneath the greeting cards you find the books, cosmetics, and three new sundresses, none of which you ended up wearing home. Alicent bought you a plain black shift dress, matching gloves and flats, and opaque sunglasses to hide your face from the journalists who waited outside the hospital. And there is one last item to unpack. At the bottom of the suitcase is a clear plastic bag containing fabric, white dotted with bruises of common blue violets. At first you are confounded, and then you turn it over to see the dark, saturated stain of crimson. It’s the sundress you were wearing the day you were rushed to Mount Sinai to have Ari. The nurses hadn’t known if you wanted to keep it, burn it, bury it.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Aemond’s brow furrows, like he’s surprised by the question. He goes to his writing desk and turns the chair around so it’s facing you. He sits, crosses one leg over the other, leans back and hides his hands in his pockets. His tone is gentle, but his gaze is hard. “By the time I heard that you’d had the baby, it was already over. You were out of surgery, he was in an incubator, and that was the immutable reality. I figured there was nothing I could do at that point to improve the outcome. And that’s true. Me flying back early wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“But you should have been there,” you insist, eyes wet, voice quivering. “You should have known him like I did.”

“Winning Washington was important.”

“Washington is a basket of votes, Ari was our child, he was real.”

“No one told me he was dying—”

“Because you didn’t pick up the fucking phone.”

Aemond is incredulous, like he couldn’t have heard you correctly. “It’s not like I was playing golf or drinking myself under some bar, I was campaigning 20 hours a day and it worked.”

“Nothing on earth could have kept me away from you when you got shot in Palm Beach.”

“So maybe it wasn’t just about Washington,” Aemond says, and his words aren’t gentle anymore. They are razored, dauntless, daring you to battle him. “It’s about the whole picture, it’s about the momentum. If I had underperformed in Washington, the dominoes would fall in Kentucky, and Utah, and Virginia, and then at the national convention in August, and then against Nixon in November. I don’t have the luxury of disappearing from the public eye to sit adoringly by your bedside when we both know there isn’t a single goddamn thing I can do to help.”

“It would have made you look like a better man.”

“But not a better president.”

And like a fracture being snapped back into place, you remember what Aegon said on that bloodstained night in Florida: You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you. You stare down at the ruined dress entombed in plastic, still clutched in your hands. You don’t dare to let Aemond see your eyes. You’re afraid you won’t be able to disguise the betrayal glistening there. You ask, a whisper, a whimper: “Why aren’t you sad?” I thought you loved him. I thought you were always so worried about him.

“Of course I’m sad,” Aemond says, more kindly now, patiently, like he’s speaking to someone who can’t be expected to comprehend. “But it’s different for the mother.”

You can’t reply. If you do, something lethal will pour out, smoke and poison and arrows, something that shoots to kill. Ari was quietly interred at the Targaryen family mausoleum in Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park. It had felt so wrong to leave his tiny casket there in a silent stone prison full of strangers.

Aemond is behind you now, trying to knead the tension out of your shoulders. And for the first time in two years, you wish he’d stop touching you. Your belly hurts, your head hurts, your heart hurts, you are a garden blooming with bruises and scars. “I know you aren’t in your right mind. Everything will be better soon. I promise.”

Tears gather on your eyelashes. “I miss him.”

“We’ll have others. Here, let me take that…” Aemond grabs the bag holding your ruined dress and it’s out of your reach before you can think to resist. “You should get ready for dinner.”

“Okay,” you reply numbly, now gazing down at your empty palms. Aemond leaves with his grisly parcel, and you never see it again. But once he’s gone you don’t shed your black mourning dress, blood-soaked pad, bandages, and shake loose your hair and step into the shower. Instead, you walk around the bed to pick up the mint green rotary phone on your nightstand. You speak to a series of operators before you reach the Harbour Rocks Hotel in Sydney. While you listen to the ringing through the intercontinental wire, you sit down on the bed. You’ve never felt low like this. You’ve never felt so unmoored from everything you had believed about your life.

A gruff, familiar voice answers. He’s just waking up, slurping on his morning coffee, dabbing his moustache with a napkin. “Hello?”

“Daddy, I don’t think I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

“What?” he asks, and immediately he is no longer groggy but desperately concerned. Your parents are away on a month-long tour of Australia and often incommunicado. By the time they received news of Ari’s death and called Mount Sinai in hysterics to speak with you, you had told them not to rush home. You were about to be released, and they would not make it in time for the funeral regardless. Aemond insisted on a swift, private ceremony, a detour on the drive back to Asteria, like it was something he couldn’t wait to put in his rearview mirror. “What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

“Aemond, he…” He’s not the man I thought he was. I don’t know him, I don’t trust him. “He’s not acting right, he’s not…he didn’t…Daddy, it’s like he doesn’t care. And I don’t want to be here anymore. Can I fly down to Tarpon Springs when you and Mama get back? Can I stay with you for a while? And then…and then…” You don’t even know what words you’re looking for. They don’t exist in your universe.

“Listen, honey,” your father says with great tenderness. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah.” You’re trying to stifle your sobs so no one downstairs hears you.

“You’ve just been through something terrible. So terrible I can’t even imagine it. And of course you’re feeling out of sorts. But Aemond is your husband, he’s your protector and your ally, your best friend, your partner in life. He’s not the one responsible for what happened. You can’t misdirect your heartache at him.”

“But he’s…Daddy, there’s…there’s something wrong with him.”

“Oftentimes, it’s easier for women to talk about their emotions, both good and bad. But for men—especially men like Aemond who are so self-disciplined by nature—it can be like pulling teeth to express themselves. They don’t like to be vulnerable. They actually think they’re failing in their commitments to their wife if they let her see how much they’re struggling. Aemond is hurting just like you are. He might not show it in the way you expect, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Of course he cares.”

How do you know, Daddy? Have you cut him open and studied his brain, his ropy nerves, the dark chambers of his heart? “I thought he saw me like you see Mama, I thought he included me in everything because he loved and respected me, but that’s not it. He just needs someone to help him get elected, that’s all Ari and I were to him, and I can’t…I just can’t…the thought of him touching me now…”

“Sweetheart, Aemond is a good man,” your father says. “He does love you. He does respect you. And he’s doing such incredible things for this country. I have friends in Florida who’ve been voting Republican since Hoover, but they’re crossing over for Aemond. They think he’s the one to clean up this mess. Vietnam, poverty, civil rights, the riots, the shootings, the hippies, the drugs, the Russians, the Chinese, someone has to pick up the pieces and create something that makes sense. Do you think Nixon or Humphrey would end the war by this time next year? Do you think either of them would compel the South to enforce voting rights or desegregation?”

“No,” you say, closing your eyes. But that doesn’t mean I can forget what I’ve learned about Aemond.

“Here, your mom wants to say something.” Your father vanishes; your mother’s voice comes piping across the copper submarine cables that span the length of the Pacific Ocean. You wonder—randomly, distractedly—if any of the wires connecting you to Sydney run through Arizona, the place Aegon told you he didn’t want to leave.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Mama.”

“Oh, honey,” she sighs, distraught, hearing the exhaustion and misery in your voice. “You’ve got the baby blues, and no baby to hold good and close to help them run their course. I’m so sorry. It’s just awful, so awful.”

You speak before you know what you’re going to say. “I don’t want to be married to Aemond anymore.”

“You’re confused, sweetheart. Your hormones are all over the place, you’re in pain, you’ve just had major surgery, and after this year with all the stress from the campaign and that horrific shooting in Palm Beach—”

“He’s not like Daddy.” Tears are flooding down your cheeks; your voice is hoarse. “I thought he was, but he’s not.”

“You cannot make a mistake like this,” your mother says, and she’s turned from silk to steel. “If you do something drastic now, you’ll wake up in a month or six months or a year and realize you’ve ruined not just your life, but the chance this country had at a better future. Don’t you realize what’s at stake here? Every marriage goes through tough times. Every husband needs to learn how to care for his wife, and every wife how to best support her husband. That’s natural, and you’ve only been married two years. Of course you and Aemond are still learning how to navigate life together. It only seems so much worse because of what’s happened to the baby.”

Is she right? Am I wrong? “I don’t know,” you say weakly.

“If you leave now, what happens?” your mother demands. “You abandon the campaign and Aemond’s support plummets. You are a divorcee, a sinner, a failure. You don’t get your son back. But you do lose everything you’ve helped build. Marriage isn’t an experiment, ‘oh let’s give it a try and if we hit any bumps we’ll call the whole thing off.’ No. It’s a covenant. Marriage is for life.”

Yes it is, in just about every faith, and certainly for the Greek Orthodox Church. You are suddenly consumed by mistrust for your own body, this flesh that failed your son and now is deceiving you with doubt so heavy—like cold iron or lead or platinum—it masquerades as truth. How could you imagine a life after Aemond? What waits for you in Tarpon Springs besides the promise of an eventual remarriage that is banal, powerless, bleak, exactly what you’ve always plotted so willfully to avoid?

“Do you understand me, honey?” your mother asks, and she’s soft and kind again. “I don’t mean to be strict with you. My heart breaks for you, and I love you. I’m not trying to upset you. I’m trying to protect you from yourself.”

“Yes.” There are people getting massacred in Vietnam right now; there are people who can’t afford roofs over their heads. Who am I to complain? Your tears have stopped; your breathing is now slow and measured. “Yes, Mama. I understand.”

After you’ve hung up, you stay where you are for a long time, your hands folded limply in your lap and gazing at the paintings hung on the pale blue walls: small replicas of The Birth of Venus, Romulus and Remus, Prometheus Bound, Perseus Rescuing Andromeda, Echo and Narcissus, Jupiter and Io. Then you get up to sift through the greeting cards you’ve piled on the bed, not really seeing them. Only one captures your attention. Only one jolts you out of the fog like a flash of lightning through dark churning clouds.

You take the card Aegon gave you back when you were still a mother and set it upright on your nightstand, consider it for a while, wander into the bathroom to scrub the despair from your skin and change into something less somber for dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re playing Battleship with Cosmo by the edge of the swimming pool while all the other children splash around, howling with laughter and diving for toys they throw to the bottom and then fetch with their teeth like golden retrievers, G.I. Joes and Barbies and Trolls and even a waterlogged Mr. Potato Head. The nannies are observing intently, poised to leap in if anyone should appear to be at risk of drowning. If Ari had lived, I wouldn’t have wanted nannies to raise him, you think. I would have wanted him to have a normal childhood. I would have wanted to know him.

“Your turn,” Cosmo says with a grin. He’s the one who looks the most like Aegon, or how you imagine Aegon must have looked before the pills and the booze and the long caged decades. His hair is so light a blonde it’s nearly white, his eyes huge and glimmering and mischievous. Battleship is a bit advanced for a five-year-old. Cosmo keeps guessing the same coordinates over and over, so you periodically lie and tell him he’s sunk one of your ships. When you launch a successful attack against his, he seems to think it’s fair game to relocate the vessel to a more advantageous location.

“D7.”

He picks up his aircraft carrier and repositions it. From the record player drifts California Dreamin’. “Nope! Nothing sank!”

“Wow. I’m so bad at this.”

Cosmo is snickering. “Yeah, you are. Really bad.”

“If I got drafted, the Army would be better off leaving me at home. I’d just be a nuisance.”

“What’s drafted?”

“Never mind. Your turn to guess.”

“J12!”

The grid only goes up to 10. Nonetheless, you slap your own forehead dramatically. “Oh no, not again! You sunk my battleship!”

“Yay!” Cosmo cheers, then turns to the Jacuzzi. It’s brand new, just installed last month. “Mom, did you see? I’m winning!”

You glance over at Mimi. She has passed out, her latest Gimlet drained and her head resting atop her crossed arms, propped on the rim of the Jacuzzi. “Uh, Cosmo, run inside and ask Doxie to make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, okay?”

“Okay.” He scampers off, toddling on reckless little legs.

With no shortage of difficulty, you manage to stand. Each day your abdominal muscles feel less like they’ve been shredded and then mended with threads of fire, but the pain is still bad, very bad, and there are spots of skin on your belly that are numb when you skim your fingertips across them. You will have a long vertical scar like Aemond’s, an irreparable reminder of the blood you’ve paid to the cause. And for all your anguish, this particular fact doesn’t torment you. It is proof that Ari existed, however briefly, however futilely.

You amble over to the Jacuzzi, your roomy lavender dress flowing in the wind, and shove one of Mimi’s shoulders. “Mimi, wake up. Get out of the water.”

She mumbles incoherently in response. You reach for her before remembering you can’t lift anything. You look around. Alicent and Helaena are on lounge chairs at the other end of the pool; Alicent is trying very hard to look interested while Helaena shows her about 100 different butterfly species pictured in a kaleidoscopically colorful book. Criston is off giving Ludwika a tour of the property, flanked by a flock of Alopekis hoping for treats. Ludwika is Otto’s wife of six months but only newly arrived, 30 years old, perpetually unimpressed, modelesque, golden blonde, if Barbie was from Poland. Aemond, Otto, and Viserys—his sparse threads of silver hair hanging like cobwebs around his gaunt face, grimacing and clutching the armrests of his wheelchair—are conspiring on the lawn between the main house and the pool. They haven’t noticed your predicament. Fosco is sauntering by wearing some of the tiniest swim shorts you’ve ever seen. He is the son of an Italian count, gangly and chatty and from what you’ve seen almost certainly addicted to gambling.

“Will you help me move Mimi, please?” you ask him. “I’m afraid she’s going to drown.”

“Of course, of course, no problem. Let me handle it. Do not hurt yourself.” He has her half-dragged out of the Jacuzzi before Mimi startles awake.

“What’s going on?” she slurs. “Put me down, I can walk.”

“I doubt it,” you say.

“You are alright?” Fosco asks Mimi as he steadies her on the cement, wet with pool water. She clutches at his forearms helplessly.

“I’m fine. Absolutely fine.”

“Mimi, go inside,” you say. “Eat a sandwich. Tell Cosmo you’re proud of him for winning Battleship.”

“Battleship? Well, that’s just ridiculous. He’s five. Five-year-olds can’t play Battleship.”

“And yet you will congratulate him regardless.”

She can feel your impatience, your judgement, sharp like wasp stings. Mimi retreats like a kicked dog to the main house, somehow summoning the will to remain mostly upright.

You look to Fosco. “Do you know where Aegon is?” You want to see him, but you also don’t; each time you’re in the same room now is a disorienting storm of familiarity, curiosity, painful reminders, annoyance, awkwardness, longingness to again feel as close to him—to anyone—as you did during those fleeting moments at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.

Fosco chuckles. “Where is he ever? Napping, sailing, drinking, on the phone with one of his lady friends. I could not say. I have not seen him recently.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway.” The music stops—the record needs to be flipped over—and now you can just barely hear what Aemond, Otto, and Viserys are discussing.

“And you criticized me for going too young,” Aemond says to Otto. “What’s your age difference with Ludwika? 40 years?”

“She’s good publicity. She defected from the Eastern Bloc in search of the American Dream.”

“Being married to you?” Aemond quips. “I think she found the American Nightmare.”

“Speaking of wives,” Otto continues. “I assume since yours had one surgery, that’s how all the future children will need to be born, is that right?”

Aemond nods, frowning. “Yeah. And the doctors said she shouldn’t have more than three. It weakens the uterus, I guess, all that slicing and suturing. Do it too many times and ruptures get more likely, and those can be fatal.”

“Very unfortunate,” Viserys rasps. “Children are our greatest legacy. I wanted at least ten, but your mother…well…after Daeron, it just never happened again.” And you know that this is just one of the ways in which Aemond had planned to win his father’s admiration: by contributing more new Targaryens to the dynasty than anyone else. Now that’s impossible.

Otto sighs wistfully. “To have a brand new baby to parade around in the fall…that would have been wonderful.” For the first time in two years, you can sense that you have disappointed him. Fosco is watching you, uneasy, ashamed, sorry without knowing what to do about it.

“Absolutely,” Aemond says, as if this is not the first time the thought has crossed his mind. “But it’s done now. There’s no sense in dwelling on what might have been. We must look forward. It’s feasible that…well…if we try again and get good news by October, we can announce in time for Election Day…”

You can’t listen anymore. Your belly aching, your bare feet hurrying through warm emerald grass, you traverse the lawn and disappear into Helaena’s garden, painstakingly tended and continuously expanded since she was a little girl. There are marigolds and daffodils, tulips and roses, azaleas, asters, butterfly bushes, chrysanthemums, lilies and lupines, sunflowers, violets, life blooming in a hundred different shades. There are tiny statues too, tucked away in random places, stone angels and untamed creatures, alligators and turtles and rabbits and cats, the only sort the Alopekis will tolerate. At the very center of the garden is a tall circle of hedges with only one opening, an arched doorway cut into the thick lush green. You’ve been here before, though only with Aemond. On a property shared with so many family members—and the occasional intrusive journalist—it’s a good place to escape prying eyes. You pass through the threshold with a hand resting absentmindedly on your belly, as if you’re still pregnant. You keep doing this. Each time you remember you’re at the end of something rather than the beginning, it carves you open all over again.

Around the inside perimeter of the circle are twelve sculptures positioned like numbers on a clock: eleven Olympians and Hades, confined to the Underworld. In the middle of the clearing is the largest stature of all, a wrathful Zeus hurling lightning bolts and surrounded by a gurgling fountain of glass-clear water. Under the shadow of Zeus, Aegon is sprawled on the ground and smoking a joint. “So you’re hiding from them too, huh?” He gives you a sly, welcome-to-the-club smirk, then offers you his joint. “Want a hit?”

You shake your head, not taking another step towards him. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He is confused. “Done what?”

“Any of it.” I told him about my life before. I made the mistake of thinking I could go back.

Aegon still doesn’t seem to understand. “You’re scared I’m gonna snitch?”

You shrug, evasive. It’s not just the fact that he knows. It’s the sensation that you’ve unlatched something—an attic room, a jewelry box, a birdcage—and now you can’t get it locked again, and the door rattles with every footstep and storm wind, and you are no longer Aphrodite or Io but Pandora, a hunger growing in your stitched womb like a child.

“What? What’s wrong with you?” And that’s always how he says it, not what’s the matter or are you alright or what did I do or how can I fix it?

“I’m kind of…embarrassed, I guess.”

“Embarrassed,” Aegon echoes. “Because of me?”

“I feel like I said and did a lot of things that were out of character because I was emotionally compromised.”

“They were out of character for who you’ve been trying to convince everyone you are since you married Aemond, sure. But they weren’t out of character for you.”

He’s treading too close now, arrows piercing their mark, a tremor near the epicenter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Au contraire, I have acquired many interesting revelations recently.”

“Where’d you learn French? From Mimi?”

His smile dies. “Boarding school.”

You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know how to be around Aegon without either hating him or letting him see parts of yourself that you’re trying to drown like Icarus in the waves. You glance yearningly towards the doorway cut into the hedges.

All at once, Aegon is furious. “You don’t want to talk to me? You want to go back to how it was before, you want to pretend Mount Sinai never happened? Fine. You got it. Wish fucking granted. Whatever you have to do.”

He turns away from you. You flee from him. But that night when Asteria is hushed and still—Aemond, Criston, and Otto are attending a fundraising dinner in Philadelphia, and you are temporarily excused from accompanying them as you recover—you creep down into the basement of the main house to apologize. Mimi sleeps in a bedroom on the second floor, but here Aegon can keep odd hours and drink and smoke to his heart’s content, and even entertain clandestine guests, girls who are beautiful and giggling and never invited twice.

Aegon isn’t here. He might be passed out somewhere, or at a party, or maybe even upstairs with Mimi, and something about this idea twists through your mending guts like a blade. In his absence, you take a quick look around his room, something you’ve never done before. You hadn’t had any interest; it wouldn’t even have occurred to you. There’s a large green futon, a matching shag carpet, a television, a bookshelf full of notebooks and paperbacks—Kurt Vonnegut, Harper Lee, Sylvia Plath, Truman Capote, Ken Kesey—and vinyl albums, a record player, and his two acoustic guitars. The first is unpainted maple wood covered with stickers. I’d rather be nowhere reads one; Burn pot not people proclaims another. The second guitar is the souvenir he bought in Manhattan, an aquamarine blue six-string.

There's something strange on his end table. Along with a dozen empty cups is a full ashtray, and there’s a folded piece of paper tucked underneath. You slide the paper out and open it. It’s the receipt you used to solve the long division problem in your hospital room.

Why would he keep this? you think, mystified. There are footsteps above your head, and you quickly return the receipt to where you found it and leave before your trespass can be discovered.

When you emerge from the basement, Fosco is waiting in the hallway and carrying a Tupperware container filled with something that resembles kourabiethes, Greek shortbread cookies. “I thought I saw you sneak down there. What were you looking for?”

You scramble for an explanation. “One of the dogs is missing. Alicent wanted me to check the basement.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” He passes you the Tupperware container. “These are for you. I hope they are not too bad. I baked them myself.”

“Are they…” You shake it. “Biscotti?”

“They are ossi dei morti,” Fosco says. “Bones of the dead. We make them to remember loved ones we have lost. They are hard, so you should dip them in coffee or tea before you try to eat them.”

You open the lid. Inside are long thin cookies coated with powdered sugar. You inhale almond flour, cloves, cinnamon. And you are so touched you cannot find your words.

“You know, there still places in Italy where mothers wear black for years to mourn their children.” This is not trivia; it is an acknowledgement. Your son is gone. There is no shame in the grief that is left behind. In another house, it would be expected, it would be required.

“Thank you, Fosco.”

He smiles warmly. “We are in this together, no? We are pieces of the same machine.”

Then he plods off towards the living room, sliding a rolled-up horse racing program out of the back pocket of his tight plaid pants.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re in Louisville, Kentucky, where thunder quakes the eaves. An hour ago, Aegon was popping Valium and leisurely plucking at his pool water blue Gibson guitar, slumped against the wall, nipping at a flask filled with straight Bacardi. But he’s not anymore. Now he’s gathered around the small color television with you, Criston, Otto, Fosco, Helaena, and Ludwika. The news is just breaking. There was a civil rights protest at the University of Kentucky in Lexington one hour to the east. Someone threw a rock, or someone claims someone threw a rock, or someone threw something that was mistaken for a rock, and in any event the situation escalated from there and local police who were monitoring the demonstration opened fire on a crowd, killing five students and injuring another dozen.

Outside, word is spreading through the crowd of over 2,000 people that have gathered for Aemond’s planned speech at the historic Iroquois Amphitheater, a New Deal project finished in 1938. Rain is pouring, and the venue has no roof. Aemond is already 20 minutes late. The voices are becoming louder, more demanding, more wrathful. They’re shouting that Aemond is too afraid to face them now, that he’s trying to figure out what his statement will be, that he’s cowardly and calculating; and if President Lyndon Baines Johnson was here tonight instead of cursing his bad stars up in Washington D.C., he would certainly have something to say about the capriciousness of voters who love you, hate you, carry you higher, drag you down, all without ever knowing you.

In truth, Aemond is not stalling on purpose. He’s in the bathroom trying to get his prosthetic eye in. It’s been giving him hell all afternoon. He wears his eyepatch at home, but he’s never made a public appearance without his glass eye clean and perfect in his voided socket.

“He’s going to have to say something about it,” you tell the others as you watch the news coverage.

“Say what?” Otto snaps. “If he doesn’t treat those dead kids like martyrs he’s going to get booed off the stage. If he condemns the police he’s going to lose the suburbs. They’ll run to Humphrey now and Nixon in November.”

The weather report called for storms—which is why Alicent, Mimi, and the children are already back at the Seelbach Hotel for the night after a long day of shaking hands and smiling gamely—but no one expected it to get this bad. The room you’re huddled in is just off-stage, so you can see it all: the wind ripping signs and flags from people’s hands, drenched clothes, sopping hair, snarling faces, rain turning puddles to rivers. The stomping of boots is now as loud as the thunder. Rocks and bottles are being pitched at the stage.

“Is America always like this?” Ludwika asks, scandalized.

“No, not at all,” Otto says. “Goddamn animals…”

Aegon replies, not taking his eyes from the television: “You’d be mad too if cops were shooting your friends and the only graduation present you had to look forward to was getting disemboweled by guerillas in Vietnam.”

“I’ve had it with you and your Marxist bullshit! You want to liberate the dispossessed masses? Why don’t you start by donating your monthly drugs and rum budget to the—”

“We should cancel,” Fosco says. “Just call the whole thing off. Tell them Aemond is sick or something.”

“That’s the headline you want? ‘Senator Targaryen hides from grieving supporters who braved a thunderstorm to see him’?! Just give the White House to Nixon now!”

“I don’t think we can cancel,” Criston says softly. “I think if we tried to leave, they’d swarm the car.”

“It’s a riot,” Otto moans, rubbing his face with his hands. “This is what happens when you court voters like this, college kids and hippies, professional malcontents…”

“Aren’t there police outside?” Ludwika says anxiously.

“Yeah, a handful,” Criston tells her. “And if they try to do anything this will erupt and we can add to the body count in Lexington…”

You leave them and follow a hallway to the men’s bathroom; on the periphery of your vision, you can tell that Aegon is watching you go. You push the door open and find a row of stalls and three sinks, one of which Aemond is standing in front of as he stares into his reflection and attempts to shove the prosthetic eye into his empty, gore-red left socket. His suit is navy blue, his hair neatly slicked back, his shoes so polished they’re reflective like a mirror.

“Fuck,” he hisses, flinching. His right cheek is wet with tears of frustration and agony. It’s July 26th, and tomorrow are the final three state conventions in the Democratic primary. Humphrey is almost certain to take Utah; Virginia will go to Governor Mills Godwin, who is only running in his home state to control the delegates and will hand them over to whoever he feels is most worthy in August. But Aemond is the favorite to win here in Kentucky. Or at least, he was an hour ago.

“What can I do? What do you need?”

“You can’t do anything. It’s…it’s this goddamn nerve pain, it feels like I’m being fucking stabbed, I can’t get the muscles to relax enough…”

Like an apology, you say: “Aemond, the crowd is getting out of control.”

“So you came in here to rush me?”

“No, I’m here to help.”

“You’re not helping. You’re doing the exact opposite.”

“I think you should give this speech with your eyepatch on. It looks good, and you’ll be as comfortable as possible, and the crowd won’t have to wait any longer than they have already.”

“No.”

“Aemond, please—”

“No! FDR didn’t make speeches in his wheelchair and I’m not making mine without my eye in.”

“Do you want me to get you Aegon’s pills? Rum, weed?”

“You don’t think I’ve already taken something?” He tries to force his eye in again and strikes his fist against the sink when he can’t.

Then you ask gingerly: “Do you know what you’re going to say about the shooting?”

“Get out!” Aemond shouts. “You’re making it worse, just get the fuck out! Go!”

You bolt from the bathroom, hands trembling, throat burning. You don’t want to return to the television where the others are standing; you’re worried they’ll be able to tell how upset you are. You go to the edge of the stage, arms crossed protectively over your chest, and peek out into the crowd. Above their chants and jeers and howled threats, lightning splits the sky.

I don’ t think we’re going to be able to find our way out of this one. I think this is the end of the road.

“Hey,” Aegon says, tapping your shoulder. “Back up.”

“I’m fine here.”

“No you’re not.” He grabs your arm and tugs you farther backstage. Seconds later, an Absolut Vodka bottle explodes into crystalline shrapnel where you were standing. You yelp and Aegon gives you a little eyebrow raise. I told you, he means.

“Someone has to go out there,” Otto says, still lurking by the television. Fosco is comforting Helaena, who is quietly weeping; Ludwika is watching the news coverage in horror, surely reconsidering all her life choices. A sixth University of Kentucky student has been declared dead. “We can’t wait.”

“No we can’t,” Criston agrees. Then they both turn to you expectantly.

Your blood goes icy. Tonight was meant to be your first official appearance since the baby. Your hair is up, your dress a navy blue to match Aemond’s suit, gold chains around your wrist and throat, a gold chain of a belt. You thought you were ready. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Don’t you look at her,” Aegon says, sharp like a scalpel, like a bullet, like something that punctures arteries and lungs. “They’re throwing glass. You figure something else out, don’t even look at her.”

Otto relents, perhaps halfheartedly. “No, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Criston starts heading for the bathroom to get Aemond. Otto is watching the television again, his face vacuous as his ambitions are carried away by a flood of rain, wind, rage, blood. Aegon snatches his guitar from where he left it by the wall. He tosses the strap over his head, gives the strings a few experimental strums and retunes them, starts walking towards the stage.

“Aegon, what are you doing?” you ask, panicked.

“Someone has to distract the crowd.”

“No, stop, you can’t—”

“Hey,” Aegon says. And when you glance past him at the uproarious, storm-drenched frenzy, he turns your face back to his to make sure you’re listening. His hand is insistent but gentle, his voice steady. “Don’t go out there. Okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, startled.

He gives you one last small, parting smile, a flash of his teeth, a daring glint in his murky blue eyes. Then he’s out in the torrential rain, soaked to the skin in seconds. His frayed green Army jacket clings to him; his hair is ravaged by the wind. As he takes his place behind the microphone, a stone that someone has hurled skates by him and nicks the apple of his left cheek. You can see a trickle of blood snaking down his sunburned skin before the rain washes it away; you feel a desperate gnawing dread that someone will hurt him, not just here but anywhere, not just now but ever. The crowd is still seething, shouting, stomping their feet to join the inescapable growl of the thunder. Aegon’s pick flies over the guitar strings as he begins playing, raindrops cast from his fingers like spells. At first, you can barely hear him.

“Come gather ‘round, people, wherever you roam

And admit that the waters around you have grown

And accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone

If your time to you is worth saving

And you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone

For the times, they are a-changin’”

The audience is settling down now. Some of them are singing along. You can feel that Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, and Helaena are gathering around you, but you don’t grasp anything they’re saying. You can’t tear your eyes from Aegon. It’s like you’re seeing him for the first time, this radiant sunbeam of a man, a light in dark places, a constellation that whispers myths through the ink-spill indigo of the night sky. How could you ever have hated him? How could you ever have thought he was worthless?

“Come writers and critics who prophesize with your pen

And keep your eyes wide, the chance won’t come again

And don’t speak too soon, for the wheel’s still in spin

And there’s no tellin’ who that it’s naming

For the loser now will be later to win

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Aemond and Criston appear beside you at the edge of the stage; Aemond’s prosthetic eye has at last been successfully placed with no lingering evidence of a struggle. You expect him to apologize for what he said in the bathroom, but he doesn’t. Instead he says when he sees Aegon: “What the hell is he doing?”

“Saving your career,” you reply simply.

“Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call

Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall

For he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled

The battle outside raging

Will soon shake your windows and rattle your walls

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Now Aegon peers pointedly off-stage to where Otto Hightower is gawking. Aegon beams, throws his head back to get his dripping hair out of his eyes, comes back to the mic.

“Come mothers and fathers throughout the land

And don’t criticize what you can’t understand

Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command

Your old road is rapidly aging

Please get out of the new one if you can’t lend your hand

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Everyone you can see in the crowd is singing and swaying. It’s not just a Bob Dylan song from 1964 but an anthem, a prayer, a rallying cry, a dire warning for the powers at be.

“The line, it is drawn, the curse, it is cast

The slow one now will later be fast

As the present now will later be past

The order is rapidly fading

And the first one now will later be last

For the times, they are a-changin’”

The audience is applauding and whistling. Aegon steals a glimpse of where you are standing backstage, checks that Aemond is still there with you and that he’s ready.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aegon broadcasts with a wicked grin. “I am now proud to present the next president of the United States of America, Senator Aemond Targaryen!”

And Aemond is crossing the stage, no trace of pain or self-consciousness or prey-animal fear, no mere mortal but someone chosen by the gods, and the rain is slowing to a drizzle, and the clouds are opening to let through rare pinprick aisles of daylight, and the riotous spectators are now his disciples, exorcised of any rage they’ve ever felt for the scarred senator from New Jersey. He and his family are not the enemy; they are the solution. They are revolutionaries who have bled for the cause. They bring with them the change that is required. Aegon steps back and the rest of you join him in a semi-circle like a crescent moon behind Aemond. When you walk out onto the stage, the cheers swell to screams.

Aegon takes off his guitar and then leans into you. “He’s lucky you aren’t 35,” Aegon whispers, soft lips that curl into a smile as they brush your ear. And he’s teasing you but he’s not mocking, he’s not mean. He’s so close you share the same atmosphere, the same gravity. “Maybe when he finishes up his second term you can start building your resume for your first.”

“I want your endorsement.”

“From the disgraced former mayor of Trenton? What an honor. You’ll have to fight for it.”

You ball up a fist and playfully bump your knuckles against his chin. He pretends to bite at you. And you laugh for the first time since a doctor and priest entered your hospital room 13 days ago. Aegon slings an arm around your shoulders, pulls you against him, soaks you in his rain.

“Today in Lexington, we lost six brave and brilliant souls,” Aemond says, his voice booming through the amphitheater. A hush ripples through the crowd as they listen, enraptured. “Their sacrifice was for the most noble of causes, but they should never have been forced to pay the ultimate price. They deserved long, full lives in a better America than the one we now call home. This tragedy is a symptom of the sickness that has infected this nation, a fatal failure to empathize with our fellow countrymen, a deafness to pleas for justice, a blindness to mercy. But the remedy is within all of us, for it is our own humanity. When we purge the diseases of war, prejudice, and ravenous greed, we will reclaim our best selves—our true selves—and our nation will at last be cured.”

The amphitheater is illuminated with not only strobing lightning but the flashbulbs of cameras. The journalists have arrived just in time.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii fic

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aangelinakii · 1 month ago

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SUMMER'S END.

— keeping it quiet till i head back.

summary : on holiday in greece, you meet one of the most handsome men you've ever set your eyes on. you take on a refreshing summer romance, but now summer is ending, and you have to go home.

note : just a short lil thingy i had an idea for b i didn't know how to end it so here it is :p

how dreadful it is, the last day of a holiday. packing up your clothes, cleaning up the room you stayed in, maybe leaving a little thank-you note for the cleaners to find.

this summer, however, the hardest part would be saying goodbye to richard — dick, whatever.

you'd met the second day here, whilst you were perched upon one of the beach loungers outside your accommodation, drinking in the sun whilst reading a book.

he was staying in the apartment next-door, and placed his folded towel on the lounger adjacent, letting out a sigh as he lay down.

from that, you couldn't tell if he was greek or not; the haircut was too western — no one here grew their hair out like that — but his complexion and more angular features were reminiscent of the men you'd walked past in the airport.

however, when you'd heard him speak on the phone in accentless english, you were curious if he was on holiday, too.

the next day after, he was already at his lounger, the same as before, and you approached with your towel.

"hey, sorry," you began, causing him to look up, tilting his sunglasses down his nose to peer at you. he liked what he was seeing. "could i set up the lounger beside you? is that all good?"

the man sat up a bit straighter, pushing his sunglasses back against his eyes. his lips curled up in a smile. "yeah, of course."

as you set up post, he spoke again, eyes on you from behind his shades. "so, you on holiday, or..?"

"yeah," you hummed, settling down on your lounger. he was cute, a little sun-kissed, but you weren't sure if you should let him know it was a lone holiday, so you missed that part out. "and you?"

he nodded, turning back to look out at the glittering waters. "same here. wanted to get away for a bit. been here before with my family, it's great, so i had to come again and experience it on my own."

and, from there, you saw him every day; went to restaurants, walked along the beach at nightfall, swam in the water, watched as the sun set and as it rose from the horizon.

but now, it's come to an end, your time together.

dick grayson was unlike any other man you had met; he was a gentleman, respectful, more so than his first impression made him seem. him, with that lusciously grown-out black hair, and those eyes that could rival the ocean just outside your window.

fresh linen sheets brushed against the skin of your shins, and you turned to look over the man, who was laying on his stomach, half of his face smothered in his plush white pillow as he peered up at you beneath a lowered eyelid.

what could be seen of his eye moved to follow his hand, skin the most tanned it had been the whole trip, as it danced from beneath his pillow, and where it landed on the empty space between you and him.

a hummed chuckle brushed past your lips, and you reached out for him, fingers brushing against the softness of the back of his hand, veins lingering beneath.

"dick?" you hummed under your breath, causing his ocean eyes to flicker up to meet yours.

at the sound of your voice, he lifted his head up from his pillow, revealing half-messed hair, and you reached your hand up to run through his locks, smiling to yourself at the softness on your fingertips.

"i don't think i'll ever forget about you."

words replaying in his mind, dick let out a soft laugh, pulling himself up on his elbows to move closer to you beneath the sheets, smile ever-green upon his lips.

from behind his mauve lips, his teeth peeked out, and his eyes fluttered closed as he leaned in, pressing a sweet kiss to the tip of your nose.

one hand came up to trace carefully along the shell of your ear, such an intimate thing to do, and he pulled away to take in your features for a moment.

"me, too," he breathed. "you know, ever since that day you asked if you could sit next to me, i knew you were something special."

nose scrunching up in a shy laugh, you shook your head slightly. "why?"

by the way he smiled, you knew he was just buttering you up. "just something in the way you carried yourself."

despite the seriousness of his tone, your disbelieving eye was enough to cause him to crack a smile.

"you're such a bullshitter," you scoffed playfully.

"no, it's true!" dick insisted, eyes lighting up as they remained on yours. after a moment of challenging silence between the two of you, he leaned in again, pressing a kiss to your lips, and then the corner of your mouth, and to your jaw.

at least your flight wasn't until tonight.

#aangelinakii #dc #dc comics #dc imagines #dc reactions #dc headcanons #dc universe #dick grayson #richard grayson #nightwing #dick grayson reactions #dick grayson imagines #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson headcanons

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ice-creamforbreakfast · 2 years ago

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🔔Slay Belles - A Custom Content Set by Ice-CreamForBreakfast and Joliebean ❄️

Ho! Ho! Ho! You’ve heard of the Queen of Christmas (she lost the trademark bid, besties), but make room in your sims’ closets for the Queens of Frump and Sensible Ladieswear this holiday season! Joliebean and Ice-Creamforbreakfast present the Slay Belles Set! This festive collection comes complete with enough glitter, sequins, gold leaf and shiny, shiny fabric to send Liberace’s ghost into a tailspin, so if that’s your thing, put your sunglasses on and get ready!

Download Ice-CreamForBreakfast’s Part here! Download @joliebean’s part here! (Patreon - Available for all from 22nd December 2022)

Descriptions after the cut:

Yasmeen Combo (50 Swatches and accessory overlay) – A 90s style top and pants combo adorned with a gold belt that’ll shine hard enough to dazzle your friends and daze your enemies.

Aliona Dress (55 Swatches) – A strapless, glittering mermaid gown cut down to there. It’ll take a Christmas miracle or five rolls of tape to hold her in place.

Amelia Dress (55 Swatches) – Be your own glitter ball with this structured, sequined mini-dress!

Rene Dress (50 Swatches) – Make a statement as you enter the room in this silk dress, complete with gold chain straps and a daring side-slit!

It’s Time Jumpsuit (50 Swatches) – It’s tiiiiime! Make the holidays….glitter in this sequined, fur trimmed jumpsuit, inspired by the Queen of Christmas (not copyrighted) herself!

Queen of Christmas Boots (26 Swatches) – Like cheese and wine or a Cliff Richard CD and a microwave, these fur trimmed boots are the perfect pairing for the It’s Time Jumpsuit!

Maia Earrings (3 Swatches) – Make a statement with these bold, 90s door-knockers. Just don’t turn your head too quickly or you’ll knock yourself out.

Astrid Earrings (3 Swatches) – Iridescent and surprisingly sharp, these snowflake-shaped earrings are a real conversation starter.

Helena Earrings (3 Swatches) – Gold leaf suspended in glass for a more modern take on the traditional festive earrings.

#ts4 #the sims 4 #download: clothing #download: accessories #ts4cc #ts4mm #maxis match #ice-creamforbreakfast

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galaxyedging · 3 months ago

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You asked for it @magneticecstasy @missredherring @yorksgirl @inkededucatednnerdy

I take no responsibility for this fic. I didn't even proofread it.

Reed Richards x f!reader.

Warnings: Smut and powers and weird smut. Also, peer pressure. It's not in the fic. I'm just a sucker for it.

F is for...

The dirty bass line of Pony thunks through the thin walls of your changing room for what feels like the millionth time. It is a classic.

“Hey. That shady guy is back. How much does he pay you? It must be a lot, if he won't even take his hat and shades off in the club. You can't even see his face. Who knows what's under there.” Gina doesn't stop for an answer or stop picking through your things for the perfume of yours that she likes to steal.

Before you can process Gina is gone and all that is left in her place is a cloud of pilfered floral mist. The reflection in the mirror that looked so pleasing a few moments ago now is all wrong. Your hair needs to be tied back. The sequins and jewellery have to go. The high heels too. You don’t want to risk hurting your highest paying client. While you're at it, you remove the make up you'd layered on for the stage. He doesn't seem to go in for all that. He seems like he wants a girl he can take home to meet his folks. Which is probably why he ended up in here in the first place. It's the last place on earth you would find his type of girl, so it stands to reason it's the best place for him to hide.

“Hi. Did Gina tell you that you have someone waiting?” Adele fills the doorway of the dressing room.

Adele has been the manager for the past year. She's five foot nothing, all curved and attitude. She needs every ounce of it to keep the staff in check. Not one person here has a dad who didn't come back from buying milk or any substance abuse issues or any of those bullshit reasons to work the pole that people use to look down on dancers. They are here because they want to be. The pay is good for the hours. It fits around schooling and building other careers.

Days like this though you wonder if it's worth the pay. With Adele standing impatiently, you'd changed and made your way to room six, the one she'd told you, your regular was waiting in. He paid well and his request wasn't that weird considering his…situation. Slowly opening the door, the sleeve of his brown trench coat came into view. It always amused you that he thought that thing made him look less conspicuous. With the fedora and the shades he might as well have a neon sign about his head saying ‘I am hiding something.’

‘Hi, Reed.’ You greet him once the door is firmly closed behind him.

‘Hi.’ His posture relaxes once the door is locked and you two are alone, he even takes his hat and sunglasses off.

“How's your research going?” You hang up his hat and return for his coat.

“It's going.” You've learned that that's what passes for humour with Reed.

He's very straight laced even when things get…heated. It's all enjoyed with an under current of restraint.

“What would you like today? A regular dance…” you glance toward the pole “....or your special dance?” You come to sit beside him.

Reed was always a little timid at first. Once he was relaxed, he was confident and in control, he just needed a moment to acclimate.

“I'd like my dance, please, but…can I ask you something first?” His brown eyes study your for any hint of discomfort.

“Sure.” You shrug, you don't have to answer him. Besides, it's Reed, he'll probably just ask you about college.

“When you dance for me, do you feel that I appreciate it? That I'm present?” It's a genuine enough question. Only with your knowledge gleaned for Buzzfeed articles did you know that it was more than likely to do with his wife asking for a separation. If the rumours are true, he'd been even more obsessed with his research since that accident that gave them their powers.

Against your wishes, your heart clenches. “I do and you are very present, Reed.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Thank you. I try and I do. Appreciate you, I mean. Sometimes my brain just won't shut off and these powers make my body feel…I don't know…needy?”

Years of training your face to not get you in trouble snap in place and stop the smile that threatens of Reed feeling horny without his wife and his first logical solution is to buy some relief.

“Well, what do you need now, Reed?” You perch on the edge of the sofa with your legs crossed, making sure he gets a good view of everything you have to offer in your tiny cutout bathing suit. “The usual?”

Reed nods eagerly and his hands practically fly to his belt buckle. In fact they go so fast that they fly past his belt buckle and stretch out another couple of feet in front of him.

“Sorry.” His sheepish smile is endearing as he wills his hands to return to their normal size.

“It's alright. Why don't we skip the foreplay tonight? You seem ready to go.” You couldn't help but notice the tent in Reed’s pants before he’d even ‘let it out’.

“Yes, please.” Reed sighs as he tugs out his already impressive cock.

As it is, it's long, thick, cut with a slight curve. It makes your mouth water but there is no way you are taking it in your mouth, or anywhere else with Reed’s current predicament. Speaking of, his cock begins to stretch. The girth doesn't change but the length is slowly rising. Even with the extra weight of the new inches, Reed is still hard and standing to attention. Eventually, three foot of cock sways before him.

Remembering that you are supposed to be a professional, you snap out of your gawking to get the lube and press play on your track. The first notes of ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ play as you straddle Reed’s thighs and pour a generous amount of lube over your chest and torso. As the song really gets going you shuffle closer to him, pressing your barely clothed pussy against his balls and start to grind to the beat. Reed whimpered at the contact. Normally you would tease him for more of those sounds but today you take pity on him. Looking him straight in the eye you lean forward to run your tongue up a section of his shaft. He tastes clean yet musky. It makes you determined to catch as much of his cum as you can in your mouth even if it does prove difficult.

“Again, please?” Reed pants while his hands find your hips.

He really is worked up today. Usually he allows a bit of teasing. He understands the concept of delayed gratification. He usually only takes control near the end. “Reed? Do you want me to make you come quicker today?”

“Yes but only if you do too. I want to feel you.” Reed is not the only one of your regulars that insists on your pleasure. He is the only one that you feel would completely give up his own for yours.

“I will. This really works for me, too, remember.” Reed can feel your sincerity as you move the flimsy piece of material covering your pussy to the side.

Reed’s incredible length slots between your folds and the valley of your breast. His arms wrap around you to pull you close. The two of you bounce up and down in tandem. Reed’s cock is trapped between you as your body jerks it off. The slick slide of your clit across the veins of his thickness builds your own release. The viscose sounds of body fluids and lube almost rivals the powerful cords of the song. Reed gets more vocal the closer he gets to the edge. His babbled pleas are muffled against your neck. His plush lips against the skin there is the closest you've ever come to kissing. It feels nice and a small part of you dares to dream. Whether it's the dream of the lewdness of jerking off a huge cock with your whole body, you come, and you come, and you come. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over you after your initial climax like jumping into the ocean. A gasped groan at your neck is all the warning you get to tilt your head up and stick out your tongue. Reed’s angry red head is shooting ropes of cum above you like a perverted confetti cannon. This time you manage to catch some on your tongue. It tastes just as you imagined. More importantly since you managed to catch it shooting out of a three foot cock into the air, it tastes like victory.

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #reed richards #reason 13654 why i'm going to hell

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year ago

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like a moth(man) to a flame(thrower)

pairing: frankie “catfish” morales x f!reader

summary: just a deeply self-indulgent meet cute with frankie at a halloween house party.

rating: t

words: 900+

warnings: drinking alcohol, party

notes: happy halloweeeeen!

—

In lieu of red solo cups, a long-standing tradition in house party lore, your cousin opted to get black solo cups. Which was a nice touch, you had to give it to her.

You picked one off the tall stack and wrote your name on it in metallic sharpie. As you ladled the crimson “fangria” into your cup, someone dressed as Richard Simmons bounced through the cramped kitchen behind you on their way to the basement.

Sound erupted from downstairs when they opened the door, a racket of inebriated conversation and Monster Mash by Bobby "Boris" Pickett & The Crypt Kickers, then dampened when they closed it.

A skunky odor hit you after a two-second delay. You turned to look at the door, taking a sip of the fruity wine concoction, and considered joining the livelier half of the party. The floorboards beneath your feet bumped from the bass, as if trying to convince you.

If you didn’t taken one more look around before submitting to its call, you might’ve missed him.

This guy, leaning against a dining room table with his arms of his bomber jacket crossed over his powder blue hoodie. Army green cargo pants, sunglasses, a flame thrower strapped to his back. Even the big, dumb cowboy hat thing. It caused you to burst out laughing, recognition tickling your fancy.

He did a double take, only a glance at first, probably just sourcing the noise. But his attention quickly returned, alongside a crooked smile, lingering on you for a few seconds before he turned back to his conversation with an eerily spot-on Jason Voorhees.

Your pulse skittered. There was something in the way he did this. Intent.

Only another moment went by before he parted ways with Jason and started towards you.

Acting casual, he grabbed a cup from the tower and wrote his name on it, asking you, “How’s it going?”

“MacReady.”

He raised his eyebrows in question, “What?”

You pointed to his getup, “The Thing, right?”

“Oh!” Understanding brightened his features. A big, charming smile spread across his face when he looked down at himself, nodding, “Yeah, MacReady from The Thing.”

“I love it,” you grinned.

“Thanks.”

Drifting a little closer, he studied your costume. Confusion creased his forehead. He tilted his head up slightly and tugged on your feather antennae, as if trying to pluck a clue from it.

“You are… a, uhhh—” he frowned and shook his head, “I don’t know, a scary moth?”

“Mothman.”

“Mothman?”

“Right, mothman.”

“Never heard of him,” he chuckled as he filled his cup. Taking a sip, he leaned back against the counter, even closer. His gaze felt hot on your cheeks. He said, “You look nice, though.”

“Thanks,” your eyes dropped to his cup and you read his name aloud, “Frankie.”

“You’re welcome.”

You licked your lips, then told him, “That’s one of my favorite movies. The Thing, I mean.”

“It’s a classic.”

“Ok, sorry—I need to talk about this costume more. You have a fucking flamethrower and everything. And the hat—” You giggled and gave the visor of the floppy hat a playful smack, “It is ridiculous.”

Drifting a little closer, he chuckled and held up the business end of the flamethrower, “You know how many people have asked me if this is real tonight?”

“How many?”

“None. And that’s a goddamn travesty.”

“Uh-huh,” you smirked, meeting his eyes through the sunglasses, “Well, is it real?”

He smiled and shrugged, “Maybe.”

“Maybe yes or maybe no?”

“Maybe yes.”

“Shut the fuck up, are you serious?”

He nodded.

“Can we light shit on fire? Oh my god, please? My cousin has a fire pit—”

“Whoa, slow down, Sparky. The tank is empty.”

You deflated, shaking your head as you murmured into your cup, “What a tease.”

Frankie laughed, “A tease, really?”

“You can’t tell a gal you’re sporting a real flamethrower then not set shit on fire with it.”

Shaking his head, he said, “Tell you what, give me your phone number, we can set up a time for me to show you how to use it.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Heat rose to your cheeks and you smiled, “Really?”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, then handed it to you.

As you saved your contact information to his phone, you said, “I know this might just be a cute thing you’re saying to get my phone number, but I fully expect you to follow through.”

“You have my word.”

When you gave back his phone, his hand brushed up against yours, and something sparked inside you. He tucked the phone into his pocket. You felt him staring at you, and glanced down at his mouth as his tongue peaked out to wet his lips. For a moment, the two of you stood there quietly, letting static build between your bodies, pulling you closer.

The door to the basement swung open, filling the room with Thriller by Michael Jackson. A worse-for-wear Hollywood Hulk Hogan stumbled up the stairs into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

He squinted between you and your new friend, swaying a little, then recognition kicked in and Hogan yelled, “FISH!”

“Jesus Christ, Benny,” he muttered in response, setting down his cup to start towards him, “You can barely stand.”

“I’m fffffine,” Benny swatted at his friend.

“Let’s get you home.”

He let out a dramatic groan, but accepted Frankie‘s arm slung around his back.

Frankie looked at you, eyebrows knit together, apologies written all over his face, and asked, “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

You both lingered there for a moment, despite the dead weight hanging off one side of him, then he said, “It was nice meeting you.”

His voice was low and sultry. It heated you from the inside.

“You too,” you grinned wide and nodded, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He returned the smile, then glanced over at his friend, “Alright, drunk ass, let’s go.”

#frankie morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier #meet cute #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 1 month ago

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Rule 4: Never meet anyone in his inner circle—no close friends, no family.

There were five rules to being a sugar baby—or so you’d heard.

If an opportunity falls into your lap, you take it.

Everything is purely transactional.

Don’t let the lines blur between your sugar daddy and your personal or professional life.

Never meet anyone in his inner circle—no close friends, no family.

Unless it’s in writing, underlined, signed by two lawyers, and you get a new Hermes handbag afterward, don’t fuck your sugar daddy.

So why was it so damn hard to keep these rules in place when it came to your CEO Remy LeBeau?

The sun beat down relentlessly, the bright light dancing off the water’s surface and reflecting off the gleaming white yacht that loomed before you. Its size was overwhelming, casting a shadow over the jetty, and you couldn’t help but let out a low, incredulous, “Holy shit,” under your breath. The sheer grandeur of it felt like something out of a dream, or perhaps more fittingly, something out of Remy’s world—this world of opulence and power that you still felt like an outsider in.

Remy’s low, amused laugh rang softly beside you, pulling you out of your daze. You glanced over at him, his easy grin already spreading across his face. “Thought y’d like this,” he teased, his voice warm and familiar, full of that smooth drawl that always seemed to disarm you. “We’re just waitin’ on someone—”

He cut himself off abruptly, his gaze shifting past you, something shifting in his posture. His grin widened, and there was a flicker of something genuine, something almost nostalgic, in his expression. “Well, speak o’ the devil,” he murmured, turning toward the approaching figures with that same casual confidence he wore like a second skin.

You followed his gaze, curiosity gnawing at you, and that’s when you saw her.

A blonde-haired woman, poised and graceful, was walking toward you, her long legs carrying her with the kind of effortless elegance that made it impossible not to notice her. Even from a distance, she radiated a kind of quiet authority, a regal confidence that seemed to command attention without her even trying. Every step she took was measured, deliberate, as if she was walking on a stage and the world was watching.

And in a way, they were. Because this wasn’t just any woman. This was Bella Donna Boudreaux.

Your stomach tightened as recognition hit you like a wave. Of course, you knew who she was. You’d seen her in passing before, at the office, her presence always leaving a ripple of whispers in her wake. Her name was spoken in the same breath as Remy’s, their past a topic of endless fascination for those who thrived on gossip. You had seen her in magazines, read articles about her—about her high-profile relationships, her business ventures, her life that seemed as perfectly polished as the image she presented to the world.

And she was Remy’s ex-wife.

Your pulse quickened as Bella Donna approached, her blonde hair catching the sunlight in a way that made her seem almost ethereal. Sunglasses perched atop her head like a crown, she was stunning—of course she was. She had that kind of beauty that felt out of reach, intimidating in its perfection. A mix of elegance and edge, of power and allure, that made you feel like you were on the outside looking in.

The man walking beside her—Richard, you would learn—was tall, his designer suit tailored to perfection, an effortless extension of his old-money status. But he was barely a blip on your radar, because all you could focus on was Bella Donna, and the way Remy’s smile grew just a little wider as she came closer.

“Bella Donna,” Remy greeted her, his voice wrapping around her name like something familiar and intimate. The warmth in his tone made something in your chest tighten, your breath catching ever so slightly. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. It was that they were beautiful together—two people who knew each other in a way that only years of history could allow.

Bella Donna smiled, a perfect, polished smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Remy,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying that polished elegance you’d expected. She glanced at you briefly, almost like an afterthought, before turning her attention back to Remy. “I see you’re still making an entrance.”

Remy chuckled, his voice light, though there was an edge to it—something subtle, something you couldn’t quite place. “Y’ know me, chère,” he said, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Always gotta keep things excitin’.”

Bella Donna’s gaze flicked toward you again, but this time, it wasn’t an afterthought. Her pale blue eyes were sharp, assessing, as though she were sizing you up in the space of a single glance. You felt her take you in—the way you stood beside Remy, the way you were still an outsider in this world she knew so intimately. Her smile never faltered, but there was something underneath it—something cold, something calculated. “And this must be your… companion?” she said, the word dripping with just enough sweetness to make your stomach twist.

The word companion felt like a slap, and you had to force yourself to smile, to push down the sudden rush of insecurity that tightened in your chest. You extended your hand toward her, your voice steady despite the tension swirling in the air. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Bella Donna didn’t take your hand immediately. No—she let the moment hang in the air, her eyes still locked on yours, as though she were deciding whether or not you were worth her time. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she took your hand, her grip firm but not warm. “Likewise,” she said, her smile never quite reaching her eyes. “I imagine you have.”

The tension between the four of you was almost unbearable, an unspoken undercurrent of history and rivalry swirling between Remy, Bella Donna, and you. You could feel it—feel the weight of what she wasn’t saying, the way she was making it clear that, in her eyes, you didn’t belong.

The man beside her, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, stepped forward, extending his hand to Remy. “Richard,” he introduced himself, his voice smooth and confident, like someone who was used to being at the center of attention. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Remy, ever the charmer, shook his hand with his usual easy confidence, though you could still feel the tension in his posture, the way his body had subtly tensed the moment Bella Donna had arrived. Remy gave Richard a polite nod, but his attention quickly flicked back to Bella Donna, as if he were trying to gauge her mood, to see what she was thinking.

For a moment, you felt like a third wheel in a scene you weren’t meant to be part of, like you were intruding on something private, something that was still very much alive between them. And maybe you were. Maybe Bella Donna was a part of Remy’s life in a way you would never fully understand, and standing here, watching them interact, only made that more apparent.

“So,” Bella Donna said lightly, her tone deceptively casual as she looked back at Remy. “You’re taking her out on this?” She gestured toward the yacht, her smile sharp, her eyes flicking to you briefly before returning to him. “I see you’re still quite the showman.”

Remy chuckled, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Gotta keep things interestin’, chère. Y’ know how it is.”

Her lips curved into a smirk, and there was something in her eyes—something knowing, something that made your stomach churn. “Oh, I know,” she said softly. “I know you very well.”

The tension between them was palpable, thickening the air around you like a storm about to break. You could feel it—*feel* the weight of their history, the unspoken words hanging between them, the familiarity that made your chest tighten with something akin to jealousy.

You glanced at Remy, trying to gauge his reaction, but he didn’t seem rattled. If anything, he seemed amused, like he was playing along with some game that only he and Bella Donna knew the rules to. The easy smile was still there, but there was something more careful in his eyes now, something guarded.

For a moment, you wondered if you should say something, do something to break the tension, but before you could, Bella Donna’s gaze shifted back to you, her smile never faltering. “Enjoy yourself,” she said, her tone light but laced with something darker. “Remy has a way of making things... memorable.

You forced another smile, though your heart was still pounding in your chest. “I’m sure it will be,” you replied, your voice steady despite the unease gnawing at your stomach.

You stepped onto the yacht, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you just how massive the vessel was. It looked even more impressive up close—sleek lines, gleaming white against the deep blue of the water, with polished chrome fittings that caught the afternoon sun. The air was warm, the breeze carrying the salty scent of the sea, and everything about the moment felt surreal, like you’d stepped into a world you’d only ever glimpsed from afar.

Ahead of you, Bella Donna led the way, her long blonde hair cascading down her back, catching the sunlight with every step. She moved with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times, a light smile on her lips as she nodded at the crew, effortlessly commanding attention. The crew, dressed in crisp white uniforms, smiled back warmly, clearly familiar with her presence.

Remy walked close to you, his hand brushing lightly against your back in a gesture that was both protective and possessive, though casual enough that it didn’t draw attention. He nodded at the crew as you passed, his easy charm radiating from him as always. When the captain stepped forward, Remy extended his hand, shaking it with the kind of confidence that made it clear he wasn’t just a guest—he was someone used to being in charge, someone who commanded respect without asking for it.

“Captain,” Remy greeted with a nod. “Good t’ see you again.”

“Always a pleasure, Mr. LeBeau,” the captain replied, his voice laced with familiarity.

As they exchanged pleasantries, you couldn’t help but let your gaze wander around the yacht’s deck. It was stunning—elegance woven into every detail. The teak wood beneath your feet was polished to a gleaming perfection, and the deck furniture was a mix of modern design and ultimate comfort, with plush, cream cushions spread across expansive lounging areas. The railing was a sleek combination of polished steel and glass, offering an uninterrupted view of the sparkling ocean stretching endlessly toward the horizon.

The yacht itself seemed to sprawl out in every direction, with multiple levels visible from where you stood. To your left, you could see an outdoor dining area shaded by a retractable awning, with a table large enough to host a small dinner party. Beyond that, a set of stairs led down to a lower deck, where you caught a glimpse of a hot tub bubbling away, surrounded by more sun loungers. The whole place exuded luxury and comfort, a floating sanctuary of indulgence.

As you and Richard followed behind, the crew quickly moved to take your bags, their professionalism seamless. You handed over your things with a polite smile, grateful for the reprieve from carrying anything, though the weight of the encounter with Bella Donna still lingered in the back of your mind. Richard, walking beside you, gave you a small, knowing look, as if to say, We’re in for quite the trip, huh?

You returned the look with a slight shrug, trying to shake off the tension that had wrapped itself around you since Bella Donna’s arrival. But as you glanced over to where she and Remy now stood, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something—jealousy, maybe—as they fell into easy banter once again.

Bella Donna laughed, a soft, melodic sound, as she rested her hand lightly on Remy’s arm. “I see you’ve upgraded since our last trip,” she teased, glancing around the yacht with an approving smile. “Always knew you’d keep outdoing yourself.”

Remy chuckled, his grin easy, though you noticed the subtle shift in his tone—more relaxed, more familiar. “Gotta keep things fresh, Bella,” he replied, his voice warm. “Y’ know I like t’ make my trips memorable.”

She smirked, her eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite place. “Oh, you definitely have a talent for that.”

The exchange stung in a way you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t that they were overly flirtatious, but there was a history there—an easy intimacy that reminded you of how long they’d known each other, how much they’d shared. It was hard not to feel like an outsider in the face of it.

You tried to focus on the beauty of the yacht, the elegance of your surroundings, but the weight of their connection lingered in the air, making it harder to breathe. You glanced out at the water, trying to center yourself, to remind yourself that this was your trip with Remy, that whatever history lingered between them, it was just that—history.

After a few more moments of playful banter, Remy seemed to sense your silence. He glanced over at you, his eyes softening as he gently excused himself from Bella Donna’s side. She gave him a knowing smile, her gaze lingering on him for just a moment before she turned back to the crew, continuing her conversation with them as if nothing had happened.

Remy walked toward you, his presence instantly calming the unease that had settled in your chest. He stood beside you, his arm brushing lightly against yours as he leaned in, his voice low and familiar. “Y’ alright, chère?”

You nodded, though the knot in your stomach hadn’t quite loosened. “Yeah, it’s just…” You trailed off, unsure of how to explain the strange mix of emotions swirling inside you.

Remy’s eyes softened, understanding flickering behind them. He reached out, his hand resting lightly on your arm, his touch reassuring. “Don’t let her get t’ you,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “She’s good at playin’ these games, but that’s all they are—games.”

You nodded slowly, grateful for his reassurance but still feeling the weight of Bella Donna’s presence hanging over you. “I know. It’s just… weird.”

Remy chuckled softly, his thumb brushing lightly against your arm. “It’s always weird when she’s involved. But y’ ain’t got nothin’ t’ worry about.”

His words sent a small ripple of warmth through you, easing the tension just a little. You smiled up at him, finally starting to feel a bit more grounded. “Thanks.”

Remy’s grin widened, that familiar glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes. “Now, how ‘bout I show y’ around? This place is a lot bigger than it looks.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing around at the already massive deck. “Bigger? How much more is there?”

He winked, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Y’d be surprised. C’mon.”

With that, he took your hand, gently tugging you toward the stairs that led to the upper deck. As you followed him, your earlier unease slowly began to melt away, replaced by a quiet excitement as you let yourself get lost in the luxury of the yacht—and in Remy’s presence. Remy led you through the yacht, weaving through elegantly decorated hallways that whispered luxury with every step. The walls were lined with soft wood paneling, sleek and modern, while the floors were carpeted in a plush, cream-colored material that was so soft it felt like walking on a cloud. You could smell the faintest hint of fresh flowers in the air, probably from the arrangements scattered throughout the yacht. Every detail, every corner of this place screamed wealth—comfort and elegance seamlessly intertwined.

He paused in front of a set of double doors, his hand resting on the sleek handle as he turned to you with a playful grin, “And this is the bedroom.”

With a flourish, Remy opened the doors and stepped inside, revealing the master bedroom. Your eyes widened as you took it all in. The room was massive, easily as large as most apartments, with a king-sized bed dominating the center of the space. The bed itself was a masterpiece—covered in silky, pristine white linens, with an abundance of impossibly soft-looking pillows stacked at the head. The duvet was thick and luxurious, the kind you could sink into and never want to leave.

To the right, floor-to-ceiling windows lined the wall, offering a breathtaking view of the endless ocean, the water glittering under the sunlight. The light flooded the room, illuminating every inch of the space, from the sleek, modern furniture to the soft, neutral tones that created an atmosphere of calm and indulgence.

Remy walked over to the ensuite bathroom, flicking on the light to reveal a space that was just as grand. A freestanding bathtub sat in the center, carved from marble, with sleek chrome fixtures and a rainfall shower that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel’s spa. The vanity was lined with small, elegant bottles of what you could only assume were high-end toiletries, and the entire space gleamed, every surface polished to perfection.

You leaned casually against the doorframe, your arms crossed as you took it all in. It was overwhelming in the best possible way—like stepping into a world that wasn’t quite real, a world where everything was designed to make you feel like you were living in the lap of luxury.

Remy turned back to you, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he leaned against the vanity. “Well?” he asked, his voice low and playful. “What d’ y’ think?”

You nodded a few times, pretending to be nonchalant, though the excitement was bubbling just beneath the surface. “Not bad,” you said, your tone casual as you glanced around the room.

But then, with a grin, you couldn’t help yourself. In a split second, you pushed off from the doorframe and took off running toward the bed, your laughter filling the room as you threw yourself onto the massive mattress, landing in a heap on top of the duvet. The bed seemed to swallow you whole, the pillows soft and enveloping as you lay on your back, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the luxurious comfort of it all surround you.

Remy let out a loud, genuine laugh, the sound rich and warm as he walked over to the bed. He stood beside it for a moment, still grinning down at you, before he gave in and flopped down beside you, his head landing just inches from yours. The bed barely even moved under his weight—it was that large, that sturdy.

“We’ve all done it,” he said with a chuckle, his voice low and amused as he turned his head to look at you.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you shifted your head slightly to meet his gaze. “Even you?”

Remy grinned, his eyes glinting with playful mischief. “Every time.”

You laughed, your body sinking further into the bed, the tension from earlier finally beginning to melt away. Laying there, surrounded by the soft pillows and the impossibly luxurious duvet, with Remy beside you, the weight of the world outside seemed to disappear. The yacht, Bella Donna, the whispers and questions that had gnawed at you earlier—it all faded into the background, leaving just this moment.

The sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax into the comfort of it all. You turned your head slightly, glancing at Remy, whose eyes were still shining with amusement as he lay beside you, his arm resting lazily on the duvet.

“You know,” you said softly, your voice filled with playful teasing, “this is a dangerous game. You give me a bed like this, and I might never leave.”

Remy chuckled, shifting slightly so he was leaning on his elbow, looking down at you with that familiar, roguish smile. “Chère, if y’ never wanna leave, y’ don’t have to. I’ll keep y’ here as long as y’ like.”

You smiled up at him, feeling the warmth of his words settle over you like a blanket. There was something about the way he said it—light and teasing, yes, but with an underlying sincerity that made your heart skip a beat. It wasn’t just about the yacht, or the luxury, or even the bed. It was about the fact that, for the first time in a long time, you felt like you belonged somewhere. With him.

As you lay there, sinking into the softness of the bed, you glanced over at Remy, who was now leaning on his elbow, watching you with that familiar, playful glint in his eyes. You smiled, feeling more at ease than you had all day, but then your mind wandered back to something.

“Wait…” you said, sitting up slightly as you gestured toward the wardrobe you’d passed earlier. “Considering all your stuff is in the wardrobe, I’m guessing this is your room?”

Remy tilted his head, that lazy grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Well,” he said, shrugging one shoulder with a casual ease, “correction: it’s our room. If that’s what y’ want.” His voice was low, measured, and though he kept his tone light, there was something deeper behind it, something more vulnerable hiding beneath the surface. “But if y’ prefer, I can move my stuff next door, and this place can be all yours.”

He was offering you a choice, a way out, as if he was giving you the space to decide how close you wanted him to be—both physically and emotionally. And for a moment, you considered it. You thought about the idea of having this sprawling, luxurious room all to yourself, the king-sized bed, the view, the privacy. It would be easy to take him up on that offer, to keep things simple, to keep that line drawn between you.

But as you looked at him—leaning casually beside you, his eyes watching you with that familiar warmth and mischief—you realized that you didn’t want the space. You didn’t want him in the room next door. You wanted him here, with you.

You let out a small breath, your decision settling over you like a quiet certainty. “You can stay,” you said, your voice soft but firm, “on one condition.”

Remy raised an eyebrow, his grin widening as he shifted closer, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh? What’s that, chère?”

You smirked, leaning back into the pillows. “You don’t snore.”

He let out a deep, amused laugh, the sound filling the room as he shook his head. “No promises,” he replied, his voice full of teasing warmth.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “I’m serious. If you snore, I’m kicking you out.”

Remy’s grin softened, his expression turning more affectionate as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone that always seemed to make your heart skip. “Guess I’ll just have t’ be on my best behavior then, huh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, though beneath the playful banter, there was a weight to the moment—a quiet understanding that this was more than just about sharing a room. This was about sharing space, about letting him in, about acknowledging that whatever was between you wasn’t just casual anymore. It was real, and it was growing, and you were both standing at the edge of something deeper.

For a moment, the two of you just lay there, the sound of the waves outside and the gentle sway of the yacht creating a peaceful, almost surreal backdrop. Remy still had that teasing smile on his lips, but his eyes had softened, something unspoken simmering just beneath the surface.

“You know,” he said quietly, his voice softer now, “I wasn’t sure y’ would want this. To share the space.”

You turned your head to look at him, your heart beating a little faster at the honesty in his tone. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged, though there was a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “Y’r used to havin’ y’r own space. Didn’t wanna assume.”

You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest as you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his. “I can always make room for you.”

Remy’s smile deepened, his eyes gleaming with that familiar warmth that always seemed to melt away any of your lingering doubts. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something that made your pulse quicken.

And just like that, the tension that had been simmering between you all day seemed to ease, replaced by a quiet understanding, a shared sense of something deeper, something more real. You weren’t just companions anymore. You weren’t just playing a game. You lay there in the soft comfort of the bed, the room bathed in golden light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The earlier tension had mostly melted away, but there was still something gnawing at the back of your mind, something you couldn’t shake no matter how hard you tried to focus on the here and now with Remy.

You glanced over at him, watching as he lay beside you, his arm casually draped over his chest, his eyes half-closed in that easy, relaxed way he always had. But you couldn’t let it go. Not yet.

“Why was Bella Donna here?” you asked, the question slipping out before you had fully decided to voice it. “And with Richard?”

Remy let out a quiet sigh, then, with a soft groan, flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. His arm shifted to rest over his head, his fingers running lightly through his hair. For a moment, he didn’t speak, as if he was carefully picking out the right words.

“Believe it or not,” he started, his voice a little quieter than usual, “we’re still friends. Even after… everything.”

You raised an eyebrow, turning your head to look at him more fully. “Really? After all that history?”

He chuckled softly, though the sound wasn’t quite as lighthearted as usual. “Yeah. Crazy, huh? But it’s true. Once a year, we get together, catch up. Just like any other friend does. We’re not what we used t’ be, but we’ve both moved on. Shes with Richard.”

You let out a slow breath, trying to digest what he was saying. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him—it was just that seeing them together, seeing how easy it was for them to fall back into old rhythms, had stirred up something you hadn’t expected. And then there was her, Bella Donna, with her sharp gaze and perfectly poised demeanor.

“She doesn’t like me,” you murmured, almost to yourself, but loud enough for him to hear.

Remy let out a loud laugh, breaking the silence that had settled between you. “That’s not it,” he said, shaking his head, his voice filled with amusement. “She’s just makin’ sure y’r right.”

You frowned, turning on your side so you could face him more fully, propping yourself up on one elbow. “Right? What does that mean?”

He finally glanced over at you, his expression softening as he saw the genuine confusion in your eyes. He shifted slightly, his arm moving from his head to rest beside him as he turned to face you. “She’s testin’ y’, chère. Bella’s got a way about her. She’s always been like that. She ain’t cold, she ain’t mean. She’s just… cautious. Protective, even.”

You blinked, still not entirely convinced. “But it felt like she was sizing me up.”

Remy chuckled again, shaking his head as he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “She is. But not ‘cause she doesn’t like y’. She’s just makin’ sure y’r good for me.”

“Good for you?” you repeated, still not sure you understood. “I didn’t realize I was being tested.”

His lips quirked into a small, knowing smile, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your skin. “That’s Bella Donna for y’. She’s always had a way of lookin’ out for me. Doesn’t mean she’s against y’. Trust me, if she didn’t like y’, y’d know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to gauge whether he was being serious or just trying to play it down. “How would I know?”

Remy’s grin widened, and he shifted closer, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone that always made your heart skip a beat. “Bella’s got a way of lettin’ people know when they’re on her bad side. It ain’t subtle. If she didn’t like y’, y’d feel it in y’r bones.”

You let out a small breath, the weight on your chest easing slightly as you processed his words. “So… she’s not out to get me?”

He shook his head, his fingers still tracing those soft, lazy circles on your arm. “Not at all. She’s just seein’ what y’r made of. If y’r gonna stick around.”

You fell quiet for a moment, your mind turning over what he’d said. There was still a part of you that felt uneasy about Bella Donna—about the history they shared, about the way she seemed to move through Remy’s world so effortlessly. But if what he was saying was true, then maybe it wasn’t as hostile as you’d feared. Maybe it was just… complicated.

“Okay,” you said softly, finally letting out a long breath. “I guess that makes sense.”

Remy smiled, his eyes gleaming with that familiar warmth as he leaned in slightly, his face just inches from yours. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on goin’ anywhere, and I don’t want y’ thinkin’ that she’s a threat. She’s part o’ my past, yeah.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten in a way that was both comforting and overwhelming. You smiled softly, your fingers brushing lightly against his as you leaned into his touch. “I’m glad to hear that.”

He grinned, his face so close now that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. “Good. Now, ‘bout that condition y’ gave me earlier…”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension between you easing completely as the playful banter returned. “Oh, the snoring?”

Remy’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Like I said, no promises.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your lips was genuine as you settled back into the pillows. There was still a lot to figure out, still so many questions lingering in the air about Bella Donna and the strange dynamic between them. But for now, with Remy lying beside you, his presence steady and reassuring, you let yourself relax into the moment.

After a few more playful exchanges and quiet moments between you and Remy in the luxurious master bedroom, he stood up, offering his hand to you. “C’mon, chère,” he said, his grin widening as he tugged you up from the bed. “Let’s head back out, see what kind o’ trouble we can get into.”

You followed him through the opulent halls of the yacht, your hand still loosely in his as he led you back toward the main deck. The gentle sway of the yacht beneath you, the sound of the waves lapping against the hull, and the warm ocean breeze through the open windows made the whole experience feel like something out of a dream.

As you stepped out onto the deck, you immediately spotted Bella Donna and Richard. They were seated comfortably on the plush outdoor couches near the railing, the ocean stretching out endlessly behind them. Bella was holding a martini glass, the condensation from the chilled drink shining in the sunlight as she raised it to her lips. Richard was lazily leaning back beside her, his posture relaxed as he sipped on what looked like a whiskey on the rocks.

Bella’s eyes flicked up as you and Remy approached, her gaze sharp and assessing, as always. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips as she watched the two of you together, but she didn’t say anything—at least not yet.

Remy gave her a brief nod before turning to Richard, grinning. “How ‘bout we check on those jet skis? See if they’re ready t’ go.”

Richard straightened slightly, his brow lifting in mild interest. “Sure. Sounds like a good time.” He stood, stretching languidly before patting Bella Donna lightly on the shoulder. “Won’t be long,” he said casually, his attention already shifting toward Remy and the promise of adrenaline-filled fun.

Your stomach dropped slightly. The last thing you wanted was to be left alone with Bella Donna just yet, especially after the tension of earlier. You glanced at Remy, silently pleading with him to stay, to not leave you here to fend off whatever subtle tests Bella might have in store.

But Remy, ever the charmer, either didn’t notice or was purposefully ignoring your silent plea. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Back soon, chère. Play nice.” There was a teasing edge to his tone, and before you could protest, he straightened with that familiar, confident grin, already walking away with Richard toward the far end of the deck.

You wanted to kill him. Or at least give him a hard nudge off the side of the yacht when no one was looking.

As the men walked off, their low voices fading into the background, you turned back toward Bella, who was now watching you with a curious, almost amused expression. She took a slow sip of her martini, her gaze never leaving yours.

You hesitated for a moment before moving to sit on the plush couch near the railing, the soft cushions sinking beneath you. The ocean sparkled in the distance, but you couldn’t focus on the beauty of the view, not with Bella’s eyes on you.

For a few moments, there was silence—only the sound of the waves and the gentle clink of ice in Bella’s glass as she set it down on the table between you. Then, finally, she spoke, her voice smooth but with an edge of curiosity.

As Remy and Richard walked off toward the far end of the deck, laughter trailing behind them, you felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. The moment they disappeared from view, the tension that had been simmering between you and Bella Donna seemed to thicken, the yacht’s expansive, elegant deck suddenly feeling smaller.

Bella sat across from you, her long legs crossed, a martini glass balanced delicately in her hand. Her posture was casual, but there was something sharp in her gaze, something that made your pulse race a little faster. She took a slow sip of her drink, all the while watching you with the kind of scrutiny that felt both subtle and piercing. The ocean stretched out behind her, but all you could focus on was the woman in front of you—the woman who had shared so much history with Remy.

After a few moments of silence, Bella Donna broke it with a smooth, casual tone that felt almost disarming. “So,” she began, her eyes never leaving yours, “you and Remy. What’s the deal?”

You hesitated, your mind racing as you tried to find the right words. It wasn’t like you and Remy had ever really defined what was going on between you. Everything had just… happened. But sitting here, in front of Bella, the weight of the question felt heavier than it had before.

“We’re… spending time together,” you answered carefully, keeping your tone neutral. “It’s not anything official.”

Bella Donna tilted her head slightly, as if considering your words. Then she let out a soft hum, setting her martini glass down on the table between you with a quiet clink. “You know, there’ve been *a lot* of women in your position,” she said, her tone calm but laced with something deeper. “Women who thought they could change him. Women who thought they could keep up with him. Hell, I was one of them.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation. Bella Donna’s expression remained cool, collected, as if she were recounting something that was inevitable. “But in the end,” she continued, her voice soft but firm, “it all ends the same way.”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. You could feel the weight of her words pressing down on you, the unspoken warning hanging in the air. She wasn’t being cruel, but there was a quiet finality to her tone, like she’d seen this story play out too many times not to know how it ends.

She leaned back in her seat, her eyes never leaving yours as she spoke. “Remy’s… intense,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “He’s unpredictable, charming, and completely impossible to pin down. Women fall for him all the time. They think they can handle his world, his lifestyle. But they never can. They think they can change him, but they can’t.”

You swallowed hard, her words striking a little too close to something you hadn’t fully processed. You didn’t want to think of yourself as just another woman in the long line of people who had tried—and failed—to keep up with Remy. But Bella spoke with the voice of experience, and it was hard not to feel the sting of her truth.

She paused, letting her words settle between you as she took another slow sip of her martini. Then, her gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing slightly. “But here’s the thing,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost as if she were confiding in you. “Remy doesn’t bring women here. Not like this.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your pulse quicken. “What do you mean?”

Bella Donna’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “What I mean is,” she said, her voice steady, “he’s never brought anyone to meet me. Not flings, not casual companions. Usually, it’s just women he met the night before, women who don’t matter.”

You felt a rush of heat rise to your cheeks, your mind spinning as you tried to process what she was saying. “We’re not… seeing each other like that,” you said quickly, the words falling out before you could really think about them. “It’s not serious.”

Bella raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting slightly as she took in your response. She leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest as she studied you. “Not serious?” she repeated, almost amused. Then, after a beat, she let out a quiet laugh, like she had just realized something. “Okay, so you hold his hand, he buys you pretty things, and you follow him around on boats like this? We’ve all been there.”

Her words stung, and you felt your stomach twist. She wasn’t being cruel, but the casual way she dismissed your relationship with Remy—whatever it was—made it feel small, insignificant. Like you were just another woman swept up in his charm, another temporary connection that wouldn’t last.

“But,” Bella continued, her voice softening slightly, “the point stands even more now.”

You frowned, still trying to make sense of everything she was saying, but before you could respond, she leaned forward, her gaze locking onto yours with a sharper intensity. “You’re saying it’s not serious, but he’s brought you here. That’s serious enough.”

Her words hit you like a wave, crashing over you with a force you hadn’t expected. You hadn’t thought of it that way—hadn’t really considered what it meant for Remy to bring you here, to this yacht, to meet *her*. But Bella was right. This wasn’t casual. This wasn’t just another one of his flings. He had introduced you to the woman who knew him better than almost anyone else, the woman who had seen him at his best and his worst. And that meant something.

Bella took a long sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving yours. “So, let me ask you,” she said quietly, her voice softer now, almost empathetic. “Do you think you can handle him? Do you think you can keep up?”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. You weren’t sure if you could. Remy was a force of nature, unpredictable and intense, and being with him was like trying to keep up with a storm. But there was something about him that pulled you in, something that made you want to try, even if you weren’t sure you could handle everything that came with him.

“I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

Bella Donna leaned back again, her gaze softening just a little as she watched you struggle with your response. “Just think about it,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Because whatever this ‘not seeing each other’ thing is, it’s serious enough for him to bring you here. And if you can’t keep up, you’re going to get hurt.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and unsettling, and you found yourself staring out at the ocean, your mind racing with everything se had said. The sound of the waves, the gentle sway of the yacht, it all faded into the background as you tried to process what this all meant—what you meant to Remy, and what this trip was really about.

You didn’t know how long you sat there in silence, but eventually, the sound of footsteps approached. You turned to see Remy and Richard making their way back, both of them grinning, their energy light and easy, a stark contrast to the tension that had settled over you and Bella.

“Jet skis are ready,” Remy announced, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he approached. “Y’ comin’, chère?”

You forced a smile, nodding as you stood up from the couch, though your mind was still spinning with everything Bella had said. As you walked toward Remy, you glanced back at her one last time. She gave you a small, knowing smile, her eyes still holding that sharp edge, as though she knew you were still turning her words over in your mind.

And as Remy’s arm slipped around your waist, guiding you toward the jet skis, you couldn’t help but wonder if Bella was right. If this was something more. And if you were ready for it. <><><><><> The sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving the sky a deep indigo, flecked with stars that shimmered above the yacht. The warm glow of deck lights bathed the scene in a soft, golden hue, casting gentle shadows across the elegantly set dinner table. You were wrapped in a light sweater now, the cool evening breeze brushing against your skin as you sat with Remy, Bella Donna, and Richard, waiting for dinner to arrive.

The day had been full—hours spent jet skiing, lounging in the sun, and navigating the strange, unspoken dynamics of the group. But now, as night settled in, there was a certain calmness in the air. The soft clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the faint sound of the ocean lapping against the hull—it all created a peaceful ambiance, a stark contrast to the tension that had lingered earlier.

Remy and Bella were deep in conversation, their voices low as they spoke about something from their shared past—a trip they had taken years ago, a story about a storm that had nearly derailed their plans. Their laughter was easy, familiar, the kind that comes from years of shared history.

But you? You were laughing with Richard, your attention caught by his animated retelling of your first botched attempt at jet skiing earlier. You couldn’t help but laugh as he exaggerated every detail—the way you’d both fallen off within minutes, the ridiculousness of it all, the way the jet ski had spun in circles while you tried to figure out which way to steer.

“And then,” Richard was saying, choking on his own laughter, “I turn around, and you’re just—gone! Face-first into the water, like a cartoon character!”

You burst into laughter again, the sound bubbling up from your chest as you leaned back in your chair, unable to stop grinning. “I swear, I thought I had it,” you managed between laughs. “Turns out I’m just terrible at it.”

Richard shook his head, still grinning. “Hey, we all have our talents. Maybe jet skiing just isn’t one of them.”

As you laughed, you didn’t notice at first that Remy had fallen silent. But Bella did. She caught the way his conversation with her had trailed off, his attention quietly shifting away from their shared memories and toward you.

She watched as Remy’s gaze softened, his eyes lingering on you as you laughed with Richard. There was something in the way he was looking at you—something almost unguarded, uncharacteristically vulnerable. His usual playful smirk had faded, replaced by a quiet, almost tender smile, the kind you hadn’t seen him wear before. He wasn’t just watching you—he was *memorizing* you. The way your eyes lit up when you laughed, the way your smile spread across your face, the way you seemed so at ease in this moment.

Bella’s breath caught slightly, an unexpected pang of realization settling in her chest. She had been right. She had seen it earlier, the way Remy had brought you here, the way he had introduced you to her, something he had never done with anyone else. She had sensed that there was something different about you, something that set you apart from the endless string of women who had come and gone in Remy’s life. But now, watching him as he gazed at you, Bella saw what she hadn’t fully understood before.

He was falling in love with you.

It wasn’t just an arrangement, not anymore. Maybe it had started that way—maybe you were still under the assumption that this was just some temporary companionship, a relationship defined by boundaries and unspoken rules. But Remy had already changed the rules. He had crossed a line, whether he realized it yet or not. And Bella could see it, clear as day, in the softness of his gaze, in the quiet way he watched you, as if you were the only person in the world who mattered.

She looked away for a moment, her fingers curling around the stem of her glass as she processed the realization. It shouldn’t have surprised her, not really. Remy had always been unpredictable, always someone who defied expectations. But this? This was something else entirely.

When she glanced back at him, Remy still hadn’t turned his attention away from you. His smile was small, almost private, like he was lost in his own thoughts, watching you with a quiet fondness that Bella hadn’t seen in him for a long time. Maybe not ever.

She took a slow sip of her drink, her thoughts swirling. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Remy was capable of love—he had, after all, loved her once, in his own way. But this was different. This wasn’t the reckless, all-consuming passion that had defined their relationship. This was something softer, something deeper. Something that suggested he wasn’t just infatuated with you—he was falling for you. Slowly, steadily, without even realizing it.

And you? Bella watched you for a moment longer, noticing how you seemed unaware of what was unfolding. You laughed at something Richard said, your head tipped back slightly, your eyes bright with amusement. You were still under the assumption that this was just some casual arrangement, something fun and easy, something that would end when the time came. But Bella knew better now. She knew that for Remy, this wasn’t just another fling, another temporary connection. This was something real, something that was growing into something neither of you had anticipated.

And the question that lingered in her mind, as she watched you and Remy from across the table, was whether you were ready for that. Whether you knew what you were getting into. Because being with Remy wasn’t easy—loving him was even harder.

Bella’s gaze shifted back to Remy, who was finally turning his attention back to the table, though his smile lingered, a ghost of what it had been when he was watching you. She met his eyes briefly, and for a split second, she thought about saying something—about teasing him, pointing out what she had just realized. But she didn’t. Instead, she gave him a small, knowing smile, one that said I see what’s happening here, and turned back to her drink.

As the air around the table settled again, and the sounds of casual conversation resumed, Bella felt a strange mix of emotions stirring inside her. She had always known Remy was capable of great love—she had been on the receiving end of it once, after all. But seeing it unfold in front of her, with someone else, felt different. She didn’t feel jealousy, not exactly. But there was something bittersweet about it. Something that made her realize that while she and Remy would always share a history, they were no longer part of each other’s futures.

She glanced at you again, watching the way you smiled, the way your laugh seemed to light up the space around you. And in that moment, Bella found herself hoping that, when the time came, you would understand what you meant to him. Because it was clear now—Remy wasn’t just falling for you. He was already in deeper than either of you knew.

And the only question left was whether you would fall, too. Remy’s gaze kept drifting toward you, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched you interact with Richard. That familiar, quiet warmth had settled in his chest—the same feeling that caught him off guard more often than he’d care to admit. You were still cracking jokes, still laughing, completely unaware of the way he was watching you, as though he were memorizing every detail.

Bella Donna let out a small sigh, tilting her head slightly as she turned her attention fully to him. “So,” she began, her voice low and casual as she swirled the drink in her glass, “why’d you decide to spend $48 million on a penthouse for her?”

Her question cut through the air like a knife, and for a moment, Remy froze. He didn’t respond right away, his fingers drumming quietly against the table as he kept his gaze fixed on you, still laughing with Richard. But Bella wasn’t fooled by his silence. She already knew the answer. She could see it written in the way his eyes softened every time they landed on you.

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, her tone both challenging and amused. “Say it. Say what I already know, LeBeau.”

Remy finally tore his gaze from you and looked at her, his expression shifting into something guarded, his lips twitching into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He leaned forward, matching her posture, his voice low and teasing. “No idea what y’r talkin’ about,” he whispered back, though there was something in his tone that betrayed him.

Bella raised an eyebrow, a soft laugh escaping her as she leaned back in her chair and took another sip of her drink. “No one does something like that for no reason,” she said, her voice calm but pointed. She wasn’t letting this go, and they both knew it.

Remy let out a slow breath, his fingers brushing the rim of his glass as he shifted in his seat. “It’s nothin’,” he muttered, his tone casual but unconvincing. “It was already mine. I wasn’t usin’ it—”

Bella scoffed, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. “You bought it two days earlier,” she shot back, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You didn’t have time to use it, you idiot.”

Remy’s jaw clenched slightly, but his expression remained calm, though there was something in his eyes—something that flickered briefly, like he knew he was caught but was still trying to play it cool.

Bella leaned forward again, her voice softer this time, almost gentle. “Remy, come on. You don’t spend that kind of money on someone unless they mean something to you.”

He stayed quiet, his gaze dropping to the table for a moment before flicking back to you, watching as you smiled at something Richard said. That familiar warmth crept back into his chest, making it impossible to hide the truth from himself, let alone Bella. He knew the answer, even if he wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

Bella didn’t push him further, but she let her words hang in the air between them, a subtle reminder of what he was trying so hard to avoid. She took another sip of her drink, her eyes still on him, waiting for him to acknowledge what she already knew.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he ran a hand through his hair, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he finally spoke, his voice low and resigned. “Maybe I just wanted t’ make sure she had a place, y’ know? Somethin’ that’s hers.”

Bella tilted her head, her smile softening as she watched him. “Sure. But that’s not the whole story, is it?”

Remy didn’t respond right away, his eyes still on you, his thoughts swirling with everything he’d been avoiding. He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he finally turned back to Bella, his voice barely above a whisper. “You always did know how t’ pull it outta me.”

Bella smirked, taking a slow sip of her drink before setting it down with a soft clink. “That’s what I’m here for.”

For a moment, they both sat in silence, the unspoken truth hanging between them. Remy wasn’t just buying you pretty things. He wasn’t just pulling you along on some casual, temporary arrangement. He was in deeper than that—deeper than he had been willing to admit, even to himself.

And as you laughed again, completely unaware of the conversation happening just a few feet away, Bella knew that things were about to get a lot more complicated. After a long evening of laughter and conversation, you and Remy finally said your goodnights to Richard and Bella. You stifled a loud yawn, blinking sleepily as the cool night air settled around you. The dinner had been delicious, the company more relaxed than you'd expected, and the day had left you pleasantly exhausted.

As you and Remy walked down the narrow staircase towards the bedroom, the sound of the ocean fading behind you, he glanced over at you with a smirk. “See, I told y’ Bella ain’t as scary as you thought.”

You gave him a sideways look, your lips curling into a small, tired smile. “Okay, okay, you’re right,” you admitted, feeling the weight of your own words. “Once again, you’re right. At this rate, we’re going to have to start keeping a jar.”

Remy chuckled, his deep, warm laugh filling the hallway as you both continued down toward the bedroom. “What, like a ‘Remy’s Always Right’ jar? I’d be rich.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully with your elbow, but couldn’t help but laugh along with him. “Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. It’s bound to happen less often.”

“Sure, chère,” Remy drawled, his voice teasing. “Whatever you say.”

The banter between you flowed easily, that familiar push and pull of playful teasing that had become part of your dynamic. It was grounding, comforting, especially after the more serious conversations and realizations of the evening.

When you finally reached the bedroom, you kicked off your shoes without a second thought, your body heavy with exhaustion. The bed was calling to you, the luxurious comfort of the oversized mattress and soft pillows too tempting to resist. You fell into it with a contented sigh, not even bothering to get changed. You wiggled your way under the covers, feeling the cool sheets against your skin as you burrowed deeper into the duvet.

“God damn it,” you mumbled, your voice muffled by the pillow. “I love this bed so much.”

You heard Remy laugh softly from across the room, the sound of fabric rustling catching your attention. You opened your eyes just in time to see him pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it casually onto the nearby chair.

And for a moment, you couldn’t help but stare.

Remy, standing there shirtless, looked like something out of a dream. His body was strong, lean, and sculpted—broad shoulders tapering down to a defined chest and abdomen, each muscle perfectly cut. His skin was smooth, with just the right amount of tan from days spent in the sun, and his arms looked powerful, the kind of arms that could hold you close and make you feel safe.

He caught you looking and raised an eyebrow, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “Like what y’ see?”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks flushed slightly as you tried to play it cool. “Just admiring the view,” you teased, quickly pulling the duvet up to your chin to hide your smirk. “No big deal.”

Remy’s grin widened as he climbed into bed beside you, the mattress barely shifting under his weight. He rolled over to face you, propping his head up with one arm as he looked at you, his expression softening into something more tender, more intimate.

“Y’ know,” he said, his voice low and lazy, “when we get back, y’ should go get yourself a bed like this if the one at the penthouse ain’t good enough.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the mention of the penthouse again. It still felt strange, the idea that Remy had gone out of his way to buy you a penthouse. Something so extravagant, so over the top, that you hadn’t fully wrapped your head around it yet.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” you murmured, your voice quiet as you shifted slightly to face him, your eyes meeting his. “The penthouse, I mean.”

Remy’s gaze held yours, his expression soft but unreadable. “I know,” he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I wanted to.”

There was something in the way he said it that made your chest tighten, something that made the air between you feel heavier, more charged. He wasn’t just talking about the bed or the penthouse anymore—there was something else beneath the surface, something deeper that neither of you had fully acknowledged yet.

You stared at him for a moment longer, searching his face for the meaning behind his words. But before you could say anything more, Remy leaned in a little closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Y’ wanna know somethin’ else?”

You raised an eyebrow, your heart beating a little faster as you nodded. “What?”

He smiled, his eyes twinkling with that familiar playfulness. “I love this bed too.”

His words broke the tension, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and easy as you shook your head. “Of course you do.” The bedroom was dark now, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon filtering through the sheer curtains. The sound of the ocean lapping gently against the yacht's hull filled the quiet space, a soothing backdrop to the intimacy of the moment. You and Remy lay side by side, both facing each other, the thick duvet pulled up around your bodies.

The earlier playful banter had faded into something quieter, something more intimate. His eyes, reflecting the soft light of the moon, were locked onto yours, as though he were searching for something there. You felt the weight of his gaze, the tension that had been simmering between you both for weeks now suddenly much more present in the stillness of the room.

Remy’s voice broke the silence, low and soft. “Where d’ y’ see yourself in ten years?”

The question caught you off guard, but the way he asked it was so gentle, so genuine, that you didn’t hesitate before answering. “I’ve always wanted to backpack across Europe,” you admitted quietly. “See the world, get lost in new places.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking up in a small smile. “Backpackin’? That’s not what I would’ve guessed. Why haven’t y’ done it yet?”

You shrugged, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of the duvet as you thought about your answer. “Finances, work, life. You know how it goes. There’s always something that gets in the way.”

Remy’s eyes softened as he listened, his expression thoughtful. “Y’ ever think about just… goin’? Leavin’ all that behind and doin’ what y’ really want?”

You smiled, a wistful look crossing your face. “Yeah. Sometimes. But it's easier said than done, right? There’s always something to stay for.”

He nodded, the quiet understanding between you deepening. But there was something else in the air now—something heavier, more charged. The space between you felt smaller, more intimate, like the weight of everything that had been left unsaid was pressing down on both of you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, facing each other, your bodies close but not quite touching. The tension—the kind that had been building since the day you met—was thick in the air, almost suffocating. Every glance, every breath felt like it was leading to something inevitable.

Remy’s eyes darkened slightly as they flicked down to your lips, his breath hitching just a little. You could feel it too—the pull, the magnetic force drawing you closer to him. Your heart raced, thudding in your chest as the silence stretched on, the weight of the moment pressing down harder with every second.

Remy’s gaze was locked on yours, his dark eyes searching your face, as though he was looking for permission, for some signal that you were feeling the same pull that he was. The flicker of something dangerous, something vulnerable passed through his expression, and then—without warning—he moved.

His lips crashed into yours, hot, insistent, filled with all the hunger and desire that had been simmering just beneath the surface for weeks. The kiss was more than just a meeting of lips—it was raw, desperate, as if all the tension between you had finally ignited into something neither of you could control. Every inch of your body responded to him instantly, heat flooding through you as his hands slid up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer, like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him even deeper into the kiss, your body arching up to meet his. The world outside the yacht vanished in an instant—there was no sound, no ocean, no moonlight—just the two of you, tangled together in the dark, the intensity of the moment swallowing everything else.

Remy’s hands were everywhere, one sliding down to grip your waist possessively, pulling your body flush against his, the heat of his skin searing through the thin fabric of your clothes. You could feel him, every hard line of his body pressed against yours, solid and strong, and it sent a shiver down your spine. His kiss grew more desperate by the second, as though he was trying to pour every unspoken word, every feeling, into that one heated connection.

He tasted like whiskey, like something dark and dangerous, something that was uniquely his. But beneath it was something else—something that made your head spin, something that made your chest tighten with want. It was intoxicating, addictive, overwhelming, and you couldn’t get enough. You pressed yourself closer to him, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips.

Remy groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a wave of heat through your entire body. His grip on you tightened, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you even closer as he shifted his weight, rolling on top of you. His body covered yours, warm and solid, holding you in place as though you were the most precious thing in the world. His kiss grew fiercer, more urgent, and you gave in completely, your body burning under the intensity of his touch.

Your fingers slid down the smooth skin of his back, feeling the muscles shift under your palms as he pressed against you. His weight was comforting, grounding, but at the same time, it made you feel like you were floating—caught in the rush of what was happening between you. Every nerve in your body was alight, electrified by the way his lips moved against yours, by the way his hands held you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

The kiss deepened further, your breaths mingling as you both lost yourselves in the moment. Your body arched into his, desperate for more, for everything, as the tension that had been building between you both finally snapped. You could feel the raw intensity of his desire in every touch, every movement, and it matched your own perfectly. It was like the two of you had been waiting for this—waiting for the floodgates to open, for the chance to finally give in to the fire that had been burning between you.

But just as the kiss grew even more heated, just as your body pressed harder against his, something shifted. Remy hesitated, his lips slowing against yours, his grip on your waist loosening. And then, with a soft, almost pained groan, he pulled away.

His breath was ragged, his body still hovering over yours as he pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut as though he was trying to regain control. His chest rose and fell quickly, his breathing uneven, and you could feel the tremor in his hands as they stayed tangled in your hair, holding on like he didn’t want to let go.

You opened your eyes, still dazed, your heart racing in your chest as you tried to understand why he had stopped. The room was silent except for the sound of your breaths, mingling in the small space between you.

“Remy…” you whispered, your voice breathless and thick with confusion.

He shook his head, his forehead still resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough, filled with tension and something else—something that made your chest tighten. “I shouldn’t have…”

You stared up at him, your mind still spinning from the intensity of the kiss, from the way he had held you like you were the most precious thing in the world. “What are you talking about?” you whispered, your fingers still resting lightly on his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm.

He pulled away slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, his expression tight, conflicted. “I’m gonna go sleep in the spare room tonight,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, like the words were painful for him to say.

Your heart sank, confusion and disappointment crashing over you in waves. “Why?” you asked, unable to keep the hurt from creeping into your voice. “Did I… did I do something wrong?”

Remy closed his eyes for a moment, as though he couldn’t bear the sight of your confusion, of the vulnerability in your voice. He let out a long breath, his hand brushing gently across your cheek before he pulled back completely, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

“No, chère,” he said quietly, his back to you now. “It’s not you.”

You stared at his back, your chest tightening at his words, at the weight of what he was saying. He wasn’t just talking about the kiss—he was talking about everything. About the way he felt, about the way he was trying so hard to hold himself back, even though you both knew he was already too far gone.

“Remy…” you whispered again, your voice thick with the emotion that had been building between you for so long.

But he shook his head, standing up from the bed and turning to face you, his expression soft but resolute. “Get some sleep,” he said quietly, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer. “I’ll see y’ in the morning.”

And then, before you could say anything else, before you could stop him, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving you alone in the darkness, your heart still racing, your mind spinning with everything that had just happened—and everything that hadn’t.

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