made the proclamation that I was leaving PR work to return to finance. I had no idea if I even meant it, but at least C.J. was right at my side. Also, I wasn’t blindingly drunk this time—at least not on alcohol.
The fresh memory of being in Marcus’s arms, his mouth plundering mine, devouring my body, leaving fresh marks—all of it had me dizzy with desire and frustration.
Tired of being ignored, Armand finally approached me on the dance floor and took my arm. “Time to go, cherie.”
Slugging the last of my champagne, I kissed C.J. on both cheeks. He made some outlandish comment about coaches turning to pumpkins, but I only shook my head.
“If I lose my shoe at the ball, it’s because I’m drunk,” and with that I followed my distinguished escort out to his car to endure the silent drive home.
Now we’re at Sylvia’s building, and all I want is to go inside and try to sleep away this entire night. At the very least, I’ve got to get away from Armand’s smirk. He watches me as if some mystery has been solved. I don’t even want to know what he’s thinking.
Reaching for the door, I’m ready to fly out, but he holds my forearm. “Amalie.” His low voice ripples through the silence. I don’t look up. “At least let me tell you goodbye.”
Goodbye. Not the French au revoir, which means til we meet again. He’s giving me the American version of it’s over. It causes me to meet his eyes, and I’m relieved to see he’s not angry.
“I didn’t ask you to come here.” It’s a soft statement of fact. I’m not trying to hurt him. I’m only trying to establish the truth.
“Yes.” He releases my arm and leans back in the leather seat of the Towncar. “Still, I’m glad I came. It seems my path is different than I originally thought.”
I don’t know what he means, but he seems to be letting me go. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“No pain, ma petite. Only loss.” He lifts my hand and kisses the back of my fingers. “Our memories will always be beautiful.”
Taking my hand back, I don’t say more. I skip out and make my way to Sylvia’s condo. Sylvia’s asleep. Of course she is—it’s after midnight.
Closing my bedroom door, I’m hit with a mixture of relief and loss. I don’t want him back—I didn’t even want him in Chicago. With a shuddering inhale, I face the truth. God, all I want is Marcus.
I allow my dress to slide from my shoulders, leaving me completely nude. Eyes closed, my head rocks from too much champagne. But not more than enough—all my memories are intact, and I remember vividly where my panties are.
Will he go home with her? Can he possibly sleep with her after what we did? My guts churn with the idea that he might touch her, kiss her, make her come. Tears flood my eyes, despite how hard I try to fight them. He could very well do that. I’ve seen men act one way and just as quickly shut off the feelings they swear are so real.
I’ve witnessed betrayal firsthand.
Pushing through the blankets, I curl into a ball and allow the tears to fall. I want to believe him so much, but everything in me fights against allowing him to possess me.
His words filter back, haunting me. Just try.
Eyes closed, my brain continues to sway, and my dreams float to a boat beneath Lake Michigan, to the best weekend of my life.
* * *
Marcus
I’m back in my “ridiculous” office, but Amy’s not here. I’m not sure where I stand with her. I said I wouldn’t force her. Hell, I said I wouldn’t chase her, and then I took off from the gala after her like a lion on a gazelle. I’ve given up trying to figure out which of my declarations are true and which are total bullshit.
What I do know is Paige will be here any minute, and I intend to tell her it’s over. I’m done. She doesn’t need my help anymore. Karen has called off the smear campaign, and I’m ready to go back to what I was doing before our detour—securing Amy at my side. Showing her she can trust me. She’s safe with me. She’s everything I want.
We’re both caged in this society bullshit, but at the same time, she couldn’t be more separate. She fights their pretensions and wins with easy transparency. What you see