We met when I was freshly twenty-three, struggling under the weight of running my own company and finding my place in the world. He was less than a year older and yet he had his life together in a way that I didn’t. And I loved that. I loved his loud confidence, the guidance he offered me, the way he held my hand through tough moments.
“He ran a tech company that he started as a teenager, backed by his family,” I continue, remembering how impressed I’d been by that, by how similar our stories were, and yet he’d found so much more success than me in the same amount of time. “It was thriving when we met and I was…in awe, I guess. I saw his wins and somehow thought he knew better than me—in business, in life, just overall. And he had a way of reinforcing it with the comments he would make—but it was always subtle. Always phrased in ways that made it seem like he was helping me when he was really trying to put me down.”
I see now that they were delicate ways of taking control, of making me put him on an ever-growing pedestal and relying on him for direction. I’ll admit that Iwasa little much at the beginning—loud and proud and certain I knew what I was doing, even when I didn’t—so his influence felt like maturity. It didn’t feel like someone dimming my light or molding me into what they wanted. It felt like an expectation I was supposed to meet, especially when it was joined by his praise.
And that was the best part. To have his full, beaming pride. To know I’d done a good job in his eyes, that I’d made him happy. That I was doing thingsright.
What I didn’t know was that his pride in me meant nothing. That the little digs would add up and the praise was to make me want to do what he liked while pushing everything else aside. None of it actually benefited me. More often than not, he was the one who profited off it. My success madehimlook better. My blossoming status broughthimattention. And the support I gave him yet rarely received in return only madehimthe shining star in our relationship.
I was essentially…gone. Sucked into his orbit, revolving around him, and spat out years later with no explanation.
“I made myself small so he could feel bigger,” I finally say when I realize I’ve been silent, lost in the memory. “He didn’t like when I stole the spotlight. So I stopped giving it a reason to shine on me.”
Thomas’s hand rubs small circles on my hip, comforting me without interrupting.
“I’m still working on that. And I’m already doing a hell of a lot better. But it’s going to take time.”
He makes a soft sound of acknowledgment, soaking in my confession. It’s a long moment before he asks, “Is there a reason you stayed with Étienne for so long?”
I pull away from his touch, taken aback by the question. It’s one I haven’t allowed myself to consider yet, and hearing it posed now—while lacking judgment, just tinged with curiosity—has me bristling.
“Can we talk about something else? These are questions you can ask me once we’ve been together a full month.” Again, I mean it as a lighthearted joke, but it comes out all wrong, leaving Thomas frowning.
“I’m asking because I want to know you,” he explains gently. “I’d like to see the full picture.”
“Do you really need to know me? It’s not like any of this is real,” I snap, then soften when I hear how harsh it sounds. “I don’t want to get into it tonight, okay? Can we try to go to sleep now?”
I expect him to push me to open up and share the things that haunt the back of my mind. And I think I would. I think I’d spill it all, let him take it on, let him share the burden with me, even if I’m not ready to admit some of these things to myself.
But Thomas doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask me another question or grumble about my inability to let him in. He simply grabs the hand resting in my lap and tugs gently until I’m lying next to him once more. It’s entirely too tender, too much for what we’re supposed to be, and yet I don’t stop him when he curls an arm around me to keep me close. It’s a loose embrace. It’s exactly enough.
“It’s only supposed to get colder overnight,” he murmurs. “But I promise to keep you warm.”
I know better than to believe men when they make promises. But tonight, I close my eyes and let myself believe him. Just this once.
Chapter 20
Thomas
The other side of the bed is empty when I wake.
Judging by the sound of the shower running, Stella hasn’t gone far, but my stomach twists with disappointment nonetheless. It’s silly. Absolutely ridiculous. And yet I find myself wishing she would have stayed a little longer.
Last night was like a red-flagged race. Our conversation was going well, headed somewhere important, before she hit a wall and shut it down. Maybe I was wrong to ask about her ex, but he played a role in shaping her into who she is today. There are moments, these brief but beautiful sparks, when I see exactly who she was before he came in and wreaked havoc on her life. The woman I met in Vegas,that’sthe Stella I thought I was going to get 24-7. Instead, I’m left with only a glimpse of her before the gates she’s built swing shut and I’m left standing on the outside.
I don’t want to be on the outside anymore. I want to know the woman I married. Whether that’s a good idea remains to be seen, but I’m too curious to stop.
Stella emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam a fewminutes later, wearing nothing more than a black lace bra and matching panties. If her pajamas last night had me staring too hard, then it’s a miracle now that my eyes stay in my head.
“Shit, I thought you’d still be asleep,” she says when she spots me sitting up in bed. “I forgot my robe out here.”
She doesn’t try to cover herself or yell at me to shield my eyes as she pads over to the closet, grabbing her silk robe and shrugging into it. She’s got to know I’m watching her every move, but she doesn’t seem to care, so remarkably confident in her body that she could be fully naked and still act the same way. Between that, the lingerie, and how goddamn perfect every inch of her body is, my cock is aching, nearly rock-hard in record time. Thank God I haven’t thrown off the duvet yet, or she’d be getting more than an eyeful.
I’m kicking myself for not letting her touch me last night. Instead, my outrageous desire to respect her rules won out over everything. It’s probably for the best, butstill. I can’t get the fantasy of her hand stroking over me out of my head. Of pressing her onto her back and pushing between her soft thighs, hearing her sounds of pleasure panted in my ear.
It’s a feat to pull myself back into the present when I realize Stella’s talking to me as she belts her robe with a flourish, asking what the plans for breakfast are.
I clear my throat, dislodging what I really want to say to her, something along the lines ofI don’t give a fuck about breakfast. Come back to bed and let me finish what you started.
