Page 65 of Forbidden Fruit
"I am staying with you," she murmurs sleepily.
"No, I mean...stay. Move in with me."
She stiffens slightly, then raises her head to look at me. "Clive, we've only been together a week."
"I know how it sounds," I admit, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "But I've never been more certain of anything."
Her eyes search mine, looking for doubt or hesitation. She won't find any.
"What about Jack?" she asks. "What about work? What about?—"
I silence her with a gentle kiss. "We'll figure it all out. Together."
She settles back against my chest, her fingers tracing abstract patterns through the hair. "Can I think about it?"
"Of course," I say, though part of me wants to persuade her now to keep her here where I can protect her, love her. "Take all the time you need."
We lie in comfortable silence, her breathing gradually slowing as she drifts toward sleep. I stroke her back, marveling at the softness of her skin, the delicate curve of her spine.
"Clive?" she murmurs, already half-asleep.
"Yes, beautiful?"
"I think I'm falling in love with you."
My heart swells almost painfully in my chest. I press my lips to her forehead, inhaling her sweet scent.
"I know I'm in love with you," I whisper.
She smiles against my skin, her body relaxing completely as sleep claims her. I hold her close, protective and possessive, cherishing her weight in my arms.
Outside, Manhattan continues its restless dance of lights and shadows, but here, in this moment, I've found a peace I never knew was possible. We'll weather whatever storms lie ahead—Jack's jealousy, Kay's manipulations, the inevitable gossip—together.
I close my eyes, allowing sleep to pull me under, Becca's warmth anchoring me to this new reality. My last conscious thought is that I would burn down empires to keep her safe, to keep her mine.
And in the morning, I'll begin to prove it.
Becca
Three days later, I find myself standing at my parents' front door, my finger hovering over the doorbell. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. Telling them about Clive and me shouldn't be this nerve-wracking, but the Jamisons have always had high expectations. And I've always tried desperately to meet them
I finally press the bell, hearing the familiar chime echo through the house. Mother's heels click across the marble foyer before the heavy oak door swings open.
"Rebecca," she says, her face perfectly composed as always. "You're three minutes late."
"Sorry, Mother. Traffic was terrible on Park Avenue."
She air-kisses both my cheeks, the scent of Chanel No. 5 enveloping me. "Your father's in his study. Dinner will be served at seven, precisely."
I follow her through the grand entrance hall, past oil paintings of stern-faced Jamison ancestors. The Upper East brownstone hasn't changed since my childhood—still impeccably decorated, still impossibly cold.
Father looks up from his desk when I enter, removing his reading glasses.
"Rebecca," he says with a curt nod. "You're looking well."
"Thank you, Father."
Dinner is a quiet affair, the clink of sterling silver against Limoges china the loudest sound in the room. Mother asks polite questions about my latest event planning projects. Father inquires about the stock market. Neither mentions Jack.
