"What?" is the only thing that leaves my mouth.
"I have a meeting with the New York Philharmonic." He puts something on my lap, a music book that seems heavy enough to be a whole concerto. "And you're reading this on the plane."
"Is this..." I lick my lips as I hesitate. "Is this your concerto?"
He looks at the rain outside, his thumb caressing his lower lip. "Yeah," he mumbles as casually as one confirming their coffee order.
I've got Achilles Duval's new concerto on my lap. A piece that could influence the next decade of classical music. And the man is barely bothered by it.
"Are you finished with it?" I ask, feeling my eyes light up.
"It's missing something."
"What?" I ask right away, too eager to know everything about it as my body buzzes.
He turns to me, his smile practically dismissive when we're talking about something we're about to show to the New York Philharmonic.
"What?" I insist.
"Your approval."
All I can do is blink at him, wondering what the hell he's talking about.
"My approval?"
He nods, a little more serious than a minute ago. "This is a masterpiece,mon trésor. I have no doubt about that. But it's one you inspired. Every single note in this book came from something you did, you said. A moan, your perfume, your fears, your anxiety, your hopes. Your trauma and healing. This is you.It's intimate, a deep dive into your soul." He takes a deep breath. "Read it. Hear it. You'll understand. And if you don't want it to be played to the world…well, then we'll keep it for ourselves."
"But the world has been waiting for something from you, Achilles. For years. Who am I to withhold that from them?"
"Everything," he answers, as if it's the easiest, most obvious thing in the world. "You're everything."
"But—"
"See, there are things that can't be denied, Nyx. Stupid things that are obvious. Like there are 206 bones in the human body. That your eyes are brown. That I'm a music prodigy who can compose a thousand masterpieces if I want to. Or…that you mean more to me than any of those pieces. It's a fact, it's stupidly true, and it won't change now or ever. So read it. Our flight is two hours. Then you'll let me know if we're presenting it to the guys in New York."
"When you said we were taking a plane, I thought you meant arealplane."
We're standing on the tarmac, where the chauffeur just dropped us off, and my feet refuse to move toward the steps to the jet sitting in front of us.
Achilles's hand comes to caress me between my shoulder blades, his attempt at reassurance typical of someone who has no idea how to comfort another human being.
"Itisa plane, Nyx," he deadpans. "Just a private one."
"It's so small," I squeak. "Can it really fly?"
"It did the last few times I was on it."
He takes a step forward, but I stay stuck to the spot.
"Okay," he huffs. "You should know we have a very important appointment at five p.m., and as much as I technically shouldn't force you to get on that plane, I will."
"I know," I say with sudden panic. "The philharmonic. It's just that I never thought my first experience on a plane would be a private jet. And it looks so tiny."
He cocks an eyebrow at me. "You've never been on a plane?"
"I never left ourcounty. Your privilege is showing, Achilles."
He drops his head. "Yeah, it is." Looking back up, he adds, "I take that back. But that appointment is really, reallyimportant to me, Nyx. I'll make it up to you another time, okay?"
