WE SPEND the next few days together as much as possible. When she’s not at the studio or at the theatre, she’s with me. And when she’s not with me, I’m at my hotel suite, working. On the phone, texting, Zoom meetings, responding to emails.
The deal is almost done. We’re going to announce in the next couple of weeks that the House of Fontaine is being sold and it’ll merge with one of the biggest luxury brand conglomerates in the world. It’s a large deal. We’re going to make a lot of money. I won’t have to worry about finances for the rest of my life, and my children and my children’s children will probably be taken care of as well.
But is that all I want out of life? To live off of the billions I’ll make from selling my father’s legacy? What would I do?
I need to figure that out. I’m only twenty. I still have time.
All I know is I want Carolina with me. By my side always. She’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. We were made for each other.
I’ve had to be careful with her after she got the tattoo, making sure I didn’t touch her there. Seeing her tear up when she realized what I wrote damn near had me in tears, and I don’t cry. Not really. I shed a few at my father’s funeral but then I was right back to work. I didn’t have the proper time to grieve, my mother said like a warning.
She’s right. I still haven’t had the time to grieve. For all I know, once everything settles down, I might fall completely apart.
We shall see.
By Saturday evening, I’m at Carolina’s performance, sitting in the second row, enraptured as usual with her dancing. She glides across the stage effortlessly, her feet barely touching the ground and she leaps into the air, landing with a wobble.
And a wince.
I sit up straighter, watching her carefully, noting how she moves. Her expression is impassive, her eyes flashing with what I think is pain and the moment the performance is over and the curtain drops, I’m already out of my chair, muttering “excuse me” as I make my way past the irritated people in my row.
The curtain lifts, the performers in a line on the stage and Carolina is not with them.
My heart feels like it might burst from my chest.
I’m running down the aisle and toward the side of the stage, running up the short set of stairs that leads to the backstage. A tall, thin man acting as a bodyguard tries to stop me but I make eye contact with Carolina who’s sitting in a chair, a man kneeling at her feet.
“Please let him in,” she shouts and the bodyguard steps aside so I can go to her.
I’m kneeling beside her on the other side of the chair, my gaze fixed on her face as she watches the man touch her ankle. “What happened?”
“Oh my God, right there.” She grimaces in pain, nearly jumping out of the chair when he touches her in a certain spot. “Do you think I broke it?”
My head pounds and I take her hand, interlacing our fingers. Her fearful gaze meets mine and I give her hand a squeeze, letting her know that I’m here for her.
I’ve got her.
“I don’t think so,” the man says. “But you should probably go get examined.”
“I’ll take you,” I say without hesitation. “Are you ready?”
“But …” Her eyes meet mine once more, her chin trembling. “I probably just sprained it, right?”
“You need to double-check and make sure you know exactly what your injury is,” the man recommends. “You don’t want to take any chances.”
The man gets up, leaving us alone as the rest of the cast rushes in off the stage. I glance down at Carolina’s leg, noting the swelling of her ankle, and I know I can’t just stand by and wait for her decision. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“But …”
“No buts.” I rise to my feet, bending down so I can scoop her into my arms. She makes a protesting noise at first but goes willingly, letting me walk her out of the theatre and straight to my car.
“You’re really carrying me the whole way?”
“I’ll carry you into the hospital too,” I say firmly. “Don’t argue with me, Carolina. You don’t need to be on that ankle. What if you make it worse?”
She clamps her lips shut, remaining silent.
I drive at a decent speed so I don’t scare her, barely able to contain my worry. Dance is everything to her. It’s what helped her cope when shit got rough. It’s her identity. What if her injury means she can no longer dance? What will she do then?
It didn’t even happen to me and I can barely handle the thought. I need to make sure that she’s going to be all right.
We end up in the emergency room at a hospital not too far from the theatre. The place is busy, but we only end up sitting in the waiting area for about an hour before they call her back into one of the private examination rooms. There we wait another hour until finally the doctor enters the room, his stride brisk and his expression serious.
“A dancer, hmm?” He’s glancing over her file.
“Yes. I twisted my ankle while performing tonight.”
“Who do you perform with?”
“The London Dance Company.”
His expression turns less stern in an instant. “We were at your theatre last week. The performance was lovely.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She looks pleased, and I’m grateful that he praised her. Not enough people do that, and she deserves the accolades.
The doctor pushes and probes at her ankle, then asks for an X-ray to be done. The ankle is swollen and turning purple already, and she can barely put any pressure on it.
“Sprained,” he announces after he checks the X-ray. “Severely. Looks like you’ll be off your feet for at least a month.”
“A month?” She sounds incredulous.
“Maybe longer.” The doctor shrugs. “I’m recommending at least four weeks off. No dancing. No performing. After a couple of weeks and as long as the swelling’s gone down, you can do some light exercises but nothing strenuous. You could make the injury worse if you push yourself.”
Her shoulders fall, her defeat obvious. “All I’ve done my entire life is push myself.”
“It stops today,” the doctor says cryptically, his gaze sliding to mine. “Are you two together?”
I don’t bother looking at her. Just nod my confirmation. “Yes.”
“You need to watch over her.”
“I will.”
By the time we’re leaving the hospital, it’s late. Almost two in the morning and Carolina is tired. And grumpy. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You’re going to rest.”
“I can’t rest. I don’t know how.” She bangs her head against the car seat, closing her eyes. The doctor bandaged her ankle up nicely, prescribed some pain meds that she’s already insisted she won’t take and even suggested she use crutches. “My understudy will have to replace me. There’s so much I need to teach her.”
“You’re not teaching her shit.” Her eyes flying open, she glares at me. “I mean it. You heard the doctor. Do you want to make your ankle worse?”
“I can’t just sit around in my tiny little flat and wait for it to heal. I need to be at the studio.”
“Why don’t you return to New York with me,” I suggest.
She goes quiet for so long, I finally glance over at her to make sure she hasn’t passed out.
“Well?” I ask. Does she think my suggestion is ridiculous? Is she going to tell me no?
She better not tell me no. I’m bringing her with me whether she wants to go or not.
“My family. Well, my parents.” Carolina is quiet for a moment, as if she needs the time to find the proper answer. “They like to play games against each other. It’s a power struggle between them. My father, of course, is the most powerful one with the name, the money and the influence. My mother wanted that. She wanted to be on his same level, and she could never get there. It frustrated her. He frustrated her. He also ignored her and found other women to have affairs with. A lot of them. My mother needed someone to control, and who better than her children? Well, Whit wouldn’t tolerate it, and I avoided her at all costs, so my sister is the one she controls.”
I turn onto the apartment building’s street, noting how she said that last sentence. “Does she still control your sister?”
“As much as she possibly can, yes, she does. Though I do believe Sylvie has learned how to get away from her. Somewhat. It takes drastic measures, like marrying a man who was old enough to be her father, but it worked. Funny, considering my mother was the one who arranged that marriage.”
“This sounds a little …”
“Fucked up? Yes, those two words describe my family perfectly.” She smiles, and despite the weariness and the pain and the disappointment etched on her face, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Is she abusive?” I can only come to that conclusion because of everything I’ve heard. “Your mother.”
“Not toward me.” She turns those big eyes on me. “Toward my sister? I suspect so.”
Anger fills me. “You need to stay away from that woman.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“But I want you to go with me to New York.”
“I don’t know …”
“You don’t have to tell her you’re there. It’s none of her business where you are. Let her think you’re still here.”
“She’ll figure it out. She’ll hear from a friend and the next thing you know, she’ll be calling me. Texting me. Complaining about how much I hurt her and asking why I don’t ever want to see her anymore. She said all of that to me at the wedding.”
“I fuckin’ hate this.” I punch the steering wheel, annoyed. “You’re coming with me to New York and there’s no way I’ll let her see you, I swear.”
“Do I have a choice in the matter?”
I glance over at her, exhaling loudly. “I sound like an asshole.”
“No, you sound worried about me.”
“I am.” I stare straight ahead, parking the car directly in front of Carolina’s building. “I have to go to New York. I can’t put them off any longer. They need me there to sign paperwork and go over a few things before the announcement is made. And while I hate that you’re hurt, you have to agree that the timing is good. You can come with me and we can spend some time in the city together.”
“Are you telling me I have to go or are you asking?”
Reaching out, I settle my hand on her thigh, giving it a squeeze. “Asking. With a hint of telling.”
I look at her, our gazes locking, and I try and convey to her through my eyes that I care about her. That I’m watching out for her. That I love her and want to protect her and no one—I mean no one—is going to touch a hair on this woman’s head. Not even her mother.
Does she understand that? Does she see?
“Okay,” she finally whispers. “I’ll go to New York with you. But I don’t know how much time I’ll be able to spend in the city. My ankle is killing me and I have to stay off of it, remember?”
The pointed look she gives sends her message to me loud and clear.
“I won’t make you tour around the city.” Leaning in, I press my mouth to hers. “I just want you with me always.”
“And I want to be with you always.” She cups the side of my face. “But I can fight my own demons, West. I don’t need you to be my savior.”
“Even if I want to be?”
“Even then.”
