I never thought teaching could bring me as much joy as it does, but it’s rapidly become one of my favorite activities of the week. The time I spend at The Windsor Staccato Foundation is far more fulfilling than anything else I’ve ever done, and through it, I’ve finally begun to understand why Tara Windsor and Mom refused to take on apprentices or students of any kind outside of it.
I finally see why Dion so carefully maintained our mothers’ foundation, their legacy. What I have yet to understand is why he’d entrust me with something so precious, when I have no experience running a foundation this large. The faith he places in me will never cease to amaze me. It makes me wonder if I could trust him in return — with the secrets I keep, the pain I’ve never voiced.
It’s all I can think about on the way home. Try for me, baby. He has no idea how badly I want to, but how do I tell the man I’m falling for that I’ve been tasked with ensnaring him? How do I explain that I spent years resenting him for influencing every aspect of my life, only to find that he’s nothing like the person I built him up to be in my mind? How do I reconcile the part of me that longs to be free of him with the part that wants nothing but him?
“Faye.”
I look up in surprise and find Dion sitting on our sofa, his legs parted and an incredible three-piece suit covering all my favorite parts of him. He looks relaxed and somewhat dazed, and I belatedly notice the whiskey glass balanced on his knee.
“Come here, my darling wife.”
I catch it then, the unfocused look in his eyes, the slight slurring of his words. Fear runs down my spine as I take a step forward, experience having taught me not to hesitate. It isn’t until I’m standing in front of him that I remember this is Dion, and he won’t hurt me the way my father does when he drinks. He won’t.
“I hate it when you look at me that way, you know?” He takes another sip of his whiskey and puts the glass away, the sound of it hitting our coffee table loud in the quiet space. “That’s how you used to look at me when you were younger, as though merely being in my presence hurt you. It’s one of the reasons I couldn’t bear to be near you. Some days, it’s still hard to be around you, knowing that your fears aren’t unfounded.”
He reaches for me and pulls me into his lap, his arms encircling me instantly. “You have no idea how selfish I am,” he whispers, his gaze settling on my lips. “I know what you want, and I’ll never give it to you. I will never let you go.”
I inhale sharply when his hand threads through my hair, his grip tight, desperate. My own hands grip his waistcoat, and he draws a shaky breath. “Dion,” I murmur, my tone soothing. “You have no idea what I want.”
“This,” he murmurs, his gaze heated. “This thing between us, it keeps me hooked, keeps me coming back for more. I’m enchanted, you know?”
I relax into his embrace, my fears entirely gone, vindication taking its place. I’d known he wouldn’t hurt me, but it feels amazing to be proven right.
“You aren’t enchanted, you’re drunk.” I smile at him, and his eyes widen.
“Wow,” he whispers. “Wow. That’s my wife.”
I giggle. I can’t help it. He makes me feel unlike myself. When I’m with him, I feel safe, cherished, and powerful beyond words. He’s one of the richest and most influential men in the world, yet he never acts like it around me. He’s never once made me feel inferior or small. When I married him, I thought I’d be falling into the hands of someone just like my father, but instead, I’m sitting in the lap of a man that thinks my smile lights up the world. He’s so close to tearing down the walls I spent years building, and he has no idea how badly I want to help him knock down what’s left of it.
“Your wife would like to know why you’re drunk at four in the afternoon on a Thursday when you were still supposed to be at work.”
He tightens his grip on me and leans forward, swiping something off our coffee table. “Because of this.”
My eyes widen in disbelief, and my hands tremble as I take the photograph from him. It isn’t the exact same photograph — this one is better. Instead of looking at the mini-me in her arms, Mom is staring straight into the camera, her smile as bright as I remember it.
“Worth it,” Dion whispers, as though he didn’t mean to say the words out loud.
My gaze snaps up to his, my heart beating wildly. “How do you have this?”
He sighs and tightens his grip on me. “That day, at the amusement park? I was there too, baby. My entire family and yours went together.”
He reaches for another photo then, and I stare at it wide-eyed. “It’s… us.”
Dion chuckles, the sound laced with a hint of pain. His hand roams over my body restlessly as he nods. “Yeah. Even then, you were absolutely enamored with me, you know?”
I smirk as I hold up the photo. “Dion, in this photo you’re holding me in your arms, and you’re looking at me like I’m the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”
“You were. You are. I was twelve there, and you were two. All of my siblings were jealous of me because you wouldn’t go anywhere near any of them. I was the only one you liked, the only one that was ever allowed to hold you. I’d forgotten about that, you know? I was your favorite.”
“You still are,” I whisper, wishing I could remember the story he’s telling me. Rationally, I knew that there would be stories of our moms together, since they were best friends, but hearing them is something else altogether. For years, Mom was someone no one acknowledged, someone that everyone in my house wanted to erase from existence even more than death already had. When I lost that photo of her, it felt like I lost the very last piece of her that existed, and it killed me.
As time passed, I began to forget her face and her smile, and with it, she faded away. I was so young that I didn’t have any real memories of her. That one photo was all I had.
“Yeah?” he asks, an odd hint of insecurity in his tone. “Show me, Faye. Prove to me I’m still your favorite.”
I carefully place the photos on the sofa beside us, my gaze darting toward the albums scattered on our coffee table. I’d been so focused on Dion that I hadn’t noticed it straight away, but now curiosity eats at me. Despite that, I turn toward my husband and wrap my arms around his neck.
The past can wait, because he’s right. Nothing will ever change it.
The future, though? If we want it to be, it could be ours.
I lean in and brush my lips against his, my touch tender. He sighs and buries his hands in my hair, his eyes falling closed as he deepens our kiss. He’s so careful with me, so gentle. He treats me like I’m breakable, not realizing each of his touches only reinforces me.
Just a little more. I’ll lean on him a little more until I’m strong enough to stand by his side.
