I’m not a man who cries, but tears burn my eyes. I pull her closer, my face against her hair, breathing her in.
And in the silence that follows, my thoughts betray me. What would it take to keep her here, with me, inmy world? I’m single. She’s single. On paper, there’s nothing to stop us.
Couldn’t we make it work?
But I know better.
My life isn’t mine alone. It belongs to my family name, to centuries of history and expectation, to boardrooms and foundations, and the endless glare of the press. Everything about me is magnified, judged, dissected. I’ve seen what that scrutiny did to Simone—and she was bred for it, raised in the same gilded cage.
And still, it destroyed us.
Our marriage wasn’t a union based on love—it was theater. Every argument leaked, every holiday photographed, every gesture twisted into a narrative. And when it collapsed, it did so spectacularly, like a palace burning, and I was left standing in the ashes while the world pointed and laughed.
It nearly broke me.
It nearly broke Aubert.
I’m not ready to do that. Not ready to hand someone my heart, only to watch the press feed on it like carrion. Not ready to fail another woman, or worse, watch her fail me.
I am boring the gossipmongers, now. They leave me alone. Sometimes they whisper about Simone still hanging off my arm, but I’m not exciting enough to sustain their interest. I like it this way. If I brought a woman into the fray….
After his divorce, Philippe fell for a woman fromMadrid who had nothing to do with our world. She was luminous, strong. A graphic designer at a software company. Normal. The tabloids tore her apart until she left him, whispering through tears that no love was worth that kind of crucifixion. Which is why he goes out with women like Sigrid, and lets the paps have a good time. He doesn’t care much about her or what they say, and she enjoys the attention, sees it as a good thing for her career; everyone is happy.
So yes, I could ask Tara to stay. I could give in to this want that feels as essential as air. But she has no idea what it means to be pulled into my orbit. She’ll lose the freedom she wears like sunlight, piece by piece, until she no longer resembles herself.
I want her more than I’ve wanted anything. But wanting and keeping are not the same.
Also, I’ve only known Tara for a few short weeks. That’s not enough time to build anything real, I tell myself, trying to anchor reason somewhere in this madness.
But the truth presses back, calm and merciless. I've never known anyone better than I do Tara.
And perhaps most unsettling of all—I’ve never known myself more clearly than when I’m with her.
Tara makes me remember the man I might have been if the world hadn’t decided who I should become.
She turns into me in her sleep. Soft. Warm. Vulnerable.
She’ll leave in a few weeks. That’s the only definitive part of us—our expiration date.
But tonight, she’s here.
And I am a man who has made peace with wanting something temporary—because it’s easier than wanting something I can’t have.
So, I hold her close to a heart that is starting to beat for her.
* Please (French)
CHAPTER 17
Tara
Iwake before him.
The sky outside is still cloudy. It’s drizzling. The city feels hushed…intimate.
Gustave is on his side, one arm flung across the sheets, breathing evenly. I watch him for a moment, taking in the unguarded lines of his face, the softness he never shows in public.
How many more such mornings do we have? Five, six? Eight? Ten? No matter how many, they’re not going to be enough.
