“But I want to. I want to move beyond this so I can forgive you.”
He steps away from me and immediately I want to be back in his arms. It’s been absolutely hell not having him around, but I needed time to sort out my feelings even if I still don’t know where we go from here, or how to move on.
He pulls papers from inside his blazer jacket then rips them up. “What was that?” I ask.
He smiles. “That was the contract between us. I don’t want anything hanging over our heads when we move forward from this. No contracts and no secrets. So, Mrs. Larsson, you are free to stay or go. I won’t hold you in this marriage if you don’t want to be here.”
“You’ll let me leave?”
His jaw twitches, and I know he’s having a difficult time with this conversation. However, I want to see if he’s really telling the truth. Will he let me go if that’s the decision I make?
“I will. If that’s what you want.”
“Give me some time, and I’ll give you my decision when I’m ready.”
He nods, then turns on his heels and strides out the door.
30
Florian
Six Weeks Later…
As I walk into our home, the absence of the usual laughter and hustle and bustle of the staff is immediately apparent. The haunting melody of Michel Fokine’s “The Dying Swan” fills the air, which explains the silence. When Arabelle dances, everyone stops what they’re doing to watch like they are watching an angel from heaven. When she dances, she tells a story, and her captivating presence draws you in, making it impossible to look away.
At first, it was hard for both Arabelle and I to come back home after Adahlia kidnapped her and almost killed Hugo. We stayed at the penthouse for a while before she got the nerve to come back home, which I completely understand. However, she missed the studio, and after our brief separation, it’s the only thing that has made living here again normal.
Like I’ve done time and time again, I follow the melodic tunes down the hallway toward the addition I had built onto the back of our home.
The moment I step into the studio’s entrance, I stop in my tracks. Hugo, Nero, Asva, Alrick, and a few other staff members are sitting on the floor around the room, their gazes locked on the captivating scene in front of them.
Leaning against the doorframe, I’m mesmerized by her elegant and beautiful movements. As she moves, it seems like she’s gliding effortlessly, like she’s floating on air. Her movements are graceful and fluid as she moves around the studio in a light pink leotard, pink spandex shorts, and pointe shoes the color of her ebony skin.
The wall of mirrors reflects every graceful turn and bend of her body, capturing her from every angle, while the recessed lighting and the natural light streaming through the windows illuminate her flawlessly.
So far, she hasn’t noticed anyone watching her, not even me. She never does. And she’s always shocked when they all praise her when she finishes. With her performance just a week away, she has dedicated at least two months to perfecting this piece. For a perfectionist like her, there’s always something that can be tweaked in her mind, but when she dances, everything she does is filled with grace and precision.
Nothing can be more perfect.
When she closes her eyes, I see her swaying to the rhythm, completely lost in the music. Each note becomes a part of her blood, a part of her soul. It’s one of the most beautiful and most magnificent things to witness. It’s something I’ll never get tired of experiencing. I come here often just to witness something that comes so naturally to her, and it’s hard to reconcile how much effort she puts into it. The months and long hours she pours into one performance are astounding.
On the final note, she times her ending to perfection. It’s one section she says she needs to work on. In the silent room, the sudden eruption of loud bravos and cheers startles her. Shelooks around the room, then smiles when she notices everyone. She stands, straightening her back, then curtseys while they continue to cheer her on.
I step into the room, and a wave of pride washes over me. This is my wife. The thought still boggles my mind often when I see her.
Once everyone notices me, they file out of the room, leaving us alone. As I walk toward my wife, I feel the warmth of her presence drawing me closer to her.
“I’m sweaty,” she mumbles against my chest after I pull her into my arms.
“I don’t care,” I say, then feel the warmth of her skin as I run my tongue along the side of her neck, savoring the subtle saltiness.
Her laughter fills the air, resonating deep within me. “You’re terrible.”
“You have absolutely no idea how terrible I can be when it comes to you.” I kiss the top of her head. “That was absolutely amazing, Beauty. I think Asva even had tears in his eyes.”
Unable to contain herself, she laughs even harder. Asva would be the last person to cry over anything. He’s the most serious person I’ve ever met, but just like the rest of us, anytime we watch her dance, she pulls emotions from us we don’t even know we have.
“My ending is still off.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose when she pulls away from me. “So, I have a lot more work to do until I get it right.”
