“I don’t understand.”
That was when I felt his hands on my face, cupping my cheeks. As he placed his mouth by my ear, I could feel his breath on my face.
“I don’t want to scare you.”
“But youarescaring me. You’re not talking to me. You aren’t painting. You’ve pulled away.”
“No,” he said, his lips still against my ear. “No, Chantel, it’s the other way around.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand what it is I feel for you, and I’m scared to tell you. I’m scared it will make you run far away and never come back,” he confessed, placing his hand on my chest.
“Nothing could make me leave,” I said.
“Nothing?” Somehow, I knew his eyes were on me.
“Nothing.”
“I can’t stop the ache in my chest, Chantel.” He paused for a moment. I began to speak, but he continued before I could utter a single sound.
“When your parents said they want you to think about moving back to America, I felt like someone had pulled my heart out of my chest.”
“But—”
“Literally, it felt like someone reached in and ripped my heart out of my chest. I shouldn’t feel this possessive of someone. I know that in here,” he explains, tapping my head. “But here in my heart and in my soul… Chantel, I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’m all twisted and consumed in my need with these fucked-up thoughts. If you leave, I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“I’m not leaving you,” I said. But he wasn’t in the frame of mind to listen.
“Hearing them talk about you returning in several months made me crazy. I can’t let you go. You know that, right? I need you here.”
“I want and need to be here, Phillipe. Please,” I said, “listen to what I’m telling you. Come back to me. Be strong with me. Trust me.”
“My heart aches for you,” he replied, his voice quiet and low. “I would die for you, and that terrifies me.”
I felt a shiver slide over my spine as I cradled his face in my palms. I had no words.
I was his.
I try not to flinch as the headline glares at me in accusation.
Tragic Accident or Tragic Betrayal?
By Michael London
I skim through the story and find myself cringing at certain questions from the journalist.
And it only gets worse. Words such astragic, horrifying, anddeceptiveare littered throughout the whole piece.
Disgusted and annoyed at myself, I snap the laptop shut and push it away.
What am I doing?I have been here long enough to know that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have. Right?
Even though Phillipe is warning me to leave and my brain is agreeing, for some reason, I know that I won’t. On the tail end of that realization is a startling one—Ican’t.
Not only am I determined to stay here to get this story and get it right, but I am also here because of Phillipe and Chantel themselves.
Separately, they are fascinating individuals, both artistic in nature and both passionate about the other. Together, however, they are an irresistible force.
