Those words are like a sharp knife to my gut.
“That’s not fair.”
“Sometimes, Basili, life isn’t fair.”
“Chloe, what do you want from me?” I let my hands drop to my side. “I’m trying to find a way to have both —”
“You can’t have both!” Her voice rises slightly then drops again when she remembers that Emmanuel is sleeping down the hall. “You can’t have a wife for politics and… whatever I am. That’s not how this works. That’s not who I am. I need someone who chooses me. Just me.”
She looks up at me, and I see the resignation settle over her face once more. The same resignation I’d seen there three days prior.
“I want someone who chooses me,” she says again, her voice cracking.
“Chloe —”
“But I understand.” She puts her hand on the doorknob again, backing against the door. “I understand that’s not who you are. That it’s not the life you lead. You have an empire to run.”
“So where does that leave us?”
Her eyes grow even sadder, and the pain in my chest is sharp and physical in response.
“There is no us, Basili.”
“So that’s it? You’re just giving up?”
“I can’t be involved in this world.” She shakes her head. “Not again —”
“Again? What do you mean again?” I ask, brows furrowing in confusion, but she doesn’t answer me.
“I know how this goes. No matter what is between us, you’re still going to consider that alliance. Still going to weigh us against duty. And eventually, duty will win. It always does with men like you.”
Then, in one fluid motion, she turns the knob and falls backwards through the door, slamming it in my face.
“Chloe,” I press my forehead against the door as I say her name, pounding my fist on it once in frustration.
For a moment, I consider breaking the door down and forcing her to talk to me, to believe me. Then the reality of what just happened washes over me.
Two weeks. I’ve only got two weeks to fix this. Then she’ll be gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Chloe
“The park with the big fountain?” I ask Emmanuel, setting my book down. “Across the street?”
He nods enthusiastically, his hands moving quickly. “Mama used to take me there. Before she got sick. We’d feed the ducks, and I’d climb on the rocks by the water.”
It’s been two days since Basili confronted me in the hallway. I’d been able to carefully maintain my distance from him since, focusing entirely on Emmanuel, pretending all the while that my heart doesn’t break every time I see him across the dinner table.
Emmanuel’s been quieter than usual, and I can’t help but wonder if he’d heard us arguing that night. It isn’t the traumatized silence from when I first found him, but more contemplative.
“Can we go there?” He signs.
“I don’t see why not. It’s a beautiful day out.”
“What about the guards?” he signs slowly. “Papa always sends guards.”
“It’s just across the street. I think we can make it there and back just the two of us. Don’t you?” I suggest it, even knowing it’s probably a horrible idea.
