Emma reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together, grounding them in this new thing they were building.
“You don’t have to stay erased,” Emma said. “Not with me.”
And Olivia didn’t answer.
She just held on tighter. They lay in silence again, the kind that comes from something full, words unsaid settling like dust in the low light. The gallery wall still watched over them, but it no longer pulled Emma’s attention. Not when Olivia’s fingers were resting so delicately against her ribs, tracing the space between them as if measuring the distance left to close.
Emma wasn’t asleep. She could feel Olivia thinking, feel it in the way her breath would catch, the way her hand paused mid-stroke like she was trying to hold a thought steady.
And then, just above a whisper, Olivia said, “I want you here.” Her voice was fragile, like it wasn’t sure it had the right to exist. “But I don’t know how to deserve you.”
Emma’s eyes opened slowly, the weight of the moment not lost on her.
It wasn’t romantic, what Olivia had said, but it was honest.
She rolled onto her side, one hand brushing Olivia’s cheek, the pad of her thumb just below her eye where that hint of fear lived.
“It’s not about deserving,” Emma said, her voice low, steady, soft. “It’s about choosing.”
Olivia blinked.
Emma pressed her forehead to Olivia’s. “You don’t have to earn me like an award. I’m not one of your mother’s plaques.”
There was a shudder in Olivia’s breath, a silent quake through her frame, and Emma felt it as deeply as if it were her own.
“I choose you,” Emma said, again, more firmly this time. “I’m standing right here. You just have to let me.”
And Olivia—quiet, brilliant, battle-scarred Olivia—closed her eyes just for a second, then she nodded.
The apartment had settled into its final silence. No more murmured words. No more confessions curling into the dark. Just breath and warmth and skin pressed to skin.
Emma lay beside Olivia, her body curved protectively around her, one hand splayed gently over Olivia’s chest, right over her heart. She could feel its rhythm, steady and grounded, like it knew, finally, it wasn’t alone. Their breathing had synced without effort.Emma stared at the ceiling, eyes adjusting to the dim outline of bookshelves and trailing plants, the sound of the city far below like the faintest whisper. Olivia slept beside her, her hand still tangled in the hem of Emma’s shirt like she couldn’t quite let go.
Emma felt it in her bones, this was where she was supposed to be. This tangle of limbs and breath and broken lineage and slow, unsteady healing.
She belonged here.
21
Chapter Twenty-One - Olivia
The Harrington estate stood like a monolith at the edge of the hills, unbothered by time and untouched by softness. It wasn’t a home as much as it was a shrine. A perfectly curated monument to excellence, legacy, and unrelenting control.
The driveway curved, flanked by cypress trees. The iron gates had been repainted recently, even the gravel underfoot felt like it had been raked into perfect alignment, as if chaos had never dared cross this threshold.
Catherine arrived first, as she always did. Punctual. Impeccable. Expected.
She stepped out of a black car wearing a soft dove-gray blouse tucked into tailored navy trousers, hair caught in a loose twist at the nape of her neck. Her heels whispered authority across the marble steps. She kissed Evelyn’s cheek with the kind of grace that masked friction—quick, cool, habitual.
“You look well,” Evelyn said, stepping back to examine her daughter with critical approval. “Paris agrees with you. Though I hope it hasn’t made you...indulgent.”
Catherine offered a diplomatic smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “I find the French quite efficient, actually. In their own way.”
Roz followed fifteen minutes later—noisy, unapologetic, and dragging a battered duffel bag like she was arriving for a sleepover she had no intention of staying the night for. Her boots were scuffed. Her black jeans torn at one knee. A cigarette burned between two fingers, even though she knew Evelyn despised the smell.
“Still smells like Clorox and judgment,” she muttered as she stepped inside, flicking the last of the ash into a decorative urn by the door. “Nice to know nothing changes.”
Evelyn didn’t greet her with a hug, only a pointed look. “You’re late.”
