Page 29 of Greek's Temporary Cinderella

‘At least you have the grace to admit that.’ His voice was terse.

She looked at him. There was still that same expression in her eyes.

‘I admit everything, Leandros,’ she said, in that same quiet voice. ‘Everything I did to you.’

They reached their loge and took their seats again. Her words echoed in his head. And the sadness that had been in her voice. Then his mouth tightened. She might admit what she had done to him—but she had not said she regretted it.

And if she did regret it? Would it make a difference? Would I think less ill of her?

Restlessly, he crossed his legs as the curtain rose. He could catch the faint scent of Eliana’s perfume, hear the slight rustle of her gown as she slanted her legs away from his. The sense of her presence at his side in the dim light of the auditorium pressed against him. He focussed, instead, deliberately, on Puccini’s passionate music and the events unfolding on the stage, darkening to their desolate conclusion.

The faithless woman was dragging the hapless lover to his death, and hers. He should feel no pity for her—none. And yet as, in the final scene, Manon’s besotted lover staggered to seek water in the desert in which they were marooned, and Manon lifted her lovely head to cry out, despairing and agonised, against her fate—‘sola, perduta, abbandonata’—lost, abandoned, alone—he could not help but feel her anguish.

He felt his eyes go to the woman at his side, sitting as motionless as he.

Abandoned and alone. Her husband dead, cast out by his ruthless father, all but destitute, scraping a living, bereft of all hope of anything better...

He felt emotion stab. It could not be pity. How could it be? She deserved none, had earned none. Not from him.

His expression hardened even as the final anguished notes from the dying lovers on stage brought down the curtain on the final act. There would be no second act for Eliana—not if she had hopes of one from him. He had brought her here only to rid himself of her—to exorcise her former power over him and to free himself.

That, and only that, was his purpose.

A purpose he must abide by. Or risk far too much...

‘What might tempt you?’

Leandros’s query made Eliana look up from the menu. After the performance they had removed, as it was popular to do, to the opera’s restaurant. Unlike the ornate Second Empire style of the rest of the building, the restaurant had been created as a startling contrast, with modernist style and lines—and a celebrity chef to entice those in the expensive seats to equally expensive post-performance dining.

‘I’m not quite sure,’ she answered now.

The gourmet menu was full of tempting possibilities, and she would be happy with any of them. Happy just to sit here and have Leandros across the table from her. She seemed, she thought, to be inhabiting a new world—it looked just like the one she had been in before, and yet it had changed. Profoundly, permanently. For there could be no going back now, she knew. She had faced the truth about herself. All that confusion and conflict within herself had gone.

Would it make her happy? No, that was impossible. Leandros’s justified bitterness was indelible—she knew that too, accepted it. Just as she accepted the truth of what Puccini’s heart-rending music had revealed to her. The truth about herself.

She let her gaze rest on Leandros, feeling again that upwelling of emotion that had come over her, accepting that truth—welcoming it. She was happy just to be here with him, discussing their dining options in the busy restaurant, with chatter and conversation all around them, other diners enjoying the gourmet offerings just as she and Leandros were about to do.

‘I’m having the lamb,’ Leandros was saying now. ‘I recommend it.’

‘Then, yes, the lamb,’ she agreed, setting aside the menu and agreeing, too, to his recommendation of a salmon and seafood first course.

He was back to being civil to her—no more cutting remarks likening her to Manon. She was glad of it, but she knew now that the pain it caused her did not matter any longer. His bitterness against her was as justified as ever—how could it not be?—but she knew she could not change that. Accepted that she could not. It was only she who had changed, not him, with her new self-knowledge, her new self-awareness. She was no longer confused, or denying, or conflicted. Only clear and certain.

As they dined, they made conversation, as they had that afternoon. Careful, yes, and civil, about neutral matters—the sights of Paris, what was of interest, history and art. Yet all the time she was aware of his eyes lingering on her as he reached for his wine, as he set aside his plate. He did not make it obvious, but it was there all the time.

She welcomed it.

Welcomed, too, her own answering response, knowing how much she wanted to let her gaze rest on him, glory in him...rejoice in what she knew he wanted of her...

Even though it could never match all that she wanted of him...

A sliver of a needle slid under her skin, but she accepted the pain. Leandros would not—could not—think differently about her. He desired her—and despised her. He had brought her here to Paris for the reason he had told her. That would not change. Only she had changed.

I told myself I owed it to him, that I could assuage my guilt at what I did to him by acceding to what he wants of me. That that was all I wanted. But I deceived myself—that was not all.

But now there was no more self-deception, no more denial. Not any more. Now, as his gaze lingered on her, she knew—with every passing moment, with every lingering glance exchanged between them, with her newfound clarity and certainty and acceptance, with all that was flowing within her, lifting her, changing her, quickening her—what tonight would bring.

For Leandros—and herself.

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