Page 55 of Claiming Genevieve

The wait to be called back for my appointment feels endless. When the nurse finally pokes her head out and Rowan stands up with me to follow me back, I see her eyes go wide as she looks at him. Her gaze flicks to my hand, seeing the large emerald-cut ring there and the matching diamond band, and disappointment fills her expression. When Rowan asks me in a low tone if I’m alright, his Irish accent clear in his voice, her disappointment only seems to deepen.

And here I am, trying my best not to want him,I think wryly, as I head back to the exam room.

I try not to think about what the doctor is going to say as my cast is removed, listening as best as I can to the explanations of exercises for muscle atrophy and when and how often I’ll need to go to rehab to try to get the best outcome. When the doctor is finished explaining everything, he pauses and looks at me with that same sympathy that I remember from the doctor at the hospital.

“If you follow all the care instructions, do your exercises, and are careful with it for at least another two months, you could consider returning to dancing in a year.” The doctor pauses. “If you overwork the ankle, or if you put too much strain on it within the next six to twelve months, you might not be able to dance again.”

His tone is gentle as he says it, but firm. Nothing he’s saying is anything I didn’t already expect, but I feel my throat tighten anyway, tears burning at the back of my eyes.A year. By then, I’ll be starting back from the bottom of the company. I don’t doubt that Vincent would find a place for me, but it won’t be anywhere near the position ofprima. And I’ll never lead the company again.

I bite my lip. “Thank you,” I manage finally. “I’ll make that appointment with rehab as soon as I get home.”

The doctor hands over all the paperwork, gives me some final guidance, and then—for the first time in weeks—I walk out of the exam room without crutches. Rowan hovers near me, clearly ready to catch or assist me if I need it, but I make it all the way out and down to the waiting car on my own. He opens the door for me, and I just manage to slip inside before the tears start to spill down my cheeks.

“Lass.” Rowan’s voice is full of sympathy as he slides in next to me, and somehow that only makes me cry harder. “Genevieve. Come on, let’s get you home?—”

He’s interrupted by a car behind us honking loudly. He twists half his body out of the window, shouting back at the driver: “Téigh trasna ort féin! Go fuck yourself!”

“Rowan!” I press my hand to my mouth, a burst of giggles coming out through my tears. “Let’s just go.”

He settles back into the driver’s seat, looking over at me with concern. “We can sit here as long as you need to,milseán. Anyone else can wait.”

I swallow hard, trying to fight back the tears as I meet his gaze. “I feel like—” I bite my lip, wondering if I should say what I’m thinking. If I should be so vulnerable with him. Shouldn’t I be closing myself off from him, now more than ever?

But he just looks at me, patient and waiting for me to finish what I was going to say, and I let out a slow, shaky breath. “I feel like I’m supposed to just be happy that I might be able to dance again. Like if I really love it, I’ll be happy whether I’m theprimaor not, so long as I’m dancing. But all I can think is that it’s going to be miserable, seeing someone else achieving what I had, and always feeling—knowing—that I’m never going to be that good again.”

“That’s bullshit,” Rowan says, and I look up, startled to see a burning intensity in his green eyes as he looks at me. “You worked hard your whole life to be the best, Genevieve. There’s nothing wrong with mourning that. You’re not less of a dancer, less of an artist, because you’d be unhappy not being able to be what you once were.”

I bite my lip. “You really think that?”

He nods. “Once you’ve had the best of something—it’s impossible to go back to a lesser version of it and be satisfied.”

His gaze holds mine, and a shiver runs down my spine. I don’t think he’s talking about ballet any longer. I swallow hard, looking away, and the car behind us honks again. Rowan starts to turn and shout at the driver, but I reach out, touching his leg. I feel him freeze, feel the muscle under my hand tense and go hard, and Rowan drops back into the seat, looking at me.

“Let’s just go,” I say softly, and he nods.

I finally pull out my phone when we get back to the penthouse, ignoring the texts from Chris. I refuse to read them at all. Instead, I check my texts from Dahlia and Evelyn, reassuring them that I’m alright. They both text back nearly immediately, asking if I want to go out and celebrate getting my cast off, and I hesitate for just a minute before I agree.It’ll be good for me,I think. And I don’t know if I can handle another evening of just sitting in the penthouse with Rowan, feeling the tension build between us. He’s been too exhausted from long days of meetings with his father to want to go out and do much, and I’ve found the lack of mobility that I had before frustrating. But now the cast is off, and I have to admit it sounds nice to go out and have drinks with my friends.

“I’m going to go out with Dahlia and Evelyn,” I tell Rowan, and he glances at me, raising an eyebrow.

“Right now?”

“No, tonight. I’ll probably meet them at like… seven? Eight?”

“I’ll send Rory with you,” he says immediately. “I need to talk to my father about a dedicated bodyguard for you, now that you’ll be up and about more, but?—”

I blink at him. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Yes, you do,” he fires back. “Especially on account of that arse of an ex-boyfriend you have. But for more reasons than just that. You’re the wife of the heir to the Irish mafia,taibhseach. You can’t just go around without protection.”

I let out a slow breath, but I can already feel my will to argue fading. If Evelyn and Dahlia’s experiences are anything to go on, Rowan isn’t going to be dissuaded in this. It’ll just be an argument I’ll eventually lose, and I don’t see the point in that. And, if I’m being honest with myself, he’s not entirely wrong that it might be good to have some protection in case Chris decides to bother me. I don’t think he’ll really go as far as harming me again, but a bodyguard would keep him from even speaking to me at all.

“Okay,” I relent, and I see a flicker of surprise in Rowan’s eyes.

For all that I’m still coming to terms with the reality of my injury, and the fact that I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life now, I feel a small burst of excitement when I go to get ready for the evening. It’s been a while since I’ve been out with my friends, and it’ll be a good distraction.

I opt for flat shoes, so I don’t put any undue stress on my still-healing ankle, and pick out a wide-legged black floral silk jumpsuit. I leave my hair down, doing just a bit of light makeup and adding simple gold jewelry, and give myself one glance in the mirror before heading down. I look as if I’ve gained a bit of weight, without the endless rehearsals and strict diet, but I think it suits me. I don’t look as frail as I did before.

Rowan is downstairs in the kitchen when I come down. His gaze drifts over me, taking me in, and I see that familiar glint of desire in his eyes. “Have fun,” is all he says, his voice carefully neutral, but I can feel his eyes on me all the way to the door. Rory knocks and steps in as I’m getting my keys, and Rowan clears his throat.

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