Page 216 of Sinful Desires
I picked her up, her skin flush against mine. Her soft cries pressed into my throat, nails biting into my waist, while I whispered things no one else would ever get to hear.
When we woke up hours later, still wrapped around each other, her eyes were on my tattoo. Fingers dragging over the ink I’d carved into my skin fourteen years ago.
À la vie, à la mort.
“Why did you tattoo this?”
I stared at the ceiling for a beat.
“In France, we say it to the people we’d kill or die for.Je t’aime.À la vie, à la mort.”
The words came out low, blunt, automatic.
Behind my eyes, flashes of my father chasing me through the garden, teaching me how to fish, trying to be the kind of man I could never become.
“My parents used to say it to me from the time I could understand words. Over and over. It became our promise. Every night before bed:On t’aime, Théo.À la vie, à la mort.”
She hummed softly.
“In life and in death. That’s what they meant, right? That no matter what happened?…?they’d still be with you?”
“Yeah,” I murmured, pressing my lips to her forehead. “Got it just hours before enlisting. For my dad.”
Her eyes rose to mine, hands grazing my face.
“Thank you for letting me meet him. I know it couldn’t have been easy, being in that room again. I can’t imagine how much it cost you to let me in, to share that pain. But you did,” she whispered. “And I’msograteful you let me carry it with you. I love you, Théo.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My chest felt tight, my throat raw.
So, I kissed her instead.
She kissed me back with a sigh, then grabbed her phone and walked to the other side of the suite, sat on the sofa, and called someone.
I picked up mine and called Romaniev as I stepped into the bathroom.
Harper had gotten out of the hospital a few hours ago with stitches, a scowl, and enough rage to fuel his jet back to New York.
He’d signed the termination contract with his daughter and had handed everything over on one condition: that she never crawl back to him.
That wouldn’t ever fucking happen.
Not while I was still breathing.
Scarlett was free.
Legally, at least. The music, the name, and the rights were all hers again. No fucking strings left to pull.
After a cold shower, I walked out to find the suite swarmed. Stylists. Makeup artists. Victoria. Nicholas.
Every single one of them looked red-carpet ready.
Fuck.
The Oscars.
Nicholas let out a dramatic gasp.
“Scarlett, oh my God. You’re not walking into the Oscars, you’re descending from Mount Olympus.”
