Page 124 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
And I do. Like a fool. I don’t even think about the risk of following a stranger, because with him, fear doesn’t register. Caution doesn’t, either. I’m not sure what that says about me.
He leads me down the street, his grip firm. He says something in French to the valet waiting by the curb, and even that, his voice, his accent, is unfair.
Smooth, low, the kind that could melt through resolve without even trying.
A black Bentley rolls up. He opens the door for me, and I step inside, dazed, surrounded by the scent of leather and him.
He bends down, his warmth brushing against me as he fastens the seatbelt. His eyes stay on me until the buckle snaps into place.
Then he straightens, closes the door, and moves around to the driver’s side.
He starts the engine and glances at me, quiet but expectant. I show him the address on my phone. He takes it from my hand, studies it, then taps something on the screen. A second later, his phone rings. My number flashes on it.He ends the call without a word and smirks.
I realise what he’s done, and I can’t stop the smile that slips out.
Hopeless, truly.
He drives fast, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh. Every so often, his gaze flicks toward me. City lights slide across his face as we move through the streets, and for an instant, he doesn’t feel real at all.
When I recognise the turn ahead, I finally find my voice. “Please stop here,” I say quietly.
He glances at me, a faint frown pulling at his brow. “Why?”
I bite my lip without thinking. His eyes darken immediately, and I let it go, flustered. “My father,” I say softly, the words catching on the way out. “He can’t see me with you. He’d—”
He looks at me for a long moment, that same unshakable focus in his eyes.
“I understand,” he says after a pause, though it doesn’t sound like he really does.
He pulls over to the curb. The car idles.
I spot my father’s vehicle immediately, the black sedan parked in front of the villa, his guards stationed by the entrance, their focus on the doorway rather than the street. Relief flickers through me. From this angle, they can’t see us.
I exhale quietly, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of my pulse.
Turning back to him, I unclip my seatbelt, fingers trembling slightly as I reach for the handle. But before I can move, his hand tightens on my thigh, just enough to keep me still.
“Goodbye, Arlo,” I whisper.
He looks at me for a moment longer, then releases my thigh.
I open the door and step out into the cool Paris air. Just as I’m about to close it, his voice follows.
“This isn’t goodbye, Ophelia,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “You’ll see me again. I promise you that.”
The door shuts softly, sealing his words between us.
I walk toward the villa, forcing my breathing to even out. But even as the night air cools my cheeks, I can still feel the imprint of his hand on my skin.
And somehow, I know he’s right.
Chapter 43
Ophelia
Eighteen months earlier | Paris, France.
I’m suffocating in this dress.
