When I’m with You (Because You Are Mine #2)(93)
Author: Beth Kery

She sunk onto the edge of the bed and shuddered with grief. It was the first time she’d wept since Lucien had left Chicago. She’d even been reckless in falling in love, doing so deeply. Irrevocably. Now she’d done it, and there was no going back—only forward, into a future that looked bleak and lonely without Lucien.

But she’d learned something about herself since coming to Chicago, hadn’t she? She was a hard worker. She had a passion for cooking. And despite everything that had happened recently, she still felt that newly found kernel of strength in herself—impossible to deny or ignore.

She wouldn’t fold. She would endure. No matter how difficult that might be.

Wiping off her face with the back of her hand, she stood and continued with her packing, determined to proceed one minute at a time. One second, if need be. Plans needed to be made, and they would be. No matter how hollow she felt on the inside.

* * *

The penthouse had a flat, lifeless quality to it when Lucien opened the front door the next day. It was early in the morning on a Sunday. He hadn’t slept except for a few hours on the plane, and his eyes were gritty from exhaustion. It’d been a heart-wrenching past few days, watching Ian and his grandparents at Helen’s side, seeing her fade from this life ever so slowly.

He’d left as soon as he’d assured himself he’d done everything he could. He had an overwhelming desire to look upon Elise’s luminous face . . . to find solace in her vibrant presence.

If he had to guess, he’d say the penthouse was empty. Perhaps she’d gone for a run?

Anxiety built in him as he walked back to the bedroom suite to check and make sure his assumption was correct. Sure enough, the large bed was empty and made—a very depressing sight after his increasingly frequent fantasies of finding Elise in it, warm, soft, and pliable from sleep.

His brow furrowed as he examined the master suite. It looked entirely too neat. Elise wasn’t messy by any means, but she usually left signs of her presence—a magazine or book on the bedside table, a scarf tossed across a chair . . .

. . . her grand-mère’s brush on the vanity cabinet in the bathroom.

He strode to the bathroom in search of that telltale evidence. He saw no brush, nor did he see Elise’s bottle of perfume that used to sit next to his cologne. None of her personal belongings to which he’d become accustomed were there.

Alarm rushed through him, potent and jarring.

“Elise?” he bellowed. He quickly checked the living room, kitchen, dining room, extra bedroom, and den. All empty.

She was gone. An icy chill went through him. He’d half worried that she might be disgusted by what she’d learned at Ian’s penthouse the other night. She’d certainly seemed awkward and uncomfortable when they had briefly spoken on the phone, and she hadn’t called him once while he was in London. He knew they needed to talk, but he felt the uselessness and hollowness of doing it via the phone, so he’d just sent her messages to keep her updated. They’d talk face-to-face once he returned.

He hadn’t believed things were so bad that she’d leave. But maybe it wasn’t her discomfort about Trevor Gaines? Maybe she was angry because he hadn’t confided the full truth to her?

He’d always preached to her about honesty after all, he recalled grimly.

He pocketed the keys he’d set on a table in the living room and headed for the front door, already drawing his phone out of his jacket. He’d find her, he thought, his moment of panic giving way to grim determination. If she didn’t answer her phone, Francesca probably knew of her whereabouts . . . or Denise and Sharon were good possibilities, although Fusion was closed today . . .

His hand was on the front door when he glanced aside at an entryway table and paused.

Elise’s purse rested on it. A powerful feeling of relief swept through him, stealing his breath. Trepidation was close on its heels.

He realized fully for the first time that he was colluding with Elise in their distant, impersonal communication. He wasn’t sure what to say to her.

He thought of how he’d encouraged her to be honest, how he’d told her he’d never be disappointed in her if she was. She’d deserved the same courtesy, but he’d deprived her of that. Yes, he’d had a good reason. The truth about Trevor Gaines was not only his ugly story, it was Ian’s. Lucien had decided it was only right that Ian be the first to hear the facts. He truly believed in that decision, but his secrecy had come from more than just respect for Ian. He knew that now. His rationale had given him the excuse he needed to keep a distance from others for years. The women he’d dated, his adoptive mother, his foolish adoptive father . . .

From Elise.

It’d been Lucien who had been too insecure about the truth. He’d been so disgusted by it, he’d guarded the ugliness of it even from her.

Especially from her.

Which was the same thing as putting up a wall against his own heart.

* * *

Elise stood at the east-facing parapet, a cool, pleasant, early-morning lake breeze brushing against her cheeks and fluttering her hair. Scattered clouds occasionally blocked the sun, so that she stood in bright light one moment, shadows the next. She was on the roof terrace, but she had the strangest feeling she was at a symbolic crossroads.

Her plans were in place. It was time for her to leave Lucien’s residence for good. He couldn’t want her there. He wouldn’t.

Her bags had already gone ahead of her. Instead of having to return to Paris, her tail between her legs—as she’d feared—Denise had been her savior. The chef had insisted last night that Elise stay with her.

Elise had called her mentor and told her an edited version of her reasons for needing to leave Chicago, not wanting to betray Lucien to his employee. It turned out she needn’t have worried. Being the perceptive woman Denise was, she’d already guessed at Elise and Lucien’s relationship, and was sympathetic to a breakup, wisely not taking the side of either party. Elise had assured the older woman she would pay her back the rent money as soon as she was able, but Denise hadn’t been concerned.

“With your talent, you’ll have your own restaurant very soon. You can pay me back then if you choose, but the most important thing is that you finish your training,” she’d said.

Elise inhaled the fresh breeze, praying for inspiration. Insight.

There’s a difference between asking and begging. There is no desperation in asking—only courage.

The words Lucien had once spoken to her on this very terrace beneath a midnight-blue, star-studded sky echoed around her brain. Was she perhaps being a coward by leaving? Was she giving up too early, without giving herself the opportunity to speak to Lucien . . . to ask for his forgiveness?