Chapter 12

I wanted a divorce.

But Elliot only wanted to run from it—he'd thrown himself into overseeing the Bramwell Academy renovation and had barely come home in weeks.

One evening, Dominic was driving me back when we passed the original Bramwell Piano Academy.

The sign had come down. Workers were moving things out.

Elliot's car was parked out front.

"Let me out here. I might as well talk to him."

Dominic pulled over.

"I'll wait."

I went inside. The space was gutted—the instruments long gone, what remained were worn fixtures and odds and ends nobody wanted. Some people were hauling things out, others moving through with clipboards, someone sweeping.

I asked one of the staff where Elliot was. She had a thick accent and said something about transferring a network connection. I gave up trying to parse it and wandered the building.

Upstairs was a mess. Every door stood open. Even the bathroom signage had been stripped off the walls—though there was one door at the end of the hall that was shut.

I tried it. Locked.

One of the cleaning staff came up behind me. "That's the accessible restroom—it's been out of service for ages. The regular ones still work if you need one."

Accessible restroom.

I went still.

"How long has it been out of service?"

"A long time. It was never open when I started here."

I pressed my fingers hard into my palm and felt the sharp edge of my nail. "Who has the key?"

"Should be with the owner."

I turned and walked out quickly, found a locksmith, and had him open it.

Inside: a narrow white room—white floor, white ceiling—yellow safety rails mounted everywhere. Along the toilet, framing the sink, bolted into the wall at intervals, bar after bar cutting the space into clean angular sections.

I reached out and gripped one of the rails. Pushed. Solid.

"Nothing in it—just cold lines—the only way to stand is to find something to hold onto. Supports everywhere. You pick one, give yourself over completely. And in doing that, you also take complete control."

"Since I left the university to start the business, the pressure was unbearable. I used to lock myself in the bathroom just to cut off the outside world. I never wanted to bring that to you, and yet I still failed to take care of you."

Natasha's voice. Elliot's voice. Looping in alternation.

I couldn't breathe. My legs gave out. I braced against the sink with both hands.

After a long time, I raised my head and looked in the mirror.

I didn't recognize what I saw.

Something split inside me—like watching myself from across the room. I should have been cold. But the woman in the mirror was crying, and the image was blurring, and I was losing my grip on myself.

I slipped.

Through the mirror I saw Elliot standing behind me—his arms wrapped hard around Natasha, the two of them tangled together.

I spun and swung.

My wrist was caught.

"Vivian?" Dominic was looking at me, uncertain.

I came back to myself. Stumbled. He steadied my arm. "What happened?"

I looked at him. Everything in my head was noise. No way to settle it. On impulse, I leaned forward.

He moved back, barely, eyes narrowing. "...Vivian?" A different tone.

He looked around the room. Something moved across his face—consideration, then a flicker of something almost bewildered. Like the thought he was forming was too absurd to fully land.

I straightened up. "Close the door on your way out."

He nodded and turned, pulling the door halfway shut. "I'll be outside."

I shoved it.

The door slammed. Before he could turn, I pushed him hard into it—his back hit the panel—he inhaled sharply, didn't have time to speak before I stopped every sound he might have made.

He stared at me.

The height difference meant I had to angle up, both hands pressed flat against his chest, pressing my mouth to his. A long, deep kiss.

To reach him at all, I had to stand on my toes.

Just when my legs were giving out, a hand came around my waist—steady, slow, then moving upward.

Dominic lowered his head.

He's given in, I thought. I let my guard down.

Then both his hands came to my shoulders and held me back, a breath of space between us, his breathing uneven.

"Vivian. What are you doing?"

Honestly—

I didn't know.

I would have liked to know too.

I met his eyes, that searching gaze, and something vast and raw came up in me—like floodwater rising, cold and patient, until it reached my lungs.

"Am I less pretty than her?" My finger moved toward his throat. "Dominic—me and Natasha. Who's prettier?"

"That's not the point—" He pressed my hand down, held my gaze, exhaled slowly. "You."

I pressed my lips together. My nose burned.

"Then why don't you want me?"

He touched my face. His expression held something tender and aching. "Vivian. I'm sorry. I'm not him."

I blinked. Did he think I'd confused them?

My eyes cleared. Tears ran. My voice came out steady. "I know who you are. You're Dominic Kingsley. Why won't you kiss me?"

He went still. His voice turned rough. "Because I'm not that kind of man."

He was an upstanding man.

I thought about that. Then I stepped in close and brought my lips to his ear. "Besides my husband Elliot, I haven't been with anyone."

The body against mine went rigid.

I looked up.

The tips of his ears were dark red. His throat moved.

He looked down at me. His breathing slowed, then became unsteady.

"You really know how to..." He didn't finish the sentence.

Then his arm came around my waist and his other hand gathered the hem of my skirt—he nearly lifted me off the ground—and he bent down and kissed me, hard.