Page 16 of Claiming Genevieve

I close my eyes, feeling tears dampening my lashes and leaking down my cheeks. I don’t know when I started crying, but it seems to have happened passively, as if my body can no longer contain the riot of emotion inside of me. The tears drip down to my chin, streaking down my neck and soaking the edge of my leotard, and I feel the stretcher start to move, wheeling me out of the theater to the waiting ambulance.

I’ve become a spectacle—for all the wrong reasons. Tomorrow, when people whisper about what they saw at the ballet last night, it won’t be about my stunning performance, or my grace or the enviable way I portrayed Giselle. It won’t be about the emotion I evoked or the art I created. It will be whispers about my fall, about my disgrace—pity and sorrow andoh, it’s so sad, isn’t it? I can’t imagine. I feel so terrible for her.

I hear the click of the back door to the theater opening, feel the warm summer night air against my face as I’m taken outside. More tears flood down my cheeks, my eyes squeezed tightly shut, until I hear someone call out my name.

“Genevieve!”

I open my eyes, and see Rowan rushing toward me.

“Are you okay?” His eyes are wide with shock, his face a little pale as he looks at me. For once, there’s no smirk, no humor on his face—nothing but fear and worry that surprises me as much as it angers me. Because, as far as I’m concerned, both he and Chris are part of the reason that I’m on this stretcher right now.

“Leave me alone.” I turn my face to the other side, my chest aching, even the sight of him right now too much to bear. “I don’t want to see you, do you understand me? I never want to fucking see you again!”

There’s silence. When I turn my face back, as the ambulance doors open, Rowan is gone.

7

ROWAN

The moment I saw her fall, I felt something I’ve never felt before.

I’m not even sure what the right word for it is.Horrifiedis the closest I can get, but even that doesn’t feel like enough to describe the cold that swept over me—a moment of utter despondence at what I was seeing in front of me, and my utter inability to do anything at all about it.

I watched her crumple to the stage, like a marionette with its strings cut, and I wanted to rush to her side. I wanted to hold her, help her—and I couldn’t do a fucking thing.

I never want to see you again.

I stand there in the parking lot as I watch the ambulance drive away, still cold despite the warmth of the summer night, staring after the vehicle as it vanishes into the darkness.

Was it my fault?

Something squeezes hard in my chest at the thought that I might have caused this, or at least have had a hand in it. The look on her face when they wheeled her to the ambulance, how pale she was, the grief and anger on her face when she told me to leave her alone—I clench my hands into fists, feeling utterly useless.

I should leave, like she told me to. I should stay away from her. I’ve done enough harm, it seems—and yet I pull out my phone, texting my driver, and knowing exactly where I’m going to tell him to go.

“New York-Presbyterian Hospital,” I instruct him as soon as I slide into the cool leather interior, still feeling as if I’m shivering despite the pleasant temperature inside the car. It’s the biggest and best hospital in New York City, so far as I’m aware, so I’m willing to bet they’ll take Genevieve there. At least, I hope so. And whether or not I should, I’m going to go see her.

I need to make sure she’s okay.

Of course she’s not okay, you fucking idiot.I lean my head back against the seat, unable to keep the horrible scene from replaying over and over in my head. I don’t know very much about ballet, but I have some idea of what a ballerina—especially one at Genevieve’s level—injuring her foot or ankle, or leg might mean. Even if I had no idea how serious it was, the look of devastation on her face would have been enough to tell me that this was something serious.

I have half a mind to tell the driver to take me home instead. After all of this—after every conversation we’ve had that’s become an argument, after what happened today—maybe I should just leave her be. But every time I consider it, something inside of me rebels, pulling me back toward her like a magnet. I can’t get her off my mind, can’t reconcile the way she makes me feel with the brief time I’ve known her and the fact that nothing, absolutely nothing about her is convenient or makes sense for my life right now.

I’m supposed to be preparing to inherit my family’s empire, to become one of the three major crime bosses in New York—to take on a weighty mantle of responsibility that I’ve been running from my whole life. Becoming romantically entangled with anyone right now would be inconvenient, but Genevieve?—

I should forget her. Turn around and walk away and never see her again, exactly as she said earlier. I have other things that I need to focus on, bigger problems that I should be concerned with. And yet, I don’t tell my driver to go home instead.

I want to know if she’s alright. I want to see her with my own two eyes and know she’s being taken care of. I doubt that her asshole boyfriend is going to do much to take care of her.

My jaw tightens as I look out of the window, one hand flexing against my thigh. She deserves better than him, I know that much. I’m not so arrogant as to think that I’d be the answer to all her problems, the key to her happiness—but I could certainly fucking solve some of them, I think grimly as the car pulls up to the front doors of the hospital.

I don’t need to know her boyfriend to know what kind of man he is. And I know I could make her happier. I could give her, at the very least, more freedom to live her life however she chooses, rather than forcing her into a traditional relationship that’s clearly making her unhappy.

Although… I’m not doing a very good job of listening to her right now. Even I can admit that, though it doesn’t stop me from bolting out of the car and heading into the reception area of the hospital.I’m just going to see her,I tell myself as I walk up to the receptionist.I’m just going to make sure she’s alright, and then I’ll leave, like she asked.

“I’m looking for Genevieve Fournier’s room,” I tell the receptionist politely—a pretty blonde who looks to be in her mid-twenties and who, on any other day, I’d already be flirting with. But right now, the only woman on my mind is Genevieve.

She’sbeenthe only woman on my mind since the night I met her. I’ve been in New York nearly two weeks now, and I haven’t so much as been out to a bar or a club, much less brought a woman home or gone home with someone. I haven’t wanted anyone else, and if I’d allowed myself to think very hard about that for more than a second, I’d have realized just how alarming that is.

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