Page 6 of Claiming Genevieve

Vincent gives a grudging nod, and I feel a flicker of relief. I push forward, driving the point home.

“I can’t deal with the emotional fallout of a breakup right now. Not when we’re in constant rehearsals, with the showcase so soon. My head needs to be in the game, right? You’re right, I don’t love Chris, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t affection there. We’ve been together for a year. I can’t just break that off and feel nothing, Vincent. I’m not a machine. And my performance will suffer if I’m trying to deal with that, with moving to a new place, with anewrelationship with Rowan… those are all distractions I don’t need. After the showcase, I’ll figure things out.”

“And if he gets distracted by someone else?” Vincent narrows his eyes. “Or loses interest?”

“Then someone else will step in. I know you think he’s this big fish, Vincent, butI’myourprima.” A flicker of the anger I felt before slips into my tone—anger over Vincent’s focus being on anything other than my well-being—and I can see that he hears it. “I need to take care of myself. And this will only hurt me, and my performance, in the end.”

“Fine.” Vincent gives in, grudgingly. “But think about it.”

“I said I would.”

It comes out snappish, and I wonder if it will piss him off, but it seems like Vincent has realized that he’s pushedmefar enough for one evening. He nods, and I take advantage of the moment.

“I think I’m going to head home.” I tighten my hand around the clutch that I’m holding. “I’m tired, and clearly I’ve already met your most important guest of the evening. I’m going to head out early. We have rehearsal tomorrow, after all.”

The last sentence keeps Vincent from saying anything. He fixes me with a thin-lipped, disappointed look, but he says nothing as I walk past him, back into the too-warm room with the orchestra now playing an instrumental version of Taylor Swift’sShake It Off. I wonder if I should try to snag another glass of champagne while I’m rebelling. But truthfully, I don’t really want it.

I don’t even want to go home, where I’ll have to see Chris, where there will be someone else in bed with me. I want to be alone for a night, sleep alone, be left completely on my own with my thoughts. I’m tempted to get a hotel room for the night just for that reason, but if I do, I know I’ll have to explain it. And I know Chris won’t understand.

Especially after our fight earlier, he might try to twist it into accusations thatI’mcheating onhim. I’m not, of course, but I don’t have the energy to have that fight. It will just undo whatever peace and relaxation I get from the night away.

I call an Uber, shivering a little in the early spring chill despite my coat. I didn’t see Rowan as I skirted the edge of the ballroom, slipping out into the entryway and then outside, and I’m glad. I don’t want to have to speak to him again, explain that I’m leaving early, make excuses, or avoid giving him my number or taking his. I don’t want to talk to anyone else tonight.

I feel tired. More tired than I have in a very, very long time—even after grueling rehearsals. The kind of tired that’s more than just physical. When the Uber shows up, I slide into the back and lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes for a moment and trying to center myself.

The ride back to the apartment I share with Chris is all too short. I walk through the quiet lobby to the elevator, wincing at the sharp jolts of pain in my feet from my heels as they click on the black and white tile. I step into the mirrored elevator and tap my keycard for the penthouse level. When I unlock the front door and walk in, I pause, listening to hear if Chris is home yet.

I don’t hear anything. The penthouse is silent, other than the tap of the wind against the large floor-to-ceiling glass windows that make up the majority of the walls—and often make me feel like I’m living in an aquarium—and the occasionalclinkof the icemaker in the kitchen.

That sound propels me into the kitchen. I pause at the wine rack on the sleek black granite counter, sliding a bottle free and reaching up to get a wine glass. The kitchen is all black and steel, as cold as the rest of the apartment, and I have a sudden ache for something warm. I feel cold all the way down to my bones, as if the penthouse itself has given me a chill that I can’t shake off.

There are no sounds to indicate Chris is home as I take the bottle and glass and climb the stairs up to the second level. No sound of television or music or the tapping of computer keys. A sudden feeling of dread hits me as I reach the landing and pause in front of the bedroom door, and I hesitate, listening to hear if there are any sounds in there—sounds that I don’t want to hear, but that I’m beginning to wonder if I should expect one of these days. If our relationship will end not with a whimper, but with the bang of Chris fucking another woman in the bed I’ve shared with him for a year.

Surely he wouldn’t do that. He’s smarter than that.

Gently, I push open the bedroom door. There’s a shape in our bed, but just one. Chris is asleep, lying under the dark charcoal-colored duvet, and I let out a slow, relieved breath. Not so much, I realize with a pang, because I didn’t find him with another woman, but because I don’t have to expend the energy to deal with it tonight.

If I had wondered if our relationship was finished, that should have been enough to let me know that the death knell had already been tolled. But, like I told Vincent earlier tonight, I don’t have the energy to end it right now. I don’t have the time. My career has always been my focus, and it needs to continue to be. Everything else can be dealt with later.

I slowly slide my heels off before I step further into the room, not wanting to wake him up with the clicking on the concrete floor. As quietly as I can, I pad across the bedroom on bare feet, wincing at the cold against my skin as I walk to the ensuite bathroom and push open the door, stepping inside. I don’t turn the lights on until the door is closed and locked, flicking the switch for the heated tiles at the same moment and sighing in pleasure as they begin to warm the soles of my feet.

This room is as austere as the rest of the penthouse, but it’s still my favorite spot. It’s the only one where I managed to make any changes to the decor, adding hanging plants and greenery to the space around the black lacquered soaking tub surrounded by crisp white tiles. The smell of green plants and eucalyptus fills the room, and I let out another soft sigh, setting down the wine bottle and glass on the counter as I reach for the zipper of my dress.

The silky fabric slides off my shoulders, down my waist and hips, and pools on the floor, leaving me in just the smooth black thong that I wore underneath it. I slip that off, too, enjoying the feeling of the cool air on my naked skin as I pad over to the tub and turn on the water, waiting for it to heat up.

While I wait, I pour a glass of wine, search for a bath bomb, and find a vanilla-scented one in a cupboard under the sink. When the water is steaming hot, I plug the tub, add the bath bomb, and set the wine and wine glass on the tiles next to the tub as I step into the water and let out a soft moan. It’s almost too hot—just the right amount of pain pricking at my skin, mingled with pleasure as it fills to soak my sore feet and then, slowly, the rest of my body. I reach for a clip to secure my hair on top of my head and sink back into the tub, reaching for the wine glass as I close my eyes.

For a moment, I’m blissfully at peace. It’s almost as good as my idea of going to a hotel. I won’t be sleeping alone later, but for now—I reach for the wine glass, enjoying the small rebellion of having a second drink tonight. Maybe more than that.Maybe, I think rebelliously,I’ll finish the whole bottle.

The wine is red and rich and adds to the heat sliding through my veins. I take another sip, idly brushing the fingers of one hand over my sharp collarbone, and I feel a small prickle of sensation. Heat, gathering lower. My fingers drift down, into the valley between my breasts, and for some reason that I can’t explain even to myself, Rowan flashes into my mind.

He complicated my entire evening, but—he was also so handsome. I can’t stop myself, just for a moment, from imagining running my fingers through that thick copper hair, down the chiseled line of his cheekbone, his jaw. I can imagine how he’d respond to that touch. He was eager for it, so full of desire that I could feel it strung taut between us as we danced, a tight string ready to hum with the slightest pluck.

My hand drifts over the slight swell of one small breast, my fingers circling the tight nipple. I bite my lip, tasting the wine lingering there, and arch my back slightly, leaning into my own touch.

It’s been a while since I’ve done this—since anything has made me want to. My sex life with Chris has been sporadic lately, and cold for much longer, at least on my side. He’s seemed happy enough, but aren’t all men easy to please? All they want, in my experience, is to come. They don’t care how they get there, so long as they get that fleeting moment of pleasure at the end. Women are more complicated. Moredesirous. And Chris has long since stopped caring about the journey of making me come—or really, making me come at all.

I didn’t think I cared. I told myself that it was better, really. Perfunctory sex meant time saved—time I could be using for exercise, for practice, for all of the things that matter to my career.

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