Page 31 of One Night with Cinderella

“It’s more than I ever dreamed of,” she admitted, careful with her words.

“But?”

“But you know I can’t talk about it...even though I want to,” she said. “I want to get out of my own head and process it all, but I can’t. So just leave it be. Please.”

“Seems like your aunt is more than willing to talk to you. Maybe it’s time to take her up on her offer,” he said, pulling the sash of her robe and letting it fall to her sides as he eased one arm around her waist to mold her body against his.

Monica released a grunt of pleasure at the feel of him as she tilted her head back and raised up on the tip of her toes to better enjoy the kisses he pressed to her neck.

“One thing I can say.”

Gabe raised his head to look down at her, finding her eyes melancholy.

“If nothing else. I’ve been given the freedom to do as I please and I’m grateful for that,” she admitted.

Gabe didn’t allow his recollection to continue on to how he’d scooped her up in his arms and pressed her body beneath his as he helped erase the sadness from her eyes. The empathy he felt sent visceral pains across his chest for her. Somehow Brock Maynard had not spent one day in the life of his daughter, who’d ended up in foster care. It seemed he’d never even spoken of her existence to his lone family member until he was on death’s bed.

But he had granted her money to do with as she pleased, to live as she pleased. While his father had been a constant presence in his life but withheld the freedom for him to live his dreams.

Gabe clenched his jaw at the thought of that irony and then he clearly remembered the night at the CRESS restaurant in Paris where he had reconnected with his passion for food. A joy in his life that he’d set aside for the sake of the family business. A sacrifice that was unappreciated by his parents.

Maybe it is time to do as I please and be free...

“I can’t believe you made a scrapbook,” Monica said to Phoebe as she flipped through the pages of newspaper clippings and prints of online articles about her.

“A scrapbook? I made two. That one’s yours,” Phoebe said from her seat on the modern sofa as she looked around at the high ceilings, stylish decor and view of Central Park via the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Your apartment is beautiful.”

Monica eyed the serviced residence she purchased fully designed and furnished in subtle shades of light gray—it reminded her of the Cress home and had made her love it on first sight when the Realtor had shown it to her. “Sometimes I can’t believe it’s mine,” she said, her voice soft as she stood up and moved about the spacious living room, touching this item and that. Artwork. Fireplace. Soft furnishings. “Everything is so different.”

“Are you happy here?” Phoebe asked.

Monica leaned against the doorway of her apartment’s Juliet balcony, which overlooked the floral garden of the Midtown Manhattan building. She was still trying to find comfort within her new life. Wealth brought on the expectations that came along with being on the other side of the line separating the haves from the have-nots. Being unemployed with endless time on her hands.

To think.

About the revelation concerning her father.

About the truth telling of her aunt.

About the invasion of paparazzi and gossip reporters upon her privacy.

About the identity of her mother.

And the strong and passionate skill of her lover.

The last made her smile into her glass.

I have a lover.

“Gabe,” she whispered into the summer air as her entire body seemed to tingle at the very thought of him.

“What’s that you said?” Phoebe asked.

Monica turned with a smile. “I’m happy,” she finally answered her.

They saw each other maybe once a week, sometimes every two weeks. No expectations. No dates. No chances of mixed feelings and broken hearts. No fear of being left alone.

Or behind, she thought, thinking of her ex, James.

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