Chapter 12

Her new phone buzzed almost immediately. It was a picture of the leather armchair in the library, with a single book lying open on its seat. The text followed: "My favorite chapter is waiting for you."

That was their life now. A public dance of indifference and a private symphony of secrets.

One grey afternoon in November, the two worlds collided.

Anna was in the university library, a place she usually loved, its hallowed silence a balm to her soul. But today, the silence was fractured. Two tables away, a group of her classmates were gossiping, their voices a stage whisper that carried in the quiet space.

"...so gorgeous," one of them, a girl named Jessica, was saying. "And so mysterious. Apparently he's single again."

"Who?" Her friend asked.

"Desmond Dowells, who else?" Jessica said, as if it were obvious. "He came to my brother's finance seminar last week. The whole room was just… buzzing."

Anna froze, her hand hovering over the page of her art history text. A cold knot formed in her stomach.

"He's not single," another girl chimed in. "I read somewhere that he's been seeing someone for months. Super private. No one knows who she is."

Jessica snorted. "Please. That's just PR. A man like that doesn't stay single. He's probably dating some supermodel or an actress. Definitely not one of us."

Us! The word landed like a stone. The casual, dismissive cruelty of it. They were talking about ‘her’ Desmond. The man who traced the veins on her wrists like they were sacred rivers.

The man who cried out her name when he came. And to them, he was just a commodity, a piece of handsome, powerful gossip to be parsed and speculated over.

She felt a surge of something primal and ugly. A possessiveness that shocked her with its intensity. She wanted to stand up, to walk over to their table, and say, "You're wrong. He's mine."

Instead, she closed her book, gathered her things, and walked out of the library, her movements stiff and mechanical. She didn't go home. She went to the penthouse.

She didn't text him. She didn't call. She just used her key.

He wasn't there. The library was empty, the city lights beginning to glitter outside the window as dusk fell. She didn't turn on any lights. She just stood in the middle of the room, the silence of their sanctuary pressing in on her, and she waited.

He arrived an hour later, letting out a soft curse of surprise when he saw her in the dark.

"Anna? What is it? What's wrong?" He rushed to her, his hands immediately going to her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. He could read her moods with an unnerving accuracy.

"I heard them today," she said, her voice quiet and strained. "At the library. They were talking about you."

His face softened with understanding. "And?"

"They said you were single. That you were probably dating a supermodel." She looked up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "They called you 'gorgeous and mysterious.' And all I could think was… he's “mine."

A slow smile spread from his face, a smile of pure, unadulterated masculine pride. "Good," he said, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "You should feel that way."

"It's not a good feeling, Desmond," she argued, pulling away slightly. "It's… ugly. It makes me feel crazy."

"It's not crazy," he said, pulling her back into his arms. "It's real. It's what you feel when you love someone. When you know they belong to you."

He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "And for the record, they're wrong. I'm not single. And I'm not dating a supermodel. I'm building a life with the most brilliant, infuriating, and beautiful woman I have ever known.

A woman who draws charcoal sketches that make my heart ache and who can argue about Renaissance art for hours."

He kissed her then, a deep, slow kiss that was an answer to every insecure, jealous thought that had been tormenting her. A kiss that claimed her as surely as she claimed him.

"They don't know you," he whispered against her lips. "They don't know that you hate mint chocolate chip ice cream or that you hum when you're concentrating. They don't know that your favorite constellation is Orion because you think it looks like a dancer. They know a name. A face. A bank account. They know nothing. I know everything."

He was right. This was the case. The real, unshakeable case. It wasn't about public perception. It was about this. About this room, these words, this feeling.

Later that night, curled up in the leather armchair with her head on his lap while he read aloud about the fall of the Roman Empire, her ghost phone buzzed on the table beside them. She ignored it, but he paused, looking down at her.

"Aren't you going to get that?"

She shook her head. "It's just Chloe. Probably wondering if I want to go to some frat party on Friday." She smiled up at him. "I'm busy."

He resumed reading, but a few minutes later, the phone buzzed again. And again.

"It might be important," he said gently.

"Nothing is more important than this," she said, her fingers tightening on the sleeve of his sweater.

But when the phone buzzed for a fourth time, a text from a different contact, her father's name flashed on the locked screen. Anna's blood ran cold.

Desmond saw it too. His whole body went rigid.

"Answer it," he said, his voice suddenly devoid of its warmth. He stood up, setting her aside gently. "Answer it now, Anna."

She fumbled with the phone, her thumbprint slick with sweat. She swiped it open. Her father's face, beaming and carefree, filled the screen.

"Annie! There you are! I've been calling and calling. Your phone must be dead."

"Dad," she said, her voice thin, reedy. "Hi. Sorry, I was… studying."

"No matter. Listen, guess who just got back in town? Desmond! Can you believe it? He was supposed to be in Berlin for another week, but the deal closed early. He's at the house right now. We're having a celebratory drink. You should come home. Say hello."

The world tilted on its axis. The penthouse library, their sanctuary, dissolved around her. She looked up at Desmond, who was standing by the window, his back to her, a statue carved from ice. In the city outside, the lights blurred.

"Annie? You there?"

"Yeah," she managed to say. "Yeah, I'm here. I… I have a paper due, Daddy. A big one. I really need to finish it."

"Oh. Well, alright. Don't work too hard. Desmond says to say hi. We'll catch up this weekend."

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you too, kiddo."

The screen went black. The silence in the room was a physical weight, crushing.

"He was in Berlin," Anna whispered, the words feeling foreign and alien. "You told me you were in Berlin."

"I was," Desmond said, turning around. His face was a mask of cool composure, but she could see the frantic, panicked calculation in his eyes. "My flight got in this afternoon. I came straight here."

"You came here… before you went to see him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I needed to see you," he said, the words simple, stark, and utterly inadequate in the face of the lie.

"Because a week is too long. Because I missed the way your hair smells."