Page 173 of The Encore’s Crown

Natalia stays on my skin after she leaves. A trace of her scent on my sheets. A strand of gold hair caught against my shirt. The faint sweetness of her on my fingers when I’m sitting in traffic hours later, enough to make every thought in my head turn feral again.

The weeks become a collection of stolen nights and mornings neither of us wants to end. I pick her up after everyone at her house is asleep. She slips into my car wearing oversized hoodies over tiny dresses, sometimes carrying heels in one hand because running down the block in them would wake every dog in Seattle. She leaves before sunrise when she has to.

Other times, she invents shoots, meetings, dinners with brands that technically exist but don't require her presence for twelve consecutive hours. I help by making sure enough actual work comes through that no one questions it too closely.

Her engagement climbs. The brands keep sending things. She films reviews at my apartment when the products are too expensive to risk anywhere near Kacper and his markers. I sit off-camera and watch her transform from Natalia in one of my shirts and nothing underneath, into the woman who knows exactly how to catch light, hold attention, and make a perfume bottle seem necessary to human survival.

Then the camera turns off, and she crawls into my lap.

We lose entire days that way.

One night, she sits naked on a stool at my kitchen island while I cook beef lok lak because I told her I refused to make one of Ma’s dishes if she disrespected the creative process by putting on clothes.

Now she’s watching me toss strips of beef through the wok, stealing slices of cucumber from the platter every time she thinks I’m not looking. I plate the beef over lettuce and tomato, add the onions, then set the dipping sauce beside her like some world class chef. I've never tried this hard to impress anyone before. Natalia watches me bring everything over.

“She taught you to make all this? She seems like a good mom,” she says.

The words stop me. My first instinct is the same one I had with Radhika. Build a wall. Change the subject. Keep Natalia far away from the part of my life where love and damage have always lived in the same room. She notices the pause.

“Don't pull your panic face. You don’t have to introduce me to her,” she says quickly. “I know we aren’t at the meeting-parents level. We’re not even at the telling-my-sister level.”

The joke doesn’t hide the small retreat in her voice. I set the plate down, cradle the back of her head, and kiss her forehead.

“Hey,” I say. “One day.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Once we’re not a secret and Rafe and Kasia are good with it. That’d be nice. Ma would love you.”

She smiles. The excuse sits heavily in my stomach. Once Rafe and Kasia are good with it. A barrier that lets me offer her some distant future without opening the door to it yet. Natalia dips a piece of beef into the sauce and takes a bite. Her eyes widen.

“Okay. You can stay.”

I laugh and take the stool beside her. She chews for a moment, then glances at me.

“You don’t really talk about your parents.”

My smile dies before I can stop it. I reach for my water even though I’m not thirsty. Natalia looks at me, realizes she stepped somewhere dangerous, and reaches for my hand without making me explain. She threads our fingers together beneath the edge of the island and keeps eating.

Chapter 60

Your Mistress

Kiri

We spend the rest of the month pretending Seattle belongs to us.

She needs content, so I drive her through the city and stay out of frame. Pike Place early enough that the crowds haven’t completely swallowed the market. Gas Works Park with the lake behind her and wind pulling her hair across her mouth. Kerry Park at sunset, where she complains that every influencer in Washington has taken the same picture and then takes it anyway because the skyline looks too good not to.

We go to the Fremont Troll, where she climbs onto its hand and orders me to make her look spontaneous. At the Olympic Sculpture Park, she walks backward while filming, almost collides with a cyclist, and blames me for not warning her even though I did three times.

She takes pictures of me too. Those are different. I don't try to look polished; these aren't meant for anyone else. She snaps me drinking terrible coffee beneath the Public Market sign. Or squinting into the sun at Gas Works. One of both of us at Kerry Park, her cheek pressed against my shoulder and my mouth caught halfway to her temple. She looks at that one for a long time.

But she can’t post any of it. Not yet. That’s what I keep telling her. One day, we’ll post everything. We’ll have a whole back catalogue waiting for the moment we’re finally allowed to exist in public. For now, the best pictures of us stay buried in a private folder while the rest of her life goes online. I know it bothers her. I know, because it bothers me too. I keep telling myself it’s temporary, but temporary starts to sound like a lie with no end in sight.

Then, I take her to Canlis. We’re hidden away at a table by the glass, the lights of the city shimmering below. Natalia wears a dark green dress that makes the entire dining room look at her the moment she walks into the room. She photographs the plates, the view, the ridiculous little arrangements of food we both pretend to understand. I reach across the table while she takes a picture without thinking about it. Later, she posts it and I catch the story while she’s choosing another one.

My hand is visible at the edge of the frame. Only some of it. Two fingers and a part of my hand resting near her wineglass, but the tattoos on my hand are unmistakable.

“Delete that.”

The words come out too fast and Natalia looks up from her phone.