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“I would never hurt you, Jolie,” Fabien says. “Not in the way you hurt me.”

It’s the first time he’s said my name. He spits it out like a curse. There’s torment in his voice.

I hurt him.

And he’s still hurting.

“I’m going to have a shower,” Fabien says. “I want you to leave this room.”

“Sure.”

I head back out.

“Don’t tell Clement,” I whisper as I close the door.

“No,” Fabien replies. “That’d be the last thing either of us would want to do.”

I’m left alone.

I sit on the couch and deflate.

I can see the bedroom door is still a tiny bit ajar. I don’t mean to, but I can see him through the bedroom mirror as he strips off his shirt. There’s dried blood running down his arm. I glimpse dark tattoos on a toned, athletic body. It’s a body that’s gone through hell.

God, he truly is no longer the little boy with big dreams and a big heart I remember. Like his face, he’s toughened now. He’s a man who has survived life.

A man who has struggled.

My breath catches at the sight of him. I shouldn’t be staring like this, but something awakens deep inside me. Something I haven’t felt for years. It’s a yearning to reach out and take this man into my arms, to bring him close against me. To feel his heartbeat one more time.

I hate how soon and easily my body betrays years of guilt.

I continue staring at the mirror as I see him limp into the ensuite. I really shouldn’t be gawking. He needs help, but I have to leave him be. He’s in physical pain, but he’s also in pain from the past.

And there is that bed, sitting there as if waiting for the inevitable.

I turn my eyes away before the shame devours me.

Tonight is the first night of our week together.

We’ve both nearly killed each other emotionally already, and we’re only getting started.

9

FABIEN

Dinner with Jolie feels illegal.

I never thought I would see this girl again, let alone break bread with her.

I order pizza for us both on my phone as I limp out of the shower without waiting to consult her. I don’t trust her cooking, even after all this time, and I know her well enough to guess she won’t order on her own. She probably hasn’t eaten since breakfast, when she was kidnapped off the street, so she’ll be starving, and the last thing I need is her burning down the Castaways’ penthouse attempting to cook a grilled cheese.

Ordering is easy. I remember her favorite pizza toppings. In fact, I remember the exact email where she once listed the ingredients to her favorite pizza.

As I wait in the living room, I glance over my shoulder back at the bedroom where she’ll be showering.

It’s not only the pizza I remember, but everything about this woman. There were thousands of emails where we poured out our innermost thoughts, and I remember it all. Her likes. Her dislikes. How she desperately needs a coffee the moment she wakes up like it’s an addiction. How she prefers to eat her vegetables first. Her habit of biting her pen when she’s thinking hard. The way she flicks her hair back when she talks. How she rubs her fingers together when she’s nervous. How she always insists on extra mushrooms on a pizza.

The beat of her heart when she’s close to me.