S i n c l a i r
itting here as Elyse explains, haltingly and self-d eprecatingly, her failure to make it big in the modeling
industry causes aches in parts of me I didn’t know existed. The words I’ve just uttered linger, putrefied, in my
mouth.
I’m sure you’ll find great success.
Probably rang as sincere to her.
You just need the right job.
Even by Voss standards, that makes me sick to my stomach.
You know the crazy thing? There’s a part of me that believes every word, that wants to be her biggest
champion—not only because of how I feel about her, but because I’m a professional. I’m very good at what I
do, and I agree with Vanessa. I agree that the young woman sitting opposite me has a once-in-a-generation
face. She has Audrey H epburn’s iconic bone structure combined with Kaia Gerber’s impossible fragility. And
the guy who runs a beauty empire by day recognizes that as well as he recognizes his own reflection.
Elyse believes her appearance to be the cause of her so-called failures thus far, but I know better. And what’s
worse, I’m sitting at this table, drinking a lovely, crisp sauv blanc from Marlborough, and letting her think it
when I could actually excuse myself and call Vanessa and pull a oneeighty on this entire mess.
But I don’t. Because Elyse is sitting in my home, looking relaxed and beautiful and trusting, and this is what I
want, goddammit. I want it to be
just the two of us, behind closed doors, with no coworkers and no industry bullshit for me and no meteoric
rise for her. She’s the closest thing I’ve come to anonymity in a long, long time, and if wanting to ke ep her all
to myself makes me a selfish prick, then I will do everything in my power to make this course-correction as
pleasurable for her on every front as I am physically capable of doing.
Starting, of course, with carrying her off to my bedroom as soon as I can.
But for now, the only thing for it is a big old subject change.
“You sure you didn’t want to try being a ballerina?” I ask, feigning levity as I twirl the stem of my wineglass
between my thumb and forefinger. “I still think you look like a dancer.”
“God, no. I was not memorable at the barre, believe me. My niece is showing promise, though.” She smiles,
like this makes her happy.
“Oh yeah? How old is she?”
“She’s five. Fleur. She’s named after my mom.”
“It’s a beautiful name.” I watch her face carefully. As I’ve discovered in the very best way during our time
together at Alchemy, it’s highly expressive. The smile is now tinged with something bittersweet. “Does your
mom still dance?”
“No.” She shakes her head definitively. “She passed a few years ago.”
Jesus fuck. I lean across and place my large hand over her delicate one, giving it a squeeze. “Shit. I’m so
sorry.” It’s another insight into this beguiling woman—and another dagger to my bloodying heart.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “So Fleur—little Fleur—is our family’s only hope where the stage is concerned.
But no way does she have the patience for ballet. She does not appreciate being told what to do. So street
dance it is.”
She’s smiling again, even if it’s tentative, and I laugh dutifully. “Sounds like a lot of fun. And you said your
mom was French, right? Have you spent much time in France?” Reluctantly, I give her hand another squeeze
before letting go.
“Sadly not. Mom and Dad took us once, when I was a baby and my sister was a toddler. I don’t remember,
obviously.” She shrugs, then looks down at her glass. “But we didn’t get to go again. Money was pretty tight,
and it’s not exactly cheap. But we’ve always had a lot of French customs in
our house, and we ke ep those alive, even with Mom gone. More so, if that’s possible.”
“I love that,” I tell her, hoping my tone conveys my sincerity. It’s true. I do. I come from a family whose
entire MO is curating and rewriting and, where necessary, erasing our history to ensure that the Voss legacy
remains noble and aspirational and philanthropic and all the other bullshit adjectives that are supposed to
define lives lived and history made. Only we know where the skeletons are buried, and I truly wish I was
being figurative right now. Only we can see the bloodstains on our hands.
Yet here is Elyse, who lost her mother far too young and whose family seems just as hell-bent on enshrining
its memories as mine is at erasing ours. The contrast is too stark for comfort, and it has me even more
ravenous for further breadcrumbs from her, for more of an insight into what it means to live honestly and
grieve openheartedly. That she’s providing these breadcrumbs willingly is, I remind myself, the gift here. I
could glean the whole fucking loaf with a single phone call to our family’s fixer, Mickey, but that’s missing
the point.
I clear my throat. “Whereabouts in France was your mom from? Paris, I think you said?”
“She studied in Paris,” Elyse says, “but she was actually brought up in Bayonne—it’s a city in the Basque
region, just inland from Biarritz. It’s right by the Spanish border. And when she moved to New York to try to
make it, she stumbled across Bayonne in Jersey.” She gives a happy little shrug. “She figured it was fate, and
she rented a studio there and met my dad. And we still live there. We even have a dog called Jambon, because
Bayonne in France is famous for its ham.”
I stare at her, unable to prevent my grin. Jambon. Such a comedic name for a dog. And the thought of Elyse’s
mother, to whom her daughter presumably owes her Gallic beauty, unwittingly making her way to a parallel
existence across the Atlantic is strangely poignant. “Wow. That’s awesome.”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s home, you know? Even if I hear the real thing is a lot prettier—Bayonne, I mean.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful,” I tell her. “I’m sure, if you went there, you’d feel even closer to your mom.”
I could have her there by morning.
The thought hits me with force. If I wanted, I could charter one of our planes right this moment and bundle her
onto it. We could be enjoying coffee and croissants in Biarritz in under twelve hours before we embarked on a
pilgrimage of the region that runs through her blood.
I wouldn’t describe myself as the most spontaneous of souls, but she makes me reckless.
I propositioned her across the bar, after all.
I made not one but two Alchemy sessions with her happen.
I killed an ad campaign within five minutes because my creative team dared to feature her face.
When that wasn’t enough for me, I invited her into my home.
And now I want to fly her across the world for no reason other than to watch that bittersweet smile dial up all
the way to pure happiness. To see her huge brown eyes sparkle with joy. To observe the pleasure it brings her
to walk in her late mother’s footst eps.
Hell, I’d fly her entire family over if it made her happy.
Yet here I am, indulging in crazy fantasies about globetrotting with Elyse when I can’t even take her out for a
date in Manhattan. When I can’t put a public label on us. We only exist behind closed doors, and I know only
too well where that leaves us.
Exc ept for one thing.
She’s here now.
And she’s staring at me in a way that suggests she likes what I said about feeling closer to her mom in
Bayonne. It seems she likes it a lot, which is good, because I meant it.
But it also marks a shift in the evening’s energy, and I can’t wait any longer to touch her. If this is all we can
have, if this is all I have limited us to, then I fully intend to luxuriate in that.
“Come here,” I say softly. She leans forward like she knows exactly where I’m going with this, and I slide a
hand around the back of her neck and seal my mouth to hers.