Page 52 of Gilded

LUKA

P eter drives us into the Four Seasons secure underground parking, losing the few lingering media tails that tried to follow.

When I get out to open Malia’s door, he hands me the room key, and we go directly to one of the few secured suites at the hotel.

I open the door and stand aside as Malia walks through, trying to curb my desire for her. One even stronger than it was last night. Stronger and more complicated.

“Thank you.” Her body heat swirls as she passes, and the antiseptic scent of hospital soap reminds me of where she’s been and what she’s been through. Still, I clench my teeth to keep myself from wrapping my arms around her.

She’s no longer mine to do with as I please.

She no longer has to listen to what I say or do what I tell her to do.

I didn’t even consider how hard that would be until this moment, which drags me down to the level of those I kill.

It’s humbling and adds to my self-loathing over this whole situation.

I close the door and watch as she wanders the suite. She sets the duffel Jairo brought to the hospital on the sofa and stands at the big window, looking out over the city. “Wow.”

The awe in her voice tells me that despite her view of the city from the island, this view is equally impressive.

She’s changed into light blue jeans, a rich brown oversized sweatshirt, and cross-trainers.

Before we left the hospital, she brushed her hair and braided it into one long tail, making her hollowed eyes and cheekbones even more pronounced.

In fact, she’s leaning toward gaunt. No surprise, given the last month of her life.

“Is that your building?” she asks.

I move deeper into the room and follow her gaze out the window. “Yes. The one with the blue lights.”

“It’s beautiful, even at night.”

I want to tell her it’s all hers. If it would make her happy, I’d sign the damn thing over to her in a heartbeat. But I know monetary things mean little to her, which makes me love her even more.

I turn and pick up the room service menu from the coffee table, sit on the sofa, and leaf through it. “You really need to eat something, love. Your body needs nutrition to handle the stress.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Do you want me to order? Or do you want to look at the menu?”

She turns and looks at me for the first time since we left the hospital. “I get to choose?”

The vulnerable innocence of her question hits me hard. My heart breaks for what she’s been through and for what I contributed.

“Oh, love…” I stand and close the distance, wrapping her in a bear hug.

“Your life is your own now. You get to choose everything: what you do, what you eat, what you wear. You choose where you live, how you spend your time and who you allow into your life. Every day from now on is all freedom, all the time.”

She wraps her arms around my middle, fists the back of my suit jacket, presses her face against my chest, and breaks.

While she sobs, I watch our reflection in the window. It’s surreal to see myself consoling a woman. I may have had sex with my share, but I’ve never been sucked into the emotional side of that exchange. It’s always been just that, an exchange.

But that’s not this. At all. And I’m painfully aware the chances of keeping this, of keeping her, are slim to none.

Her tears slow and her breaths smooth out, but I keep holding her, letting her decide when to pull away while soaking in every moment.

She mumbles something, muffled against my body.

I lean away. “What?”

“Oatmeal.” She tips her head back and rests her chin on my chest. Her eyes are red and swollen, and she looks utterly exhausted. “Can I have oatmeal? I love it, but they never let me have it at the house.”

My brows rise and my mouth turns up. “You can have anything in the world right this minute and you choose oatmeal?”

“I sometimes get it at the orphanages, and I love it. Especially the thick kind.”

“Steel cut.”

“Yeah, with cream and sugar and fruit.” She closes her eyes in the most angelic way. “I could eat a bucket of that in a day.”

I wipe wetness from her cheeks. “Then oatmeal it is.”

I move to the living room and pick up the phone.

“Not right now,” she says, her hand against her belly. “The pain meds are messing with my stomach.”

I want to argue. I’m worried about how her body is cannibalizing itself to keep her going. But like I said, it’s her life now. She’ll have to make mistakes to figure things out. It’s just hard to watch.

“Okay.” I sit on the sofa, press my forearms to my knees, and clasp my hands. She curls into a corner on the opposite side. If that’s not a message, I don’t know what would be. “I know you’re tired.”

“I am.”

“I’ll get out of here and let you sleep.”

Her gaze goes distant, and she nods, listless. She reaches toward her wrist and absently plays with the Legos there, and it gives me a spark of satisfaction that she can find comfort in it.

“I have your ring,” I tell her, reaching into my pocket.

“Burn it,” she says, careless. Then she looks up. “Oh, wait. I could sell it, couldn’t I?”

“You can.”

“I can donate the money somewhere. Like a battered women’s shelter.” She looks at me, and the corners of her mouth turn up in a barely there smile. “That’s fitting, isn’t it?”

“It is. I’ll take care of it.” I’m reluctant to leave, but she’s not giving me any indication she wants me to stay. “Are you going to be okay alone?”

She lifts a shoulder. “That’s how I’ve spent ninety-nine percent of my life.”

“That’s how you used to spend your life,” I remind her. “Everything is different now.”

She looks at me. “Is it?”

“Yes. I know this has all happened fast. Be kind to yourself as you transition. You’re beautiful, you’re smart, and you have all the money you need to take care of yourself.

The world is at your fingertips. Everything in life is a decision.

All the doors are open. You only have to choose to step through them. ”

“After spending my life with all the doors and windows locked, I don’t know what to do when they open.”

“They’ll still be open when you’re ready. The only person holding you back now is yourself.”

I stand, despite my overwhelming desire to stay with her, and hand her the phone that Jairo picked up at the house. “I am literally a phone call away. Night or day. I’ll be here in five minutes flat.”

When she doesn’t respond, I say, “Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” But she’s not the least bit convincing.

I move closer and tilt her head back to look into her eyes. “Step into your power, Malia. Your soul is unstoppable.”

I drop a kiss on her lips before moving toward the door and take the handle, but stop and turn. She hasn’t moved, and she looks so lost, it breaks my heart. “I don’t want you to take this wrong, but it would be better if you didn’t go out by yourself. New York is a dangerous city and?—”

“I won’t go out,” she says. “I don’t have the interest or the energy. Nothing seems to hold the appeal it once did.”

“That will change. I know it’s easier said than done, but try to be patient with the process.”

Her gaze goes distant, and she nods.

“Love?”

Her gaze finds mine.

“Please tell me if there is anything I can do to make this easier for you. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m going to prove to you I’m not the man you met a month ago.”