Page 31

Angelique

T he aisles of Turn the Page, Marlow’s well-worn second-hand bookstore, still smells like old books and cracked leather.

Lando and I used to come here on Friday nights—his excuse to sneak off to the back of the historical fiction aisle with whichever boyfriend he was seeing, while I wandered toward the poetry section, pretending not to hear their muffled laughter between the shelves.

I run my fingers over the cracked leather spines, not really reading the titles.

I’m too aware of Reign behind me. He used to pick us up from here after he got his license, and it was always something I’d look forward to.

Those stolen minutes with him in the car, steeped in my teenage longing and the impossible crush I never quite shook.

But today, I’m not looking forward to the drive back to the estate. Not after what he said.

I’m in love with you, Angel.

His words echo through my mind, looping over and over, and I don’t know how to stop.

I hadn’t expected him to say it. Not now, not ever.

We made an agreement years ago that whatever was happening between us was physical and temporary.

We were just two people using each other to feel a little less alone.

So, when did it stop being just that? When did loving each other become the truth?

“This was always your favourite, wasn’t it?”

I turn to the sound of Reign’s voice and find him holding up a worn, thin copy of Love Poems by Pablo Neruda.

The cover is faded, and the pages are yellowed with time—just like I remember.

He flips through it slowly, fingers lingering on each page as if he’s searching for something.

Then he stops, clears his throat, and reads out loud.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride…” He trails off, eyes fixed on the words for a moment too long.

When he finally looks up, the intensity in his gaze steals the air from my lungs and my heart kicks into a faster rhythm, my skin tingling with awareness. He wants me to continue.

“So I love you because I know no other way…” I finish softly, unable to look away from him.

His eyes darken with desire before he snaps the book shut and tucks it under his arm.

“Are you buying that?” I ask, arching a brow while I try to steady myself.

He nods, lips lifting into a faint smirk. “I think it’s about time I figured out why this Pablo Neruda guy had your heart when you were a freshman.”

I roll my eyes and turn away quickly, hiding the flush that creeps up my neck.

I hadn’t expected him to remember the poet I used to obsess over—especially not my favourite poem.

Back then,he barely noticed me. He always had a different girl on his arm, someone effortlessly beautiful, while I was just Lando’s quiet best friend.

But maybe he was paying attention all along.

I drift through the aisles for a few more minutes, pretending to browse, but the air between us feels different now, charged and buzzing, like something unspoken is pushing to the surface. Finally, I glance over my shoulder.

“Can you play for me?”

Reign stops mid-step, brows lifting in quiet surprise. “The piano?”

I nod, my voice hesitant. “Yeah.”

He studies me for a beat, as if trying to decide whether or not I’m serious. I hold his gaze, swallowing the nerves rising in my throat. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that melody Lando and I overheard him playing. It was beautiful in the way only sadness can be, and I want more.

“Okay,” he says, after a long pause. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, like right now?” I ask as I follow him.

Reign is already moving toward the front of the store, pulling out his wallet. “I like playing at night, so yeah, why not tonight?”

I stay quiet as he pays for the book, heart thudding.

After he checks out, he opens the door for me, his hand brushing my back lightly as I step out into the cool evening air.

We walk side by side toward his car, and once we reach it, he opens the passenger door for me and waits until I’m buckled in before closing it gently and getting in on the driver’s side.

By the time we reach the estate, the sky has deepened into velvet blue, stars just beginning to peek through the fading light.

Reign parks the car and steps out, and I trail behind him.

Without a word, he reaches over and takes my hand.

His fingers are warm and sure against mine, sending a wave of energy up my arm.

I glance up at him and he’s already looking down at me with that familiar crooked smile.

I roll my eyes, but I don’t pull away. He tugs me gently down the winding path, gravel giving way to stone as we approach the studio.

He opens the door, stepping aside to let me in first before he follows right after, turning on the light and then dimming the room to a comfortable brightness before walking over to the piano.

“Sit with me,” he says, as he slides onto the bench and pats the spot next to him.

I hesitate, then walk over and sit down. “Don’t you need your sheet music or something?”

He shakes his head before tapping his temple. “Every song I’ve ever composed lives in here.”

He lifts the key cover up, gently running his fingers along the keys, and then looks at me with an expression that’s a bit more serious now.

“Do you want me to play the song you heard me playing the other day?”

I nod, sitting up straighter. “Please.”

He turns back to the keys and gently places his fingers on them before he begins playing. His fingers move at a precise speed and fluidity that I know took years of practice to achieve, the same sad melody filling the studio space. But I’m not watching the keys, I’m watching Reign.

His eyes are closed, brows slightly furrowed, and his mouth is soft with emotion. He leans into the sound as if the music is pulling something out of him that he can’t say with words. It’s beautiful to watch and heartbreaking to listen to.

After a moment, he speaks, voice low and steady. “I started writing this after I saw you dancing in the studio that day.” He opens his eyes, looking at me. “It’s called How She Breathes .”

My breath catches as I hold his gaze. “You wrote this…inspired by me?”

He nods. “This was what I heard in my head while I watched you dance.”

My throat feels tight as I look away, realizing Reign really has been watching me a lot closer than I’d realized. He saw something broken and aching just from the way I danced that day and turned it into this…this breathtaking thing.

He keeps playing, and I rise slowly to my feet, walking to the centre of the studio and sliding my sneakers off. He slows his playing slightly as he watches me, but when I begin dancing, the same dance that he saw that day, he readjusts the tempo, matching my pace with instinctive precision.

Dancing to his music feels like nothing I’ve ever experienced and without even meaning to, I shift into Terry’s new choreography—the revised Odette sequence—the one that aches in all the same places I do. When the last notes fade into silence, I turn to him, breathless.

“Why do you keep your music so private?”

Reign pauses, fingertips still resting on the keys. Then he leans back slightly, loosely resting his clasped hands on his lap.

“I’m the firstborn Herrington,” he shrugs. “My father expects me to take over Imperium one day. There’s no room for my music in that world.”

My brow furrows. “I don’t agree. Your music could be in our world. It should be. This piece belongs in Swan Lake. ”

He lets out a dry chuckle, but there’s no humour in it. “My father would never allow that.”

“Then screw what your father allows,” I snap, crossing my arms. “You said it yourself—Imperium will be yours one day. So, make it into something that feels like yours. Something you want to come back to.”

He looks up at me, something fierce lighting behind his eyes.

Then, without a word, he lifts a single finger and crooks it at me—calling me forward. The gesture sends a shiver down my spine, but I go to him anyway, stopping just in front of the bench.

He places his hands gently on my hips, his gaze roaming my face.

“When did you become so fiery, Angel?”

I roll my eyes, though a small smile tugs at my lips. “Maybe I always was. You just didn’t notice.”

He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to my stomach, causing something to lurch inside me.

“I’ll talk to him,” he says into the fabric of my shirt.

“And Terry,” I add, lowering my voice into a pout.

He laughs—this time, warm and real. “And Terry,” he agrees.

After a hot shower back at the guesthouse, I wrap myself in my robe and climb into bed, grabbing my phone off the nightstand. Two texts from Lando wait for me.

Lando:

I swear to God I’m getting Wendy’s bitch ass cut from this production.

Who does she think she is!?

Me:

You’re sweet. But don’t worry about her, she’s not worth it.

Lando:

Not worth it? Babe. She called you dead weight. I almost threw hands.

Ballet hands.

With jazz fingers.

Me:

Not jazz fingers

Lando:

Deadass. I was ready to pirouette straight into a lawsuit.

Anywayyyy… where’d you vanish to after rehearsal?

Me:

Reign wanted to try some trust-building exercise. Said it might help with vulnerability for the duet scenes.

Lando:

Okay but like…was it a professional trust fall or a “fall into my arms, baby girl” trust fall?

Me:

Lando:

I knew it. You two are gonna kill me with this slow-burn nonsense.

Me:

It’ s not like that.

Lando:

Sure it’s not.

And I’m the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Me:

Goodnight, Lando.

Lando:

Fine, be mysterious. But if you two elope before opening night, I expect a seat at the head table.

Me:

Goodniiiiiiight.

Lando:

Night, Swan Queen. Don’t let your trust fall into the wrong arms.

I’m smiling as I go to set my phone back on the nightstand to charge, but it vibrates again in my hand—Reign’s name lighting up the screen.

Reign of Terror:

Why did Lando just text me asking if I, and I quote, “caught you like it was a scene from Dirty Dancing”?

I laugh, breath catching in my throat as I sink deeper beneath the covers.

Me:

I mean… you kinda did.

Minus the retro halter top.

Reign of Terror:

Pity.

You’d look good in one.

Me:

You’re insufferable.

Reign of Terror:

And you’re deflecting.

But it’s fine.

I can wait.

Me:

Wait for what?

Reign of Terror:

For you to stop pretending that whatever you feel for me isn’t real.

My fingers freeze above the screen and the breath leaves my body before I even realize I was holding it. His words cut straight through me—true in a way I don’t know how to face. I stare at the message a little too long before I finally respond.

Me:

Goodnight, Reign.

Reign of Terror:

Goodnight, Angel.