Chapter 129 129

Chapter 129 129
Isla’s eyes well up with tears. Her bottom lip trembles, but she tries desperately to keep it together. When I offer my hand, she ignores it and promptly launches herself into my arms. A bundle of sweetness and lightness, so good and so pure that it’s a miracle I can even touch her without bursting into flames.

I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve her mother. I don’t deserve any of the things they’ve given me.

But fuck me if I won’t go to the death to defend them.

I lift Isla up and walk her away from the café. She tightens her arms around my neck and I think about all those moments I missed when she was a baby, a little girl. Kinsley was doing all the heavy lifting then. Both literally and figuratively.

And here I am, leaving her to do it again.

“I’m coming back,” I whisper into her hair. “You know that, right?”

She manages a teary smile. “I know.”

I set her down and we both sink to a seat on a nearby bench. Isla rests her head on my shoulder and we just sit there. Greedily soaking up more moments I never thought I’d get.

After a while, Petro emerges from the restaurant. “Hey, kiddo, how about we work ourselves into a sugar coma today?” he asks, handing her the cup of hot chocolate she left behind. “After you’re done with that, we can get ice cream.”

“You’re just trying to distract me because Papa’s leaving.”

“Bingo, and a smart kid would capitalize on that,” Petro retorts shrewdly. “Come on. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Well, maybe once-in-a-week for as long as we’re here, because I’m a sucker for Swiss chocolate. Matter of fact, I know a place…”

He takes her hand and the two of them walk back towards the apartment building together to give Kinsley and me a moment to say goodbye. She slinks up next to me.

“I have a feeling those two will be fast friends.”

“Yeah, well, they’re on the same level, maturity-wise.”

She smiles and turns to me. That’s when I notice the piece of paper in her hand. “I wrote you a letter,” she explains. “It’s more like a short note, actually, but I didn’t want to blubber through saying this stuff out loud just before you have to leave. Read it when you’re on the plane, okay?”

“Understood,” I say, taking the note. “Now, give me a kiss that’ll keep me going until I see you again.”

Her smile is both sad and desperately hopeful as she leans up towards me. Her lips meet mine and we kiss for an eternity that ends too soon. She tastes like forgiveness.

And when I finally let her go to turn and walk away, that’s what I focus on. That taste.

I hope it lasts forever.

32

KINSLEY

RIIIIIING.

I jerk upright and make a grab for my phone. But it’s not on my bedside table where I thought I’d left it last night. I follow the sound.

“Where the hell is it?” I mutter to myself.

RIIIIIING.

I finally manage to unfurl the sheets and pull out my phone. I’m hoping it’s Daniil, but the number’s private. I answer anyway, still holding out hope.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Ms. Whitlow?”

“What?” The accent is impossibly thick, and I’m still groggy with sleep.

“This is Ms. Whitlow, yes? I am Lolita Binoche, Mr. Talbot’s personal secretary.”

“I’m sorry, who?”

She actually sighs. “Mr. Talbot, the principal of Lucerne Youth Academy.”

I close my eyes in horror. What a horrible first impression to have made. “I’m so sorry. Of course I know who he is. I have a meeting with him today.”

A meeting that Petro set up on my behalf when I insisted I wanted to work again while we were away. He’d done all the research—wouldn’t let me within ten feet of his laptop, either—and said that Lucerne Youth Academy was the best school in the city and that he’d arranged an interview with the headmaster, Mr. Andres Talbot.

“That is what I am calling about,” she says irritably. “The meeting has been moved to the Garden Club. Ten o’clock.”

I check my watch. “Ten o’clock? That’s in an hour.”

“Do not be late.”

Then she hangs up. Just like that. Doesn’t wait for me to confirm or anything. “Goddammit,” I gasp, flinging myself out of bed and running straight for the bathroom.

By the time my morning ablutions are out of the way, I’ve lost a good fifteen minutes. I trip to my closet, which is only half-full. The rest of my clothes are still languishing in the suitcase.

I’d had an outfit all picked out, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. “Dammit,” I curse again, and then remember that Petro needs to be up here before I leave so he can watch Isla.

While I continue to fling around my clothes, I call him.

“Mmmyello?” he answers. He sounds like he has a mouth full of baked goods. Probably because he has a mouth full of baked goods. In the thirty-six hours since Daniil left, he’s eaten enough pastries to keep Europe stocked for a century.

“I need you to get up here.”

“Mmf. You sound panicked.”

“My meeting with the school was moved up. I have to head over there now. I just checked and the Garden Club is like twenty-five minutes—”

“The Garden Club? That’s not where the meeting was supposed to take—”

“Just get up here!” I snap impatiently before hanging up on him. The lady’s surly attitude is infectious, apparently. Or maybe I’m just missing Daniil more than I’m willing to admit.

I pick out a pair of smart black pants, a sharp white shirt, and then I throw on my boots. I grab my long black coat and have just enough time to run a brush through my hair before I race out the door.

Petro is standing in the living room, looking much more alert than I feel right now.

“Thanks for being here,” I tell him breathlessly. “I should be back in a couple of hours.”

“Kinsley, wait. Let me first verify that this change is legitimate.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re getting to be as paranoid as Daniil. I got a call from his personal secretary. She’s the most Swiss-sounding person I’ve ever encountered in my life. It’s legit.”

“Kinsley.”

“Don’t ‘Kinsley’ me. I’ve got to go. Can’t be late. Give Isla a kiss for me!” Then I bolt out of there before he can delay me any further.

I manage to hail a cab reasonably fast and I get to the Garden Club just barely on time. I sigh with relief, pay the driver, and stride towards the entrance of the stately Garden Club.

It’s beautiful in that over-the-top, old grandeur kind of way that Switzerland does so well. I imagine libraries full of old men in leather wingback armchairs, sipping expensive brandy and smoking expensive cigars and discussing continental philosophy.

The woman at the reception gives me a critical once-over when I approach her. “I’m here to meet with Mr. Talbot,” I explain.

“Of course,” she says in crisp, accentless English. “Please follow me.”

She ushers me past the main club house. I only get a peek through the smoked glass, but I do spy wingback armchairs and I’m pretty sure they’re made of deep red leather. Guess I wasn’t far off in my imagination.