Page 134 of Forbidden Fruit
He chuckles and shakes his head. “God, you’re so much like your mother.”
That word affiliated with Abby throws me, but I recover quickly. “Why don’t you like my boyfriend?”
Ryan leans forward. “Let’s see… he gets into a fake relationship with your mom, then ends up in a relationship withyou.That alone raises about fifteen red flags.”
My face goes hot with anger. “It wasn’t like that,” I snap. “He’s an amazing man, and he treats me well.”
Ryan raises his hands in surrender. “I don’t doubt it. And if he wasn’t good to you, something tells me your mom would’ve had his balls in a jar by now. But for now, that’s enough about him. I didn’t come here to argue. I came here to get to knowyou.”
I let that sit for a moment.
“Your mom told me you’re in Paris, studying fashion design. Said you’re brilliant. I’ve been keeping tabs since she told me. Just… watching from afar.”
“You’ve been watching me?”
“Yes, your pictures and videos on social media,” he says simply. “I’ve missed two decades of your life. I’m trying to catch up, however I can.”
For the first time, I smile, really smile. It catches me off guard.
“Well… what do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Ryan says without hesitation, leaning in like I’m the most fascinating thing in the world.
So, I tell him.
About Paris. About school. About how I almost passed out giving my first fashion presentation. About the way I can’t eat shellfish without breaking out in hives, which, apparently, I got from him. About little things that don’t seem important until I’m saying them aloud. And the more I speak, the more I realize I want him to know. I want him toseeme.
It feels like talking to a stranger and looking in a mirror all at once. And strangely… it feels like a beginning.
It’s been two weeks since my life turned itself inside out.
I told everyone I needed space, to breathe, to think, to stop feeling like the ground had disappeared under me. And I meant it.
Then I packed up, got on a plane, and came back to Paris for my final semester. Because apparently, I’m supposed to sketch gowns and ace finals while my entire identity is slowly unraveling.
Totally fine. Everything’ssofine.
Today’s my 21st birthday. I should be popping champagne and going out with friends. But instead, all I feel is this tight knot of mixed emotions: nostalgia, confusion, and a little bit of sadness. Mostly, I just feel… off.
The plan is to go out, maybe hit a club with some friends, dance until my feet ache, and let the music drown out the noise in my head.
The only thing that would make this birthday better is ifCalvin were here. But he’s not. He’s in New York for work. I get it, he’s a busy, important man. I just didn’t realize how much I could miss him.
Ryan was in Paris a few days ago, though. He flew in early to celebrate my birthday before heading to Boston for business; he’s opening a new club there, apparently. Dinner with him was… weird. But also kind of wonderful. We’re still figuring each other out, learning how to exist in the same emotional orbit. But it was not as hard as I thought it would be.
He asked about Abigail, about how I was feeling, and if we’d talked. I told him I wasn’t ready for that yet. Maybe I will be eventually. Just not now.
Then I asked him why he wasn’t furious at her. Why wasn’t he ripping the walls down over being kept from his own daughter?
“I gave her the punishment she deserved,” is what he’d said, completely serious.
And just like that, my brain short-circuited. Yep. That punishment. My face went up in flames, and I changed the subject so fast I probably got whiplash. Some things, I really, really don’t need to picture.
But aside from that… things have been surprisingly good. Ryan’s protective but not suffocating. He is gentler than I expected from a man who owns a BDSM club and commands a room just by breathing. Still, there’s something steady about him. And I like that.
Before he left, he promised he’d be back soon. And I believe him.
We talk on the phone almost every day now. Little check-ins, random thoughts, stupid jokes. It’s getting easier to open up to him and let him in. It still feels surreal sometimes, like I’m living someone else’s story, not mine.
