When he walked over to the sofa, medical kit in hand, Lizetta was sitting there, her gaze fixed on a painting hanging on the wall-one of Remington''s works.
Among the collection was a piece capturing her mid-dance, utterly beautiful in its execution. Lizetta immediately recognized the costume she''d worn at a universitypetition: a flowing gown that seemed to defy gravity. In the painting, she was caught in a high leap, her movement so light and effortless it was as if she were truly flying.
Thosepetitions were etched into her memory. Remington hadn''t been there-at least, he''d said he wasn''t. So how could he have painted this? The details were so precise, even the subtlest nuances of her posture and expression were perfectly rendered. No one could have painted this without seeing it firsthand.
As if sensing her confusion, Remington opened the kit, took out a bottle of liniment, and spoke quietly, as though answering her unspoken question.
"I was there that day."
Lizetta blinked in surprise, her brow furrowing.
"If you were there, why didn''t you show up? Wait, I remember-I won first prize, I called you right after, but you said you were busy and hung up.”
Her tone was using. Remington''s gaze darkened, something unreadable simmering behind his eyes.
"Lucian Dashiell was there too," he said, his voice low. "He had a huge bouquet of roses with him."
So that was it. That exined why Remington hade, then slipped away without a word, never telling her he''d seen the performance.
She''d been seventeen then. A brothering to watch his sister perform shouldn''t have beenplicated. But Remington hadn''t gone as her brother, and that was why, upon seeing Lucian in the front row, clutching those white roses, he''d quietly left. No exnations, no goodbyes.
Even now, Lizetta could recall the disappointed ache she''d felt waiting for him that night. She shot Remington a re, exasperated.
“The roses were for Professor Daisynes, my mentor. She adores white roses, and Lucian was just holding them for me. They weren''t for me, okay?"
Remington knew that now, of course, but back then he''dpletely misunderstood. He''d been certain Lucian was there to sweep Lizetta off her feet.
She remembered finishing her
routine, the thunder of apuse, and searching the crowd for
Remington only to see Lucian in the frontrow, hands full of whi roses, smiling up at her. She''d smiled back, so brilliantly that the stage lights seemed to dim inparison.
But Remington had beente, stuck
at the back of the crowd. All he could do was watch from a distance before quietly turning away and
tossing the small cake he''d brought
for her into a trash bin outside.
"I was an idiot back then," Remington admitted, his voice rough with regret.
"Overthinking everything. Don''t hold it against your big brother, Liz."
Lizetta let out a soft, dismissive huff, her cheeks tinged pink.
"Aren''t you supposed to be patching me up? Get on with it."
She turned around, lifted her shirt, and hugged a throw pillow, stretching out on the sofa without another word.
Remington poured some of the liniment into his hand. "This might sting a little. Hold still."
"I''m not that delicate. Just get it over with!"
Shey there, her body curving
gracefully against the cushions, the
exposed line of her waist as elegant
as the neck T
a porcin vase. The
sight was tempting-far more than she realized, especially with those careless, teasing words.
Remington''s eyes darkened as he knelt beside her. Even before he touched her,
just the thought set his skin aze. He swallowed hard, forcing his focus onto the bruise on her waist.
"You''d better keep quiet," he muttered.
Lizetta started to ask why, but the moment his hand pressed against the bruise, she gasped—a soft, breathy sound that was unmistakably alluring.
Remington bit down on his lip, his throat dry as if he''d swallowed a coal.
God help him.