Say I'm the One (All of Me Duet #1)
Siobhan Davis
Prologue
VIVIEN - NOW
The limousine draws to a smooth stop outside the entrance to the renowned movie theater in L.A., and the crowd whoops and hollers, the raucous noise clearly audible even through the barrier of the car. The fans’ excitement has reached fever pitch this week, and I have struggled to sleep most nights as the weight of expectation bears down on me. I’m grateful to my amazingly talented makeup artist for disguising the glaring dark shadows under my eyes and the pale tinge to my skin.
If I survive this night without puking or fainting, I’ll consider it a win.
The usual doubts race through my terrified mind, almost crippling me with anxiety. Am I doing the right thing in ripping my chest wide-open, exposing the vulnerabilities of my heart for the entire world to see?
My breath oozes out in anguished spurts, and I place a hand over my heaving chest, rubbing the tightness there, willing my heart to calm down before I give myself a coronary.
Warm, familiar fingers intertwine in mine, and I cling to his hand like the lifeline it is. “Breathe, Viv. You’ve got this,” he says.
I turn to face him, discovering his piercing blue eyes are already locked on mine. Squeezing my hand, he smiles, his gaze full of love and adoration. I release a shuddering breath, as my pulse slows down, comforted by the reassuring look on his gorgeous face and the firm grip of his hand in mine. Reaching out, I cup his cheek, welcoming the feel of his stubble as it grazes against my palm. “I couldn’t do this without you. I would never have even gotten to this point without your support.” Tears prick the backs of my eyes as I think of everything we have endured to get here.
So much pain. So much heartache. So much turmoil.
“I love you,” he murmurs, resting his hand over mine on his face. “And I will always support you. Always.” He pulls my hand around to his lips, placing the softest kiss against my palm. Tingles emanate from my hand, all the way down my arm, and his touch helps to soothe my frayed edges. “But you would have gotten here without me because you are so incredibly strong. I’m in awe of you.” Lowering our hands to the seat, he leans in, pressing a delicate kiss to the corner of my mouth that is at odds with the usual possessive way he kisses me. “I’m so proud to call you my wife, and no matter what anyone else thinks, I’m proud of how far you’ve come. Fuck anyone who disagrees.” His fingers gently trace the curve of my jawline, careful not to dislodge my makeup. “There will always be haters. We know that. But who cares what they think? This isn’t about them. This is about you. About us.”
The crowd screams louder outside, and I know it’s time.
“He would be so proud of you too, Vivien. Wherever he is, I know he’s watching this and cheering for you just like I am.”
I can only nod over the messy ball of emotion clogging my throat. I need to get a grip because tonight is about celebrating love and life and cherishing every single moment. Reliving the past will be painful. I have no doubt it will be emotional—not just for me—but I refuse to shed any more tears. Tonight, I will draw a line under the past. I’m determined to stop beating myself up for being happy. I know it’s what he would want. Tonight is about finally finding the last sliver of closure I need to fully move on.
I owe it to myself, to my family, and to this man waiting patiently at my side—above everyone, I owe it to him.
Flinging my arms around his neck, I inhale the musky scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and lavender as I cling to his body, permitting his warmth and solid masculinity to infuse me with renewed determination. “I love you,” I whisper in his ear. “So damn much.”
“I will never tire of hearing those words leave your gorgeous lips,” he says, waggling his brows in his usual flirtatious manner. “And you can show me just how much later, but right now, we need to get out of this car before we start a riot.”
“I can do this,” I say, holding my shoulders back and tipping my head up. It’s not like this is my first rodeo. However, it is the first time I’m attending a premiere for a movie I wrote and coproduced.
“You were born to do this,” he adds, pressing a kiss to the back of my exposed neck. A slew of shivers cascades down my spine, and an ache pulses between my thighs. His touch still lights a fire inside me, even after all this time.
“Wait for me,” he says, curling his hand around the door handle.
“Always.” I blow him a kiss as he opens his door and exits the car. The screaming elevates a few decibels, and my lips tug up at the corners. I’m not surprised his legions of fans have turned out to catch a glimpse of their idol. I’m granted a temporary reprieve as he closes the door, waving to the crowd, before rounding the back of the car. Scooting closer to the door, I smooth a hand down the front of my pretty pink and silver Dior gown, drawing a brave breath as I wait for him.
He opens my door with a flourish, extending his hand and helping me to my feet. The crowd roars their approval, and we turn around on the sidewalk, holding hands while waving to the thousands of men, women, and children lining the cordoned-off road as far as the eye can see.
My eyes lower to the charcoal-colored sidewalk before us that encompasses a part of the Hollywood Walk of Fame, instantly finding the coral-pink terrazzo five-point star rimmed with brass that houses Reeve’s name. I remember how proud he was the day he was honored with it. How proud I was to see the culmination of all his childhood dreams etched so permanently into history.
More well-wishers adorn the red carpet on both sides of the covered entrance as he leads me forward. Some hold signs, professing their love for Reeve. Other placards express love for Dillon. Up ahead, hanging back just inside the open doorway of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, are my parents along with my agent, Margaret Andre; the head of Studio 27, who produced the movie; and the studio’s overworked publicist.
My husband’s hand is steady on my lower back as we walk along the red carpet, smiling and waving. Excitement prickles in the air, helping to drown out my lingering nerves.
“Murderer!”
“Slut!”
The words slam into me like bullets, pushing through skin and tissue and bone, embedding deep in my heart and twisting my soul into knots. Acid churns in my gut, and bile pools in my mouth as I grip my husband’s arm tighter. The noise of the crowd fades, and all I hear are those taunts echoing on repeat in my brain. Panic surges through my veins, replacing the life-sustaining blood flow with liquid ice.
“Ignore those bitches,” my husband says, circling his arm around my shoulders and pulling me in close to his side. “Someone’s head is going to roll for this,” he adds through clenched teeth.
Scuffling breaks out on my right as security guards force their way through the crowd to reach the two women hurling obscenities and accusations my way. But I don’t hear anything else. I’m numb to everything going on around me, having retreated to that safe place in my head where no one can hurt me.
He hustles me through the open door, past my concerned parents and a clearly distressed studio publicist. My back hits the wall, and heat rolls off him in waves as he leans into me, his palms resting on either side of my head. Cocooning us in our own little bubble, he says, “Talk to me.” With gentle fingers, he tips my chin up, forcing my gaze to meet his worried one. We stare at one another, unspoken sentiments passing between us, and the hypnotic depths of his ocean-blue eyes reel me out of the desolate space in my head.