Trace and Cole order dinner and eat quietly without turning the steak knives into weapons. They mostly ignore each other and focus on me. But there are a few conversations through the next two hours. Conversations I so badly wish I could hear. Their mannerisms and expressions are serious, stormless even, as they talk.
When they finally stand from the table, Trace heads toward the exit.
Instead of following him out, Cole steps up to the stage. I dance toward him, encased in the beam of light that shines from beneath the acrylic platform. He studies it for a moment and reaches out to test the motion sensor, trying to make it follow his hand.
The spotlight stays under my feet, chasing me from side to side as I move through the footwork. Maybe it’s attracted to sweaty women, because sweet mercy, I’m burning up. Thankfully, the light doesn’t put off heat. Trace had it designed specifically for me, as well as the renovations for this restaurant, the addition of the stage, and my own private dressing room. All of it—as I recently learned—was constructed for my employment before I even met the scowly casino owner.
Cole lingers at my feet, staring up at me as if he can’t bear the thought of leaving. I hate it. No matter the hows or whys that put us here, I seem to be the one pulling the strings now, and what I’m doing is cruel.
I twist mindlessly through belly dance movements while playing out an agonizing resolution in my head. I could end things with Cole right now. Tell him I moved on, that I love Trace more—a lie—and demand he pack up his shit and go. Cut ties. Change my locks. Block his number. Force him to find new love and deeper happiness with someone else.
It would be excruciating for me, but it’s the compassionate thing to do. In the long run, his life would be better for it. Nothing good can come from being with a woman who loves two men.
A pang stabs my chest, and my face crumples. I spin away, pretending the twirl is part of the routine. With measured breaths, I focus on rippling my mid-section and composing my expression. Then I turn back.
He grips the edge of the stage, bulldozing me with a look that says I am his only mission now, and a soldier doesn’t back down from a fight.
It also tells me the scenario I just imagined is total bullshit. Our love won’t end with changed locks and blocked numbers. It’s stubborn and unshakable and fated.
I lift my gaze to the man standing near the entrance of the dining room. Fingers in the pockets of his tailored slacks, Trace rests a shoulder against the far wall, watching me with single-minded focus.
Maybe he’s the one I need to let go. But we haven’t had any one-on-one time since Cole returned. Perhaps I’ll stay with him tonight and talk to him openly about this.
Cole removes his hands from the stage and straightens, as if preparing to leave. I can read his demeanor—the tense shoulders, the pinched lips, the stalling. He might not admit it, but this is hurting him.
I glide toward him and press my lips to my fingers. Then I bend down and touch those fingers to his mouth, letting my caress feather along his jaw and float away from the indention in his chin.
“Love you,” he mouths.
I nod and soften my eyes with all the things I want to say but can’t on a stage in a crowded dining room.
He strides toward the exit and joins Trace. Together, they vanish beyond the door, taking all the air with them.
Love is a deep breath with wings. It flutters in the chest, swooping and dancing to the beat of the heart. Without it, I feel strangled and lifeless.
Without them, I might never breathe again.
I slip off the stage at midnight, physically exhausted but emotionally energized. Dancing clears my head and breathes life into my soul. I feel blissfully empowered and eager to talk things out with Trace.
I haven’t seen him or Cole since they left Bissara. I assume Cole went home. Trace could be anywhere on the property.
Rather than heading to my dressing room, I swerve toward the main floor of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel. Past the clanking, flashing slot machines and around the crowded gaming tables, I veer down a quiet corridor and punch in my access code to call Trace’s private elevator.
Inside the lift, I press 31. After a short ride, the doors open, and I step out.
The penthouse is quiet, seemingly vacant. Dim lights illuminate the open kitchen on the left. Straight ahead, the living room is dark, drawing my attention to the glittering St. Louis cityscape beyond the windows.
“Trace?” I make my way down the hallway, stopping at the first doorway and poking my head into the workout room and indoor pool area. “Are you home?”
Silence.
Dang it. He must be in one of the bars downstairs, hobnobbing with clients.
The humidity and aroma of chlorine swaddles me in a vapor of tranquility, and I suddenly feel like swimming.
I follow the exposed brick walls to his bedroom and find it as tidy and vacant as the rest of the penthouse. An industrial warehouse theme dominates the top floor of the hotel, but the soft red and charcoal textures in this room give it a welcoming, cozy feel without losing the masculine ambiance.
His maid service comes three times a week. Today is an off day, yet his king-sized bed is made, accented with coordinating pillows. I smile at the image of him straightening and fluffing. He’s such a damn clean freak.
I take a quick shower, washing off make-up, glitter, and eight hours of sweat. When I finish, he still isn’t back.
In his ginormous closet, I dig through drawers in search of my favorite pink bikini. It’s no secret I’m a little disorganized and a lot messy—the complete opposite of Trace. His suits and shirts hang in color-coded rows while my shit rarely makes it onto a hanger.
He cleans up after me constantly and never complains. For a man who tolerates very little, he puts up with my quirky, annoying habits like a champ.
Now where did he put my bikini?
I find it in a drawer labeled swimsuits—imagine that—along with a few others I’ve never seen before. He doesn’t have a personal shopper. He’s too controlling for that. Picturing him standing in a clothing store and picking out these skimpy things makes my heart smile.
I pull on one of the new suits, a strappy silver monokini, which is essentially a few tiny pieces of fabric webbed together with dozens of spaghetti strings.
Making my way down the hall, I cross the workout room and enter the glass enclosure on the roof of the casino hotel. In the warmer months, the windowed panels slide back, bringing the outdoors inside. But October in St. Louis is chilly. With the pool area sealed up for the winter, it feels like a sauna in here.
I stop at the digital panel beside the pool entrance. I love how the smart home system plays music in any room in the penthouse. It also does security stuff and other things, more important things—Trace’s words—but I only access it for the sound system.
With my playlist already loaded, I select Don’t Let Me Down by The Chainsmokers and crank up the volume.