Chapter 5 - THE BEACH WHERE HE FINALLY SMILED|
On the second day of my supposed final week, I saw the ocean.
Not on television.
Not in a photograph.
Not in the unfinished painting beside my window.
I saw the real Atlantic Ocean stretching beneath a pale October sky.
And standing beside me was a man who looked as though he belonged in a courtroom, a boardroom, or the center of a police investigation.
Anywhere except an empty beach.
“You're wearing dress shoes,” I told him.
Lucian looked down.
“They're shoes.”
“They probably cost more than my rent.”
“That's possible.”
“And you're standing in sand.”
“I noticed.”
I laughed.
It was the first time I'd laughed without forcing it in months.
He glanced at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Amelia.”
“You look ridiculous.”
His mouth curved.
“That's a new experience.”
We had arrived at a quiet stretch of beach near Montauk after my hospital team approved the outing with clear instructions about medication, fatigue, and when to return.
A medical professional waited nearby in case I needed assistance.
Marco had remained discreetly behind with the driver.
I was wrapped in a thick cream sweater and a borrowed wool coat that smelled faintly of Lucian's cologne.
The wind tugged at the scarf around my bare head.
I had lost my hair during treatment eight months earlier.
Most days, I wore a hat.
Today, I let the ocean air touch my scalp.
Lucian didn't stare.
He didn't pretend not to notice.
He simply stood beside me, facing the water.
“It's beautiful,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
He was watching me.
“Lucian.”
“What?”
“The ocean is that way.”
“I know.”
Heat rose into my cheeks.
I turned back toward the waves.
For a while, we walked slowly along the shoreline.
When my legs grew tired, he helped me settle onto a wooden bench overlooking the water.
He didn't complain about the pace.
He didn't check his watch.
He didn't answer the phone vibrating repeatedly inside his coat.
Finally, I nodded toward his pocket.
“Somebody really wants you.”
“They can wait.”
“What if it's important?”
“Then they'll call Marco.”
“That's a very convenient system.”
“It has its advantages.”
I studied him.
“Do you always have someone following you?”
“Usually.”
“Because you're dangerous?”
“Because my life is complicated.”
“That's a polite way of describing organized crime.”
His expression grew serious.
“You're not wrong.”
I folded my hands in my lap.
“I don't understand why a man like you would care about someone like me.”
“What does someone like you mean?”
“Ordinary.”
He looked genuinely puzzled.
“Is that what you think you are?”
I shrugged.
“I used to work in a bookstore.”
“I live in a tiny apartment.”
“I haven't done anything important.”
Lucian stared out at the water.
“My sister used to say something similar.”
I turned toward him.
“She did?”
“She thought her life wouldn't matter unless she built something that lasted a hundred years.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That she was wrong.”
“Did she believe you?”
“Not completely.”
His voice softened.
“I wish I'd told her that the way she made people feel was already something that lasted.”
The wind swept across the bench.
I pulled the coat tighter.
“You miss her.”
“Every day.”
“Does it get easier?”
He considered the question.
“No.”
My heart sank slightly.
“Then what changes?”
“You learn how to carry it without letting it decide every moment.”
I watched a gull circle above the water.
For the first time, I wondered what my mother would carry after I was gone.
We hadn't spoken properly in almost two months.
Our last conversation had ended with her telling me I needed to pray harder and stop expecting the worst.
I'd hung up because I didn't know how to explain that my body wasn't responding to optimism.
“What are you thinking about?” Lucian asked.
“My mother.”
“Have you called her?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
I hesitated.
“I don't want our last conversation to be an argument.”
“Then don't make it one.”
“You say that as if it's easy.”
“It isn't.”
He looked at me.
“But I know what it's like to run out of time before saying the words that matter.”
I pulled out my phone.
My mother's number appeared beneath an old photograph of the two of us at my college graduation.
I almost pressed call.
Then my courage failed.
“Not yet.”
Lucian nodded.
“Whenever you're ready.”
We sat quietly until the wind became too cold.
Then he helped me toward the car.
Halfway across the sand, I stopped.
“Wait.”
He turned.
“What is it?”
“I need to do something.”
I slipped off my shoes.
Lucian stared.
“Amelia, the sand is freezing.”
“I know.”
“Your doctor specifically said to avoid getting chilled.”
“Then I'll be quick.”
I walked three careful steps toward the wet shoreline.
Cold sand pressed against my bare feet.
A wave rolled forward and touched my toes.
I gasped.
Lucian came closer.
“That's enough adventure for one afternoon.”
I grinned.
“You sound eighty.”
“You're shortening my lifespan.”
“That's ironic.”
The smile vanished from his face.
I regretted the joke immediately.
“I'm sorry.”
He shook his head.
“Don't be.”
Then he did something I never expected.
He took off his shoes.
I stared at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Apparently making a terrible financial decision.”
He stepped into the wet sand beside me.
Water curled around his feet.
He looked deeply offended by the temperature.
I burst into laughter.
He looked at me.
Then he laughed too.
It was a real laugh this time.
Open and unguarded.
For a few extraordinary seconds, he looked younger than forty.
He looked like a man who might have spent his life doing ordinary things if circumstances had been different.
I wished I could remember that expression forever.
“Can I take a picture?” I asked.
“Of what?”
“You.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because Marco will never let me forget it.”
“That's the point.”
He sighed.
Then he stood beside me while I lifted my phone.
The photograph captured us with our shoes in our hands, our coats whipping in the wind, and the ocean behind us.
His smile was small.
Mine was enormous.
I looked at the image and felt my chest tighten.
For once, I didn't look like a patient.
I looked alive.
On the drive back, I fell asleep against the window.
When I woke, my head was resting against Lucian's shoulder.
His coat had been draped over my legs.
I tried to sit upright.
“Sorry.”
“It's fine.”
“Your shoulder must be numb.”
“I've survived worse.”
I looked at his profile.
“Lucian?”
“Yes?”
“Did you ever fall in love?”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted me to become someone I wasn't.”
“Did you?”
“For a while.”
“And then?”
“I realized she didn't love me.”
“She loved the idea of what I could give her.”
I considered that.
“That's sad.”
“It's common.”
“Not the same thing.”
He turned toward me.
Something unreadable moved through his eyes.
“No,” he said.
“It isn't.”
I looked away, embarrassed by how much I wanted to know about his life.
He was still a stranger.
A dangerous stranger.
And I was a woman with a countdown hanging over her head.
Whatever this fragile connection was, it couldn't possibly become something real.
That was what I told myself.
Then his phone rang.
Marco answered from the front passenger seat.
I watched his expression change.
“Boss,” he said.
Lucian straightened.
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
“Be specific.”
“Someone entered Miss Carter's apartment while we were gone.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What?”
Lucian's entire body went still.
“Was anything taken?”
Marco hesitated.
“Her medical records are missing.”
My stomach twisted.
I kept copies of every scan and diagnosis in a blue folder beside my painting.
“Who took them?”
Marco looked back at us.
“We don't know yet.”
Lucian reached for his phone.
Then Marco added something that made the air inside the car turn cold.
“The intruder left a message on the painting.”
I leaned forward.
“What message?”
Marco swallowed.
“Seven days was a generous offer.”
May you like
Lucian's hand closed around his phone.
And for the first time since meeting him, I saw the expression that had made an entire city afraid of his name.
