I learned it early in my life.
Emotions are a burden, attachment a curse.
The last time I cried was when my grandfather pulled me out of my mother's care. St. Moritz's winter was merciless; my skin was torn from whips, blue from being left in the snow, nearly naked.
And here I am.
On my knees, holding the ankles of the woman who has broken through my walls so easily I don't know how it happened. Tears stream down my face. I feel small, vulnerable, exposed in a way I only ever felt in that massive chalet as a child.
My chest feels unbearably heavy, congested from letting the words spill out despite my pride, despite my ego.
She says nothing. She does not pull her ankles away. I can only imagine how foolish and clingy I must look through her eyes, and that thought drives the tears faster. I am not ashamed of being vulnerable; I am ashamed I had to beg.
Under the dark, clouded sky the air tastes sharp and clean, like chlorine before a thunderstorm. A cold wind makes me shiver.
"Say something," I whisper, my voice thin and hoarse from crying after years.
Nova looks at me, and for a moment I cannot tell whether she will kiss me, slap me, or say the most hurtful thing she can find. I am ready to take anything if it means she gives me permission to be hers.
"Aaron," she says softly. The sound makes something unfamiliar and tender flutter through me, replacing the iron determination I have worn in front of everyone else.
Nova bends down and pulls my hands away from her ankles. She holds my shoulder. "Stand up."
My eyes fill again at the gentleness of her whisper. I rise and tower over her. She puts her small hands on my face and I nuzzle into her warmth, searching for confirmation that she is opening to me.
"You are a crybaby," she teases, which makes me shake my head. Crybaby? I am far from that. Still, when she is near, I become a version of myself no one else sees.
"Aaron, I…" she falters, conflicted but not pushing me away.
"I have a past," she says. The word lands like a weight. I remember reading files on her weeks ago; my hands clench into fists. I do not tell her I already know. I do not tell her that, if she wanted, I could make the man who hurt her disappear, slow and quietly.
She inhales sharply; her hands tremble as they frame my face. I lift my hands and wrap them around hers, pressing them to my skin.
Her eyes flicker with sorrow. "I was used, cheated, insulted, and—" a tear slips free.
"And?" I nudge, my voice rough.
"I was five months pregnant with twins when his mother kidnapped me and took me to a hospital," she says. The words split open something inside me. This detail was not in the file. The pain in her eyes is more than I can bear.
I pull her into my arms, holding her to my chest as her shoulders shake. My sweater grows damp with her tears.
"It's okay. It's okay," I whisper, one arm wrapped around her shoulder, the other patting the back of her head.
Thunder rumbles overhead; the sky darkens further. I pick her up. She buries her face in my chest and sobs, silent and violent. Each shuddering breath wounds me anew.
There is a small room on the terrace with a digital lock. Only members of the Laurent family and two trusted cleaners know about it. I punch the code and push the door open.
It is modest and clean: ivory walls, a cozy bed with a fluffy blanket and silk pillows, a small fridge stocked with snacks, an attached bathroom. A white table sits by the window with a lamp, a few neatly stacked books, and a coffee machine. A perfect refuge.
I lay Nova on the bed and take off her shoes. She curls into a ball and trembles. My earlier desperation fades; all that matters is her, the damage she carries.
I lock the door and close the window against the rising wind. I spoon her from behind, feeling her chill finally ebb as she stops fighting.
This helplessness, this gut-wrenching fury and hatred toward whoever broke her , it twists my insides. "Please don't cry like this," I plead, forehead pressed to the back of her head. She cries harder.
Rain begins to batter the windows. Nova holds back her breath for a second, and I feel my own heart tear.
I spread my right arm across her waist and pull her as close as I can. "I'm here. It's okay. Don't be scared," I tell her, and I mean it.
Her tears come quieter now, the kind that carry years of hidden pain.
"I was pregnant with twins when my ex-boyfriend's mother kidnapped me and forced me to have an abortion," she says hoarsely.
My chest falls. She places a cold hand atop mine on her lower abdomen. "How many weeks?" I whisper.
"Twenty weeks," she answers. Her voice cracks. "They were active. I could feel them. Even though he cheated and insulted me, I was happy to be a mom." She wails
Nova chokes on the words. I wrap my arms around her tighter.
"I always wanted to be a mother. I could have raised them without him." She sobs. "But they took them."
Anger like a live thing rises inside me, animal and raw.
"I woke up in a VIP ward and… my babies were gone. I screamed and begged," she continues, trembling. She places her hand over mine again. "They warned me. If I didn't behave, it would get worse."
Something clicks into place: the missing pieces fall into the pattern. The woman who brought me to my knees — brilliant, maddeningly beautiful — is not pushing me away because she doesn't want me. She is terrified.
A hollow opens in my chest. I press kisses along the back of her neck and soothe her shoulder with my thumb. My eyes harden with a schematic of retribution for everyone who hurt her.
"What's his name?" I ask.
"Arthur Percival," she says, the name spat like venom. My eyebrow lifts at the name. It does not match the boyfriend listed in the files. Percival — the name is familiar and wrong in the same breath.
"The vice chairman of Percival," she adds, confirming my unease.
My jaw tightens. Either the records I saw are fabricated, or Percival's people have been busy rewriting narratives. Either way, they have a hand in her suffering.
"Do you hate him?" I ask.
"Enough to want to rip him into pieces," Nova answers. Her hatred is the kind I grew up with, familiar and terrible. A small, cruel smile tugs at my lips.
Percival family. If they have a role in this, they have set themselves squarely in the path of their own destruction.