Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
As Lucas buttoned his shirt, his fingers fumbled slightly on the small buttons. It was such a human moment, so at odds with his usual confident demeanor, that I felt my heart clench painfully. I almost told him to stop, to ignore everything I had just said… and then he was gone.
CHAPTER 22
Alice
A week went by. I knew I should be trying to figure out how to get a student visa that didn’t depend on the mercies of the Selecta Scholarship program, but instead I plunged as deeply into my coursework as I could, and to the exclusion of almost all else, including food and sleep.
Except that I also followed the news about Paris Saint Germain, and Lucas Moreau, obsessively. I found myself constantly refreshing sports news websites, my eyes scanning for any mention of Lucas. The rumors about his potential transfer to a Japanese club swirled, growing more insistent with each passing day. I devoured every article, every speculative social media post, searching for some hidden insight into his state of mind.
One evening, as I huddled over my laptop in my tiny apartment, I came across a photo that made my heart skip a beat. Lucas, leaving practice, his chiseled features set in a grim expression. His eyes seemed to stare right through the camera, filled with an intensity that made my breath catch. I zoomed in, studying every pixel, searching for some sign of how he was coping with our separation.
That’s a rather grandiose way to think of it, n’est-ce pas? I chided myself, but it felt that way to me.
Yes, I’d been with the most famous footballer in the world for only a few days, but in my mind we had, well, been together. I blushed, thinking about everything that being together had meant, when it came to Lucas and me.
Was that a new line around his eyes? Did the set of his jaw betray tension, stress? I shook my head, disgusted with myself. What did it matter? I had ended things. I had no right to care about his emotional state.
Yet I couldn’t stop myself from poring over every scrap of information. The upcoming match against Lyon loomed large in the football world, and questions about Lucas’ conditioning dominated the sports pages. Pundits debated whether the transfer rumors were affecting his performance, dissecting every minute of his recent games and even his practices.
I read their analyses with a mixture of fascination and frustration. None of them knew Lucas like I did. None of them understood the complexity of the man behind the footballer. I wanted to scream at the screen, to tell them they were all missing the point—the point was…
The point was me. The point should be me. Such a stupid thing to think, but I couldn’t help it.
As I scrolled through yet another article speculating about Lucas’ future, a realization hit me like a punch to the gut. The paparazzi seemed to have forgotten about me entirely. There were no more grainy photos of us together, no breathless speculation about the mysterious student who had captured the heart of Paris’ most eligible bachelor. It was as if I had never existed in Lucas’ world at all.
The hurt that washed over me at this realization was both unexpected and overwhelming. I found myself staring at my reflection in the darkened computer screen, searching for some trace of the woman who had been deemed worthy of Lucas Moreau’s attention. Had I imagined it all? The intensity of his gaze, the possessive touch of his hands, the way he had made me feel simultaneously cherished and owned?
I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, wincing as they caught on knots. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, a testament to too many late nights spent obsessing over football news and neglecting my studies. My skin looked pale and drawn in the harsh glow of the computer screen.
With a frustrated groan, I slammed the laptop shut and flopped back onto my too-big bed. The luxurious linens, provided for the comfort of my wealthy sponsors, only reminded me of Lucas, of the brutal, degrading, but overwhelmingly pleasurable way he had fucked me here. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to banish the memories of how it felt to be wrapped in his arms, cocooned in silk and warmth and the intoxicating scent of his skin.
Even the seminar room didn’t really provide a respite. Louise Montreuil had of course noticed that I hadn’t made the news recently. As I tried to focus on Professor Durand’s lecture about fifteenth-century peasant revolts, I felt her eyes on me. Her gaze seemed to burn into the side of my face, a mixture of curiosity and something else I couldn’t quite identify. When la pause came, I braced myself for the inevitable conversation.
“So,” Louise said, sliding into the seat next to me. “I see you’ve come to your senses about Lucas Moreau.”