In Chap­ter Fifty-Five, we dive into the con­flict­ed and com­plex world of Mil­lie, who reflects on her inter­ac­tions with Nina and pon­ders the nature of their rela­tion­ship. Despite ini­tial­ly per­ceiv­ing Nina as unsta­ble, Mil­lie now sus­pects that Nina was try­ing to warn her about the impend­ing dan­ger posed by a man they both know. This real­iza­tion prompts Mil­lie to reeval­u­ate past events and her judg­ments about Nina’s motives, sug­gest­ing a dis­turb­ing pat­tern of abuse and manip­u­la­tion that both women might have endured.

As Mil­lie waits, she con­tem­plates her tur­bu­lent past—highlighted by a series of trau­mat­ic events where she was dis­be­lieved, mis­treat­ed, and ulti­mate­ly mar­gin­al­ized by those clos­est to her. From being vic­tim­ized by author­i­ta­tive fig­ures to her stint in prison, Mil­lie’s nar­ra­tive is marked by a series of betray­als that led her to rely sole­ly on her­self for sur­vival. Her reflec­tions reveal a life filled with vio­lence and betray­al, paint­ing a vivid pic­ture of the sur­vival tac­tics she has had to employ, includ­ing vio­lence when cor­nered or harassed.

The chap­ter also reveals a tense and dark exchange between Mil­lie and Andrew, who is sub­ject­ed to a cru­el form of pun­ish­ment by Mil­lie. Through their inter­ac­tion, Mil­lie’s ruth­less­ness and deter­mi­na­tion to main­tain con­trol over the sit­u­a­tion are evi­dent. Andrew’s pleads for release are met with Mil­lie’s cold manip­u­la­tion, as she extends his pun­ish­ment and rev­els in his des­per­a­tion. This encounter under­lines Mil­lie’s com­plex char­ac­ter, shaped by her past expe­ri­ences and cur­rent cir­cum­stances, show­cas­ing her abil­i­ty to wield pow­er in a sit­u­a­tion where she has the upper hand.

Mil­lie’s resilience and dis­trust, bred from a life­time of betray­al and abuse, are laid bare as she maneu­vers through her fraught inter­ac­tions with Andrew. The chap­ter clos­es with a chill­ing demon­stra­tion of Mil­lie’s hard­ened resolve to not only sur­vive but to turn the tables on those who under­es­ti­mate her, hint­ing at deep­er lay­ers of her char­ac­ter to be explored.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
55
I watched him con­sume every spoon­ful, his eyes dart­ing between where I
stood and the soup.
When he was done, he set down his spoon.
“Aren’t you going to say any­thing?” he said at last.
“I was going to tell you what I’d decid­ed the moment I saw you on the
thresh­old.”
Rhys twist­ed in his seat toward me. “And now?”
Aware of every breath, every move­ment, I sat in his lap. His hands gen­tly
braced my hips as I stud­ied his face. “And now I want you to know,
Rhysand, that I love you. I want you to know … ” His lips trem­bled, and I
brushed away the tear that escaped down his cheek. “I want you to know,” I
whis­pered, “that I am bro­ken and heal­ing, but every piece of my heart
belongs to you. And I am honored—honored to be your mate.”
His arms wrapped around me and he pressed his fore­head to my shoul­der,
his body shak­ing. I stroked a hand through his silken hair.
“I love you,” I said again. I hadn’t dared say the words in my head. “And
I’d endure every sec­ond of it over again so I could find you. And if war
comes, we’ll face it. Togeth­er. I won’t let them take me from you. And I
won’t let them take you from me, either.”
Rhys looked up, his face gleam­ing with tears. He went still as I leaned in,
kiss­ing away one tear. Then the oth­er. As he had once kissed away mine.
When my lips were wet and salty with them, I pulled back far enough to
see his eyes. “You’re mine,” I breathed.
His body shud­dered with what might have been a sob, but his lips found
my own.
It was gentle—soft. The kiss he might have giv­en me if we’d been
grant­ed time and peace to meet across our two sep­a­rate worlds. To court
each oth­er. I slid my arms around his shoul­ders, open­ing my mouth to him,
and his tongue slipped in, caress­ing my own. Mate—my mate.
He hard­ened against me, and I groaned into his mouth.
The sound snapped what­ev­er leash he’d had on him­self, and Rhysand
scooped me up in a smooth move­ment before lay­ing me flat on the table—
amongst and on top of all the paints.
He deep­ened the kiss, and I wrapped my legs around his back, hook­ing
him clos­er. He tore his lips from my mouth to my neck, where he dragged
his teeth and tongue down my skin as his hands slid under my sweater and
went up, up, to cup my breasts. I arched into the touch, and lift­ed my arms
as he peeled away my sweater in one easy motion.
Rhys pulled back to sur­vey me, my body naked from the waist up. Paint
soaked into my hair, my arms. But all I could think of was his mouth as it
low­ered to my breast and sucked, his tongue flick­ing against my nip­ple.
I plunged my fin­gers into his hair, and he braced a hand beside my head
—smack atop a palette of paint. He let out a low laugh, and I watched,
breath­less, as he took that hand and traced a cir­cle around my breast, then
low­er, until he paint­ed a down­ward arrow beneath my bel­ly but­ton.
“Lest you for­get where this is going to end,” he said.
I snarled at him, a silent order, and he laughed again, his mouth find­ing
my oth­er breast. He ground his hips against me, teasing—teasing me so
hor­ri­bly that I had to touch him, had to just feel more of him. There was
paint all over my hands, my arms, but I didn’t care as I grabbed at his
clothes. He shift­ed enough to let me remove them, weapons and leather
thud­ding to the ground, reveal­ing that beau­ti­ful tat­tooed body, the pow­er­ful
mus­cles and wings now peek­ing above them.
My mate—my mate.
His mouth crashed into mine, his bare skin so warm against my own, and
I gripped his face, smear­ing paint there, too. Smear­ing it in his hair, until
great streaks of blue and red and green ran through it. His hands found my
waist, and I bucked my hips off the table to help him remove my socks, my
leg­gings.
Rhys pulled back again, and I let out a bark of protest—that choked off
into a gasp as he gripped my thighs and yanked me to the edge of the table,
through paints and brush­es and cups of water, hooked my legs over his
shoul­ders to rest on either side of those beau­ti­ful wings, and knelt before
me.
Knelt on those stars and moun­tains inked on his knees. He would bow for
no one and noth­ing—
But his mate. His equal.
The first lick of Rhysand’s tongue set me on fire.
I want you splayed out on the table like my own per­son­al feast.
He growled his approval at my moan, my taste, and unleashed him­self on
me entire­ly.
A hand pin­ning my hips to the table, he worked me in great sweep­ing
strokes. And when his tongue slid inside me, I reached up to grip the edge
of the table, to grip the edge of the world that I was very near to falling off.
He licked and kissed his way to the apex of my thighs, just as his fin­gers
replaced where his mouth had been, pump­ing inside me as he sucked, his
teeth scrap­ing ever so slight­ly—
I bowed off the table as my cli­max shat­tered through me, splin­ter­ing my
con­scious­ness into a mil­lion pieces. He kept lick­ing me, fin­gers still
mov­ing. “Rhys,” I rasped.
Now. I want­ed him now.
But he remained kneel­ing, feast­ing on me, that hand pin­ning me to the
table.
I went over the edge again. And only when I was trem­bling, half sob­bing,
limp with plea­sure, did Rhys rise from the floor.
He looked me over, naked, cov­ered in paint, his own face and body
smeared with it, and give me a slow, sat­is­fied male smile. “You’re mine,” he
snarled, and heft­ed me up into his arms.
I want­ed the wall—I want­ed him to just take me against the wall, but he
car­ried me into the room I’d been using and set me down on the bed with
heart­break­ing gen­tle­ness.
Whol­ly naked, I watched as he unbut­toned his pants, and the
con­sid­er­able length of him sprang free. My mouth went dry at the sight of
it. I want­ed him, want­ed every glo­ri­ous inch of him in me, want­ed to claw
at him until our souls were forged togeth­er.
He didn’t say any­thing as he came over me, wings tucked in tight. He’d
nev­er gone to bed with a female while his wings were out. But I was his
mate. He would yield only for me.
And I want­ed to touch him.
I leaned up, reach­ing over his shoul­der to caress the pow­er­ful curve of
his wing.
Rhys shud­dered, and I watched his cock twitch.
“Play lat­er,” he ground out.
Indeed.
His mouth found mine, the kiss open and deep, a clash of tongues and
teeth. He lay me down on the pil­lows, and I locked my legs around his
back, care­ful of the wings.
Though I stopped car­ing as he nudged at my entrance. And paused.
“Play lat­er,” I snarled into his mouth.
Rhys laughed in a way that skit­tered along my bones, and slid in. And in.
And in.
I could hard­ly breathe, hard­ly think beyond where our bod­ies were
joined. He stilled inside me, let­ting me adjust, and I opened my eyes to find
him star­ing down at me. “Say it again,” he mur­mured.
I knew what he meant.
“You’re mine,” I breathed.
Rhys pulled out slight­ly and thrust back in slow. So tor­tur­ous­ly slow.
“You’re mine,” I gasped out.
Again, he pulled out, then thrust in.
“You’re mine.”
Again—faster, deep­er this time.
I felt it then, the bond between us, like an unbreak­able chain, like an
undim­ma­ble ray of light.
With each pound­ing stroke, the bond glowed clear­er and brighter and
stronger. “You’re mine,” I whis­pered, drag­ging my hands through his hair,
down his back, across his wings.
My friend through many dan­gers.
My lover who had healed my bro­ken and weary soul.
My mate who had wait­ed for me against all hope, despite all odds.
I moved my hips in time with his. He kissed me over and over, and both
of our faces turned damp. Every inch of me burned and tight­ened, and my
con­trol slipped entire­ly as he whis­pered, “I love you.”
Release tore through my body, and he pound­ed into me, hard and fast,
draw­ing out my plea­sure until I felt and saw and smelled that bond between
us, until our scents merged, and I was his and he was mine, and we were the
begin­ning and mid­dle and end. We were a song that had been sung from the
very first ember of light in the world.
Rhys roared as he came, slam­ming in to the hilt. Out­side, the moun­tains
trem­bled, the remain­ing snow rush­ing from them in a cas­cade of glit­ter­ing
white, only to be swal­lowed up by the wait­ing night below.
Silence fell, inter­rupt­ed only by our pant­i­ng breaths.
I took his paint-smeared face between my own col­or­ful hands and made
him look at me.
His eyes were radi­ant like the stars I’d paint­ed once, long ago.
And I smiled at Rhys as I let that mat­ing bond shine clear and lumi­nous
between us.
I don’t know how long we lay there, lazi­ly touch­ing each oth­er, as if we
might indeed have all the time in the world.
“I think I fell in love with you,” Rhys mur­mured, stroking a fin­ger down
my arm, “the moment I real­ized you were cleav­ing those bones to make a
trap for the Mid­den­gard Wyrm. Or maybe the moment you flipped me off
for mock­ing you. It remind­ed me so much of Cass­ian. For the first time in
decades, I want­ed to laugh.”
“You fell in love with me,” I said flat­ly, “because I remind­ed you of your
friend?”
He flicked my nose. “I fell in love with you, smar­tass, because you were
one of us—because you weren’t afraid of me, and you decid­ed to end your
spec­tac­u­lar vic­to­ry by throw­ing that piece of bone at Ama­ran­tha like a
javelin. I felt Cassian’s spir­it beside me in that moment, and could have
sworn I heard him say, ‘If you don’t mar­ry her, you stu­pid prick, I will.’ ”
I huffed a laugh, slid­ing my paint-cov­ered hand over his tat­tooed chest.
Paint—right.
We were both cov­ered in it. So was the bed.
Rhys fol­lowed my eyes and gave me a grin that was pos­i­tive­ly wicked.
“How con­ve­nient that the bath­tub is large enough for two.”
My blood heat­ed, and I rose from the bed only to have him move faster—
scoop­ing me up in his arms. He was splat­tered with paint, his hair crust­ed
with it, and his poor, beau­ti­ful wings … Those were my hand­prints on
them. Naked, he car­ried me into the bath, where the water was already
run­ning, the mag­ic of this cab­in act­ing on our behalf.
He strode down the steps into the water, his hiss of plea­sure a brush of air
against my ear. And I might have moaned a lit­tle myself when the hot water
hit me as he sat us both down in the tub.
A bas­ket of soaps and oils appeared along the stone rim, and I pushed off
him to sink fur­ther beneath the sur­face. The steam waft­ed between us, and
Rhys picked up a bar of that pine tar–smelling soap and hand­ed it to me,
then passed a washrag. “Some­one, it seems, got my wings dirty.”
My face heat­ed, but my gut tight­ened. Illyr­i­an males and their wings—so
sen­si­tive.
I twirled my fin­ger to motion him to turn around. He obeyed, spread­ing
those mag­nif­i­cent wings enough for me to find the paint stains. Care­ful­ly,
so care­ful­ly, I soaped up the wash­cloth and began wip­ing the red and blue
and pur­ple away.
The can­dle­light danced over his count­less, faint scars—nearly invis­i­ble
save for hard­er bits of mem­brane. He shud­dered with each pass, hands
braced on the lip of the tub. I peeked over his shoul­der to see the evi­dence
of that sen­si­tiv­i­ty, and said, “At least the rumors about wingspan cor­re­lat­ing
with the size of oth­er parts were right.”
His back mus­cles tensed as he choked out a laugh. “Such a dirty, wicked
mouth.”
I thought of all the places I want­ed to put that mouth and blushed a bit.
“I think I was falling in love with you for a while,” I said, the words
bare­ly audi­ble over the trick­le of water as I washed his beau­ti­ful wings.
“But I knew on Star­fall. Or came close to know­ing and was so scared of it
that I didn’t want to look clos­er. I was a cow­ard.”
“You had per­fect­ly good rea­sons to avoid it.”
“No, I didn’t. Maybe—thanks to Tam­lin, yes. But it had noth­ing to do
with you, Rhys. Noth­ing to do with you. I was nev­er afraid of the
con­se­quences of being with you. Even if every assas­sin in the world hunts
us … It’s worth it. You are worth it.”
His head dipped a bit. And he said hoarse­ly, “Thank you.”
My heart broke for him then—for the years he’d spent think­ing the
oppo­site. I kissed his bare neck, and he reached back to drag a fin­ger down
my cheek.
I fin­ished the wings and gripped his shoul­der to turn him to face me.
“What now?” Word­less­ly, he took the soap from my hands and turned me,
rub­bing down my back, scrub­bing light­ly with the cloth.
“It’s up to you,” Rhys said. “We can go back to Velaris and have the bond
ver­i­fied by a priestess—no one like Ianthe, I promise—and be declared
offi­cial­ly Mat­ed. We could have a small par­ty to celebrate—dinner with our
… cohorts. Unless you’d rather have a large par­ty, though I think you and I
are in agree­ment about our aver­sion for them.” His strong hands knead­ed
mus­cles that were tight and aching in my back, and I groaned. “We could
also go before a priest­ess and be declared hus­band and wife as well as
mates, if you want a more human thing to call me.”
“What will you call me?”
“Mate,” he said. “Though also call­ing you my wife sounds mighty
appeal­ing, too.” His thumbs mas­saged the col­umn of my spine. “Or if you
want to wait, we can do none of those things. We’re mat­ed, whether it’s
shout­ed across the world or not. There’s no rush to decide.”
I turned. “I was ask­ing about Juri­an, the king, the queens, and the
Caul­dron, but I’m glad to know I have so many options where our
rela­tion­ship stands. And that you’ll do what­ev­er I want. I must have you
wrapped com­plete­ly around my fin­ger.”
His eyes danced with feline amuse­ment. “Cru­el, beau­ti­ful thing.”
I snort­ed. The idea that he found me beau­ti­ful at all—
“You are,” he said. “You’re the most beau­ti­ful thing I’ve ever seen. I
thought that from the first moment I saw you on Calan­mai.”
And it was stu­pid, stu­pid for beau­ty to mean any­thing at all, but … My
eyes burned.
“Which is good,” he added, “because you thought I was the most
beau­ti­ful male you’d ever seen. So it makes us even.”
I scowled, and he laughed, hands slid­ing to grip my waist and tug me to
him. He sat down on the built-in bench of the tub, and I strad­dled him, idly
stroking his mus­cled arms.
“Tomor­row,” Rhys said, fea­tures becom­ing grave. “We’re leav­ing
tomor­row for your family’s estate. The queens sent word. They return in
three days.”
I start­ed. “You’re telling me this now?”
“I got side­tracked,” he said, his eyes twin­kling.
And the light in those eyes, the qui­et joy … They knocked the breath
from me. A future—we would have a future togeth­er. I would have a future.
A life.
His smile fad­ed into some­thing awed, some­thing … rev­er­ent, and I
reached out to cup his face in my hands—
To find my skin glow­ing.
Faint­ly, as if some inner light shone beneath my skin, leak­ing out into the
world. Warm and white light, like the sun—like a star. Those won­der-filled
eyes met mine, and Rhys ran a fin­ger down my arm. “Well, at least now I
can gloat that I lit­er­al­ly make my mate glow with hap­pi­ness.”
I laughed, and the glow flared a lit­tle brighter. He leaned in, kiss­ing me
soft­ly, and I melt­ed for him, wrap­ping my arms around his neck. He was
rock-hard against me, push­ing against where I sat poised right above him.
All it would take would be one smooth motion and he’d be inside me—
But Rhys stood from the water, both of us drip­ping wet, and I hooked my
legs around him as he walked us back into the bed­room. The sheets had
been changed by the domes­tic mag­ic of the house, and they were warm and
smooth against my naked body as he set me down and stared at me. Shin­ing
—I was shin­ing bright and pure as a star. “Day Court?” I asked.
“I don’t care,” he said rough­ly, and removed the glam­our from him­self.
It was a small mag­ic, he’d once told me, to keep the damper on who he
was, what his pow­er looked like.
As the full majesty of him was unleashed, he filled the room, the world,
my soul, with glit­ter­ing ebony pow­er. Stars and wind and shad­ows; peace
and dreams and the honed edge of night­mares. Dark­ness rip­pled from him
like ten­drils of steam as he reached out a hand and laid it flat against the
glow­ing skin of my stom­ach.
That hand of night splayed, the light leak­ing through the waft­ing
shad­ows, and I hoist­ed myself up on my elbows to kiss him.
Smoke and mist and dew.
I moaned at the taste of him, and he opened his mouth for me, let­ting me
brush my tongue against his, scrape it against his teeth. Every­thing he was
had been laid before me—one final ques­tion.
I want­ed it all.
I gripped his shoul­ders, guid­ing him onto the bed. And when he lay flat
on his back, I saw the flash of protest at the pinned wings. But I crooned,
“Illyr­i­an baby,” and ran my hands down his mus­cled abdomen—farther. He
stopped object­ing.
He was enor­mous in my hand—so hard, yet so silken that I just ran a
fin­ger down him in won­der. He hissed, cock twitch­ing as I brushed my
thumb over the tip. I smirked as I did it again.
He reached for me, but I froze him with a look. “My turn,” I told him.
Rhys gave me a lazy, male smile before he set­tled back, tuck­ing a hand
behind his head. Wait­ing.
Cocky bas­tard.
So I leaned down and put my mouth on him.
He jerked at the con­tact with a barked, “Shit,” and I laughed around him,
even as I took him deep­er into my mouth.
His hands were now fist­ed in the sheets, white-knuck­led as I slid my
tongue over him, graz­ing slight­ly with my teeth. His groan was fire to my
blood.
Hon­est­ly, I was sur­prised he wait­ed the full minute before inter­rupt­ing
me.
Pounc­ing was a bet­ter word for what Rhys did.
One sec­ond, he was in my mouth, my tongue flick­ing over the broad
head of him; the next, his hands were on my waist and I was being flipped
onto my front. He nudged my legs apart with his knees, spread­ing me as he
gripped my hips, tug­ging them up, up before he sheathed him­self deep in
me with a sin­gle stroke.
I moaned into the pil­low at every glo­ri­ous inch of him, ris­ing onto my
fore­arms as my fin­gers grap­pled into the sheets.
Rhys pulled out and plunged back in, eter­ni­ty explod­ing around me in
that instant, and I thought I might break apart from not being able to get
enough of him.
“Look at you,” he mur­mured as he moved in me, and kissed the length of
my spine.
I man­aged to rise up enough to see where we were joined—to see the
sun­light shim­mer off me against the rip­pling night of him, merg­ing and
blend­ing, enrich­ing. And the sight of it wrecked me so thor­ough­ly that I
cli­maxed with his name on my lips.
Rhys hauled me up against him, one hand cup­ping my breast as the oth­er
rolled and stroked that bun­dle of nerves between my legs, and I couldn’t tell
where one cli­max end­ed and the sec­ond began as he thrust in again, and
again, his lips on my neck, on my ear.
I could die from this, I decid­ed. From want­i­ng him, from the plea­sure of
being with him.
He twist­ed us, pulling out only long enough to lie on his back and haul
me over him.
There was a glim­mer in the darkness—a flash of lin­ger­ing pain, a scar.
And I under­stood why he want­ed me like this, want­ed to end it like this,
with me astride him.
It broke my heart. I leaned for­ward to kiss him, soft­ly, ten­der­ly.
As our mouths met, I slid onto him, the fit so much deep­er, and he
mur­mured my name into my mouth. I kissed him again and again, and rode
him gen­tly. Later—there would be oth­er times to go hard and fast. But right
now … I wouldn’t think of why this posi­tion was one he want­ed to end in,
to have me ban­ish the stained dark with the light.
But I would glow—for him, I’d glow. For my own future, I’d glow.
So I sat up, hands braced on his broad chest, and unleashed that light in
me, let­ting it dri­ve out the dark­ness of what had been done to him, my mate,
my friend.
Rhys barked my name, thrust­ing his hips up. Stars wheeled as he
slammed deep.
I think the light pour­ing out of me might have been starlight, or maybe
my own vision frac­tured as release bar­reled into me again and Rhys found
his, gasp­ing my name over and over as he spilled him­self in me.
When we were done, I remained atop him, fin­ger­tips dig­ging into his
chest, and mar­veled at him. At us.
He tugged on my wet hair. “We’ll have to find a way to put a damper on
that light.”
“I can keep the shad­ows hid­den eas­i­ly enough.”
“Ah, but you only lose con­trol of those when you’re pissed. And since I
have every inten­tion of mak­ing you as hap­py as a per­son can be … I have a
feel­ing we’ll need to learn to con­trol that won­drous glow.”
“Always think­ing; always cal­cu­lat­ing.”
Rhys kissed the cor­ner of my mouth. “You have no idea how many things
I’ve thought up when it comes to you.”
“I remem­ber men­tion of a wall.”
His laugh was a sen­su­al promise. “Next time, Feyre, I’ll fuck you against
the wall.”
“Hard enough to make the pic­tures fall off.”
Rhys barked a laugh. “Show me again what you can do with that wicked
mouth.”
I oblig­ed him.
It was wrong to com­pare, because I knew prob­a­bly every High Lord could
keep a woman from sleep­ing all night, but Rhysand was … rav­en­ous. I got
per­haps an hour total of sleep that night, though I sup­posed I was to equal­ly
share the blame.
I couldn’t stop, couldn’t get enough of the taste of him in my mouth, the
feel of him inside of me. More, more, more—until I thought I might burst
out of my skin from plea­sure.
“It’s nor­mal,” Rhys said around a mouth­ful of bread as we sat at the table
for break­fast. We’d bare­ly made it into the kitchen. He’d tak­en one step out
of bed, giv­ing me a full view of his glo­ri­ous wings, mus­cled back, and that
beau­ti­ful back­side, and I’d leaped on him. We’d tum­bled to the floor and
he’d shred­ded the pret­ty lit­tle area rug beneath his talons as I rode him.
“What’s nor­mal?” I said. I could bare­ly look at him with­out want­i­ng to
com­bust.
“The … fren­zy,” he said care­ful­ly, as if fear­ful the wrong word might
send us both hurtling for each oth­er before we could get sus­te­nance into our
bod­ies. “When a cou­ple accepts the mat­ing bond, it’s … over­whelm­ing.
Again, harken­ing back to the beasts we once were. Prob­a­bly some­thing
about ensur­ing the female was impreg­nat­ed.” My heart paused at that.
“Some cou­ples don’t leave the house for a week. Males get so volatile that
it can be dan­ger­ous for them to be in pub­lic, any­way. I’ve seen males of
rea­son and edu­ca­tion shat­ter a room because anoth­er male looked too long
in their mate’s direc­tion, too soon after they’d been mat­ed.”

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

W HEN I GOT TO SPAGO, Celia was already seat­ed. She was wear­ing
black slacks and a gauzy cream-col­ored sleeve­less blouse. The
tem­per­a­ture out­side was a warm sev­en­ty-eight degrees, but the
restaurant’s air-con­di­tion­ing was on high, and she looked just a lit­tle
bit cold. Her arms were cov­ered in goose bumps.
Her red hair was still stun­ning but now clear­ly dyed. The gold­en
under­tones that had been there before, the result of nature and
sun­light, were now slight­ly sat­u­rat­ed, cop­pery. Her blue eyes were just
as entic­ing as they always had been, but now the skin around them
was soft­er.
I’d been to a plas­tic sur­geon a few times in the past sev­er­al years. I
sus­pect­ed she had, too. I was wear­ing a deep-V-necked black dress,
belt­ed at the waist. My blond hair, a bit lighter now from the gray that
had been creep­ing in and cut short­er, was fram­ing my face.
She stood when she saw me. “Eve­lyn,” she said.
I hugged her. “Celia.”
“You look great,” she said. “You always do.”
“You look just like you did the last time I saw you,” I said.
“We nev­er did tell each oth­er lies,” she said, smil­ing. “Let’s not start
now.”
“You’re gor­geous,” I said.
“Dit­to.”
I ordered a glass of white wine. She ordered a club soda with lime.
“I don’t drink any­more,” Celia said. “It’s not sit­ting with me the way
it once did.”
“That’s fine. If you want, I can toss my wine right out the win­dow
the moment it gets to the table.”
“No,” she said, laugh­ing. “Why should my low tol­er­ance be your
prob­lem?”
“I want every­thing about you to be my prob­lem,” I said.
“Do you real­ize what you’re say­ing?” she whis­pered to me as she
leaned across the table. The neck of her blouse opened and dipped
into the bread bas­ket. I was wor­ried it would graze the but­ter, but
some­how it didn’t.
“Of course I real­ize what I’m say­ing.”
“You destroyed me,” she said. “Twice now in our lives. I have spent
years get­ting over you.”
“Did you suc­ceed? Either time?”
“Not com­plete­ly.”
“I think that means some­thing.”
“Why now?” she asked. “Why didn’t you call years ago?”
“I called you a mil­lion times after you left me. I prac­ti­cal­ly knocked
down your door,” I remind­ed her. “I thought you hat­ed me.”
“I did,” she said. She pulled back a bit. “I still hate you, I think. At
least a lit­tle bit.”
“You think I don’t hate you, too?” I tried to keep my voice down,
tried to pre­tend it was a chat between two old friends. “Just a lit­tle bit?”
Celia smiled. “No, I sup­pose it would make sense that you do.”
“But I’m not going to let that stop me,” I said.
She sighed and looked at her menu.
I leaned in, con­spir­a­to­ri­al­ly. “I didn’t think I had a shot before,” I
told her. “After you left me, I thought the door was closed. And now it’s
open a crack, and I want to swing it wide open and walk in.”
“What makes you think the door is open?” she asked, look­ing at the
left side of the menu.
“We are hav­ing din­ner, aren’t we?”
“As friends,” she said.
“You and I have nev­er been friends.”
She closed her menu and put it down on the table. “I need read­ing
glass­es,” she said. “Can you believe that? Read­ing glass­es.”
“Join the club.”
“I can be mean some­times when I’m hurt,” she remind­ed me.
“You’re not exact­ly telling me some­thing I don’t know.”
“I made you feel like you weren’t tal­ent­ed,” she said. “I tried to
make you think you need­ed me because I made you legit­i­mate.”
“I know that.”
“But you’ve always been legit­i­mate.”
“I know that now, too,” I told her.
“I thought you would call me after you won the Oscar. I thought
maybe you would want to show me, you’d want to shove it in my face.”
“Did you lis­ten to my speech?”
“Of course I did,” she said.
“I reached out to you,” I said. I picked up a piece of bread and
but­tered it. But I put it down imme­di­ate­ly, not tak­ing a sin­gle bite.
“I wasn’t sure,” Celia said. “I mean, I wasn’t sure if you meant me.”
“I all but said your name.”
“You said ‘she.’ ”
“Pre­cise­ly.”
“I thought maybe you had anoth­er she.”
I had looked at oth­er women besides Celia. I had pic­tured myself
with oth­er women besides her. But every­one, for what had felt like my
whole life, had always been divid­ed into “Celia” and “not Celia.” Every
oth­er woman I con­sid­ered strik­ing up a con­ver­sa­tion with might as
well have had “not Celia” stamped on her fore­head. If I was going to
risk my career and every­thing I loved for a woman, it was going to be
her.
“There is no she but you,” I told her.
Celia lis­tened and closed her eyes. And then she spoke. It was as if
she had tried to stop her­self and sim­ply couldn’t. “But there were hes.”
“This old song and dance,” I said, try­ing to stop myself from rolling
my eyes. “I was with Max. You were clear­ly with Joan. Did Joan hold a
can­dle to me?”
“No,” Celia said.
“And Max didn’t hold a can­dle to you.”
“But you’re still mar­ried to him.”
“I’m fil­ing papers. He’s mov­ing out. It’s over.”
“That’s abrupt.”
“It’s not, actu­al­ly. It’s over­due. And any­way, he found your let­ters,” I
said.
“And he’s leav­ing you?”
“No, he’s threat­en­ing to out me if I don’t stay with him.”
“What?”
“I’m leav­ing him,” I said. “And I’m let­ting him do what­ev­er the hell
he wants. Because I’m fifty years old, and I don’t have the ener­gy to be
con­trol­ling every sin­gle thing any­one says about me until I die of old
age. The parts I’m being offered are shit. I have the Oscar on my
man­tel. I have a spec­tac­u­lar daugh­ter. I have Har­ry. I’m a house­hold
name. They will write about my movies for years to come. What more
do I want? A gold stat­ue in my hon­or?”
Celia laughed. “That’s what an Oscar is,” she said.
I laughed, too. “Exact­ly! Excel­lent point. I already have that, then.
There’s noth­ing else, Celia. There are no more moun­tains to climb. I
spent my life hid­ing so no one would knock me off the moun­tain. Well,
you know what? I’m done hid­ing. Let them come and get me. They can
throw me down a well as far as I’m con­cerned. I’m signed on to do one
last movie over at Fox lat­er this year, and then I’m done.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do. Any oth­er line of think­ing . . . it’s how I lost you. I don’t want
to lose any­more.”
“It’s not just our careers,” she said. “The ram­i­fi­ca­tions are
unpre­dictable. What if they take Con­nor away?”
“Because I’m in love with a woman?”
“Because they think both her par­ents are ‘queers.’ ”
I sipped my wine. “I can’t win with you,” I said final­ly. “If I want to
hide, you call me a cow­ard. If I’m tired of hid­ing, you tell me they’ll
take my daugh­ter.”
“I’m sor­ry,” Celia said. She did not seem sor­ry for what she had
said so much as sor­ry that we lived in the world we lived in. “Do you
mean it?” she asked. “Would you real­ly give it up?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I would.”
“Are you absolute­ly sure?” she asked just as the wait­er put her
steak down in front of her and my sal­ad in front of me. “I mean
absolute­ly sure?”
“Yes.”
Celia was qui­et for a moment. She stared down at her plate. She
seemed to be con­sid­er­ing every­thing about this moment, and the
longer she took to speak, the far­ther I found myself bend­ing for­ward,
try­ing to get clos­er to her.
“I have chron­ic obstruc­tive pul­monary dis­ease,” she said final­ly. “I
prob­a­bly won’t make it much past six­ty.”
I stared at her. “You’re lying,” I said.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. That can’t be true.”
“It is true.”
“No, it’s not,” I said.
“It is,” she said. She picked up her fork. She sipped the water in
front of her.
My mind was reel­ing, thoughts bounc­ing around my brain, my
heart spin­ning in my chest.
And then Celia spoke again, and the only rea­son I was able to focus
on her words was that I knew they were impor­tant. I knew they
mat­tered. “I think you should do your movie,” she said. “Fin­ish strong.
And then . . . and then, after that, I think we should move to the coast
of Spain.”
“What?”
“I have always liked the idea of spend­ing the last years of my life on
a beau­ti­ful beach. With the love of a good woman,” she said.
“You’re . . . you’re dying?”
“I can look into some loca­tions in Spain while you’re shoot­ing. I’ll
find a place where Con­nor can get a great edu­ca­tion. I’ll sell my home
here. I’ll get a com­pound some­where, with enough space for Har­ry,
too. And Robert.”
“Your broth­er Robert?”
Celia nod­ded. “He moved out here for busi­ness a few years ago.
We’ve become close. He . . . he knows who I am. He sup­ports me.”
“What is chron­ic obstruc­tive—?”
“Emphy­se­ma, more or less,” she said. “From smok­ing. Do you still
smoke? You should stop. Right now.”
I shook my head, hav­ing long ago giv­en it up.
“They have treat­ments to slow down the process. I can live a nor­mal
life for the most part, for a while.”
“And then what?”
“And then, even­tu­al­ly, it will become dif­fi­cult to be active, hard to
breathe. When that hap­pens, I won’t have much time. All told, we’re
look­ing at ten years, give or take, if I’m lucky.”
“Ten years? You’re only forty-nine.”
“I know.”
I start­ed cry­ing. I couldn’t help it.
“You’re mak­ing a scene,” she said. “You have to stop.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“OK,” she said. “OK.”
She picked up her purse and threw down a hun­dred-dol­lar bill. She
pulled me out of my chair, and we walked to the valet. She gave him
her tick­et. She put me in the front seat of the car. She drove me to her
house. She sat me on the sofa.
“Can you han­dle this?” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked her. “Of course I can’t han­dle it.”
“If you can han­dle this,” she said, “then we can do this. We can be
togeth­er. I think we can . . . we can spend the rest of our lives togeth­er,
Eve­lyn. If you can han­dle this. But I can’t, in good con­science, do this
to you if you don’t think you’ll sur­vive it.”
“Sur­vive what, exact­ly?”
“Los­ing me again. I don’t want to let you love me if you don’t think
you can lose me again. One last time.”
“I can’t. Of course I can’t. But I want to any­way. I’m going to any­way.
Yes,” I said final­ly. “I can sur­vive it. I’d rather sur­vive it than nev­er feel
it.”
“Are you sure?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve nev­er been more sure about
any­thing. I love you, Celia. I’ve always loved you. And we should spend
the rest of the time we have togeth­er.”
She grabbed my face. She kissed me. And I wept.
She start­ed cry­ing with me, and soon I couldn’t tell whether the
tears I was tast­ing were hers or mine. All I knew was that I was once
again in the arms of the woman I was always meant to love.
Even­tu­al­ly, Celia’s blouse was on the floor and my dress was hiked
up around my thighs. I could feel her lips on my chest, her hands on
my stom­ach. I stepped out of my dress. Her sheets were stark white
and per­fect­ly soft. She no longer smelled like cig­a­rettes and alco­hol
but like cit­rus.
In the morn­ing, I woke up with her hair in my face, fanned across
the pil­low. I rolled to my side and curved my body against the back of
hers.
“Here is what we’re going to do,” Celia said. “You’re going to leave
Max. I’m going to call a friend of mine in Con­gress. He’s a
rep­re­sen­ta­tive from Ver­mont. He needs some press. You’re going to be
seen around with him. We’re going to spread a rumor that you’re
step­ping out on Max with a younger man.”
“How old is he?”
“Twen­ty-nine.”
“Jesus, Celia. He’s a child,” I said.
“That’s exact­ly what peo­ple will say. They’ll be shocked that you’re
dat­ing him.”
“And when Max tries to slan­der me?”
“It won’t mat­ter what he’s try­ing to claim about you. It will look like
he’s just bit­ter.”
“And then?” I asked.
“And then, down the line, you mar­ry my broth­er.”
“Why am I going to mar­ry Robert?”
“So that when I die, every­thing I own will be yours. My estate will
be under your con­trol. And you can keep my lega­cy.”
“You could appoint that to me.”
“And have some­one try to take it away because you were my lover?
No. This is bet­ter. This is smarter.”
“But mar­ry­ing your broth­er? Are you crazy?”
“He’ll do it,” she said. “For me. And because he’s a rake who likes to
bed almost every woman he sees. You’d be good for his rep­u­ta­tion. It’s
a win-win.”
“All this instead of just telling the truth?”
I could feel Celia’s rib cage expand and con­tract under­neath me.