Endless Bonds

Hi, loves. Those of you who follow me know that I wasn't uploading because my stories have been stolen/plagiarized :))) The issue wasn't fixed but whatever at this point. I want to finish this story for y'all regardless. Hope you enjoy this chapter and leave me a VOTE and Comment - I love hearing y'all thoughts

Oliver and Teagan's story is up on my profile - Ceaseless Chains! Give it a read and add to your libraries. There's 3 chapters rn and weekly updates. It has a more mature, darker and mysterious feel. They've easily turned into my favorite couple to write with enough sexual tension to burrrrnnn the sheets.

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y mom inhales a sharp breath, eyes closed, soaking in the rays of the blaring afternoon sun. "There's nothing like being in Paris, Jacqueline."

My aunt laughs throatily, shoving a forkful of watermelons in her mouth. "Alors, reviens à France."

Come back to France. Come back home, she says. We're sitting in her balcony, sipping sangrias, and eating healthy salads.

"I wish. But our life is there, Jacq."

"C'est la vie," I respond with a smile.

My aunt grins and congratulates me on improving my French, as well as my accent. She's glad I never forgot where I come from, even though we live elsewhere. Our roots, she uttered before, are extremely important. They keeps us grounded when we forget where we belong. Don't forget where you belong, she'd said to me. Where your roots are.

She's not blind. She's seen, over the last five days, my phone lightning up with a flurry of text messages from Trent. She doesn't say much, except for raising a casual eyebrow and telling me to stop running away from my problems.

You're too much like your maman, you know? She always ran away from her problems, especially regarding your papa, until it got too late. That Demetrius Anderson was trouble. But your stepfather was a vicious animal. She made the wrong choice, running from her problems with your papa. He could have made her happy, despite his many faults, if she'd chosen to stop being stubborn. What will you choose?

My mom's situation couldn't be compared to mine. Demetrius Anderson was a fucking playboy before he met my mother, and then once again when she left him for my ex-stepfather. He couldn't have her, so he drowned himself in pity, money, and expensive cruise vacations with floozies. I just didn't understand why he couldn't keep me. Was seeing me so painful because I reminded him of her? After all, it's the reason why my ex-stepfather used to hit me – I'm the spawn of Demetrius Anderson, the living proof of the love he had for my mother.

I may be like my mom in the sense that I'm stubborn, ran from my issues, but my situation with Trent and Pierre is not the same thing.

I swallow hard and glance away, choosing to focus on the street four storeys below us, bustling with pedestrians and chatter.

"Home is where the heart is," my aunt says with a French accent, tucking her bronze hair – just like mine – behind her ears. "And where is your heart?"

She glances at me pointedly and I take that as my cue to leave.

I hoist up from my chair and give both women a grateful smile. "I need to meet up with Pierre in an hour. May I be excused?"

After they dismiss me, I wander back inside, thinking of a particular dirty-talking, dark haired, beanie-wearing, blue eyed boy who left a void in my heart. A void that only grows with each text message he sends me. They've been flooded my phone for the last few days.

This is a nightmare, right? Tara burst into my room, telling me you've left. You left, Hermosa. Without hearing me out, like we no longer mattered. That's not what you do when you love someone. I wanted to give you a few days dammit before I came for you. Before I wooed you the same way you wooed me.

Over the time apart, I know Trent has fully and whole-heartedly forgiven me for the mess with Lance. I played a pivotal role, but his words are crystal clear. I matter to him more than football. More than his scholarship.

He's not holding me solely accountable for the mess. In fact, he's not longer holding me accountable at all when he should – because this situation is a two-way street.

He's forgiven me.

But this doesn't mean I've forgiven myself. I'm trying to move past this so when we face each other again I don't have to wallow in misery. We were both responsible for this shitshow, but I feel the need to harbor more of the burden.

Sometimes the messages would arrive in the late hours of the night and it would take everything within me to stop myself from answering him. I'm not trying to punish him, but I do need to be here to heal with my family. I deserve to do this for my mom who grazed death's doorstep and just wants time with her loved ones. I deserve to do this for myself.

If I'm going to stop running away, then I need to acknowledge my demons as well. Make peace with them.

When I go back home, I need a clear head to finish this semester and get over what happened last week.

I also need to talk to Pierre and give us closure. My heart's not with him, but he deserves to see me in person, and I can't do that with Trent's words and desperations hanging around me like a thick cloud.

I can never think straight where Trenton Reynolds is concerned.

He is my favorite choice of drug – one I'd happily consume until I'm brimming with want and need for him like an addict. Until I've overdosed on everything that's him and him alone.

Is this what love feels like?

Because truth be told, I've always felt this way around him. Consumed. Ravaged. Demanding. Needy. Loved.

I physically ached reading those words. I know without a doubt, that Trent reciprocates my feelings. I know he wasn't going to text me the words; I deserve better and he wants me in front of him if he ever speaks them aloud.

But right now, I just can't. I'll be coming back home, and I'll message him upon my return. I just need him to hold on for two more days. Two measly days before we meet once again.

The last message left my world tilted.

I thought we arrived at the end of our journey, but I'm wrong.

Trent Reynolds and I are far from over.

* * *

Pierre Aguillard is exactly how I left him.

When I step into his penthouse, the elevator alerts him of my arrival. His back is to me, but I see the muscles tensing behind his dark slacks and gray knit sweater as he stands by the huge floor to ceiling windows. I catch his reflection as he lifts his crystal tumbler for a sip of whiskey.

My heels clack against his expensive marble flooring.

Ever so slowly, Pierre whirls around, seeming larger than life.

When I left him in Paris all those months ago, he was all smiles – tinged with a bit of sadness – and watching me leave his building through those same windows, on my way out of the country.

When I meet him again, his expression is one of disinterest, before morphing completely with a slight faint smirk. The sadness is still there. "Cher."

"Hi, Pierre," I say with a small smile of my own.

There's an air of uncertainty swirling between us. Do we hug each other? Do we wave? I want to cross the distance between us and talk to him about everything and anything, like old times, but there's an invisible barrier stopping me. It started building the minute I landed back home. It stands tall and marred with all the secrets and events of the last few months.

"Can I offer you a drink?" he whispers, pushing back his tousled golden hair, hazel eyes flaming with a myriad of emotions. He's gotten a bit leaner, but his muscular physique is still intact – broad chest, strong shoulders, and big arms.

"I'll have a glass of water. Merci."

Despite the situation with Lise Moreau, Pierre seems to be in good shape. But I know better than to assume that.

Most people carry their scars inside, never allowing scratches to chink the surface of their pristine armor.

Pierre has always liked to keep his demons locked up. He's never fallen victim to them – he controls them. They yield to him. It's always been that way with him. It's almost...scary. For the world, he's charming and a total delight because that's what expected of him – that's what I expected from him. That's what the French press expects to see from him too – the perfect immaculate corporate Prince.

But on the inside, behind closed doors... I've seen glimpses of the dark side he keeps locked up, opting for a mask that allows him to blend in. The jester. The charmer. The dotting son. The passionate lover.

All surface level bullshit.

He only unravels when he's alone, brooding in silence with a cigar and a chosen drink and expelling enough calamitous energy to scare away everyone in his vicinity.

And maybe that's what makes him so sinister – he hides in plain sight. You never know when the playground opens up, when he's ready to unleash his demons so they can eat at his flesh, his mind, his heart, and his fucking soul.

His demons are his and his alone. He's never even shared them with me.

And I was his fiancée.

Being in his presence now, I feel a Pierre I've never had to court before.

The lonely soul. The heavily burdened one. The future heir to a kingdom he never wanted. An angry, desolate king in the making.

Pierre's tall frame hovers near the wall-length bar as he pours me water in a fancy crystal glass from a chilled carafe. He motions for us to take a seat on his huge leather couch. Unfortunately, it's the same one where we had our first fuck-fest, and I learned that despite the endearing guy screwing me, Pierre had dark desires he kept a lid on. I'd felt it in the way he'd spanked my clapping cheeks so hard I saw bloody murder. I'd felt it in the way he'd fisted my hair and driven his cock down my throat with no regret. He looked mildly disturbed that he'd allowed me to glance that side of him and quickly reverted back to a calculated, gentlemanly lover.

I never saw that Pierre again in all the time we were together. As if, even for me, he put on a show because he didn't think I deserved to witness the wreckage inside of him.

But right now, sitting beside me, his knee almost touching my bare one, I see a layer peel off. Then another. And another. Still not down to his core, but this is the closest I've gotten to the real him.

And I need to have this conversation with the real version of Pierre.

"How have you been?" I ask him, taking a sip of my cold water. It freezes down my throat.

He's staring pensively at his whiskey, as if the amber liquid has the answer I need.

"We texted these last few months, I know, but I mean how are you really? With the whole Lise situation..."

There's a sardonic twist to his lips. He raises his eyes to mine and I'm momentarily stunned by how handsome this man still is, with his rugged sailor slash rich boy appeal all packaged in expensive attire and trinkets.

Pierre reminds me of a blond vintage movie star with his square jaw line and slicked back hair. There was something so nostalgic and old cinema about him. The kind of lover who'd pay for your meal, take you out to the opera, open doors and finish off the evening with a dipping kiss worthy of Hollywood.

"Ça va," he murmurs. "I'm drinking again so that's a good thing, right?"

I try not to cringe outwards. It's a good thing because the last time his inhibitions had been lowered, he was drugged. Meaning now he has the courage to pick up his choice of poison.

"Yes, it is," I murmur absentmindedly.

Pierre's smirks crookedly but it's self-mocking and all wrong. He reaches forward to twine our fingers together and I let him, because I think he needs the physical touch.

We make small talk; the weather here and there, the movies we've seen, and our studies. I don't share information regarding Trent, and he doesn't seem to ask either.

"I hate to bring this up, but is the Lise situation dealt with for good?"

He makes a noncommittal sound inside his drink, before sipping it. His voice comes out rough, but not unsure when he speaks, "Yes. Above the restraining order, her father's shares were completely bought out from our company. They are no longer investors in any of our ventures. I also told Mr. Moreau if his bitch of a daughter ever stepped foot inside Paris, I'd throw his ass in jail along with hers. I have enough evidence should I wish to do so."

"I told you so," I whisper to him. "She's a crazy bitch."

He chuckles short and low. "Oui. You did say that. Feel better throwing it in my face, Cherie?"

"No. I hate that she had her hands on you. That she took advantage of someone like you when you've only shown kindness. My god when she fucked Bastien – your damn friend – as retaliation, you let them be. You never once raised your voice or got mad, and this is how she repays you back? She's sick."

"I know she is," he rasps and his eyes full of misery kill me. "I never said shit because je m'en fiche. I literally didn't give two fucks about her when we broke up. I always found it odd that she ran to Bastien, you know? When I confronted him after a year, he admitted to me that he was piss drunk and high on substances he wouldn't usually take. He didn't know it was her screwing him. He was horrified when the drugs and alcohol evaded him. It seems Lise has a type – she loves to fuck guys when they're under the influence. Especially the ones who wouldn't fuck her lucid."

The only word that comes to my mind is rxpist. "Why the fuck isn't she jailed?"

"There's not enough evidence, Cher," he laughs in disbelief. "French Heiress Lise Moreau with sick, twisted and rxping tendencies? Not a good headline. When it comes to being taken advantage of, it's rarely the other way around. No one would believe the truth unless hard evidence backed it up and we don't have that. So as of now, she's rotting away on a private, secluded island. I've made sure of that."

I can't help it. My eyes sting for the pain my almost-to-be husband went through. This experience? It scratched his armor, but in a way that's once again not visible to the naked eye. It has also, ironically, hardened a layer of that charismatic persona of his. I loop my arms around his neck and lay my head on his shoulder. "I'm so damn sorry, Pierre."

"I should have listened to you when you told me she was trouble," he rumbled into my hair, hugging me back fiercely to his chest. His manly cologne no longer reminded me of home – it reminded me of nostalgia, of an old forgotten polaroid picture. "I thought, what harm can one spoiled, bratty, socialite do to me?"

I don't answer his rhetorical question because we both know the answer to it.

I can sense our time coming to an end, like an hourglass with sand, the final grains slipping through the crack faster and faster.

I want to tell him this is the last time I'll see him, but my attention is snagged by Pierre's smartphone, which is laying face up on the glass coffee table. It's blowing up with numerous messages. They all look like memes.

I bite my lip. "Why is Ethan Taylor's little sister texting you?"

I feel his short laugh vibrating through my body as I'm still held against his muscular chest. "I think Rocky told her I've been feeling sad. She's trying to cheer me up or some shit."

Pierre might be oblivious, but I wasn't. The few times the Taylors' travelled to Paris to hang out with us, Ethan's little sister constantly gave Pierre heart-eyed emoji eyes, even though I was his girlfriend. She had a difficult time hiding her adorable crush.

She was, also, jailbait. "Be careful, Pierre. She's fifteen. You're nearly seven years her senior."