The Godfather's Love (Erika and Charles) novel Chapter 12

Chapter 12

(Erika’s Perspective)

The days that followed were simple, yet full.

During the day, I took classes at the dance academy.

Stretching, extensions, turns-every ache in my muscles felt sharp and satisfying. The sweat washed away the stickiness of the past.

I was no longer Mrs. Nell. Just an older transfer student, unusually driven.

At night, I sometimes met with Damien.

We talked business in his various “offices” or at discreet, upscale restaurants tucked behind velvet curtains.

He was well-read, sharp-eyed, and knew the intricacies of Europe’s underground like the back of his hand.

Our conversations were mental duels, expanding my view of the world.

There was an unspoken understanding between us-we didn’t talk about romance. Only about strategy and profit.

Sometimes, he showed me the real Paris.

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Not the tourist-clogged landmarks, but the hidden corners: hundred-year-old cafés in quiet alleys, private galleries showcasing avant-garde pieces never open to the public, or riverside restaurants known only to seasoned locals.

Under his protection, I felt like a creature shedding its old shell.

I slowly grew used to the rhythm of Paris, its air.

And to this hard-won, cautious freedom.

Until that day in the studio.

A difficult sequence-petit jumps into turns.

As I landed, the old injury in my ankle flared up. The new studio floor was a little slick.

A sharp pain shot through my ankle like a blade.

I gasped, losing balance and tilting sideways,

But the fall never came.

A strong, steady arm caught my waist. Another hand stabilized my shoulder.

“Careful.”

The voice above my head was low and gentle. Chinese.

It was Damien.

Chapter 12

I hadn’t noticed when he arrived.

He had been sitting quietly in the shadowed back row of the studio.

Today, he wasn’t in his usual tailored suit-just a black turtleneck sweater and matching trousers.

He looked less like a businessman, more like a calm, grounded artist.

“You…” I started, surprised.

The pain made me frown.

“Heard you had an important rehearsal today. Thought I’d stop by.”

His answer was casual, his eyes already on my ankle, which was starting to swell.

“Doesn’t look good,” he said.

He half-carried me to the bench at the side of the room, careful, respectful.

Then he crouched down in front of me to check the injury.

“Sprain. Needs ice. You should get an X-ray at the hospital.”

He looked up at me.

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