Having her beloved live with her was a dream come true. Having him agree to become her boyfriend — she resolutely ignored that it was a pretend-relationship, — made her unable to go past a few steps without pinching herself to make sure it was real.
Although, there was the downside of having Tristan meet her parents. She wanted to shout from the rooftops, that it was him, always him, who she dreamt of, and that he was real and hers, only hers. But she couldn’t. First, she didn’t want anyone, the Pruitt’s included, to know about how special her beloved was; second, she didn’t want her beloved to think of her as a freak (secret complaints of her being a pervert did not count, they were her beloved’s pet names for her); and third, she didn’t want her beloved to run away if he thought his secrets exposed. She knew Tristan constantly underestimated her love and her means, but she would never commit the same mistake with him. He was special beyond her understanding and if he decided to run away, she didn’t know if she could find him.
The day she first met him, at the gallery entrance, she hurried home to investigate everything about the beautiful boy who so reminded her of her dreams. A few hours later, her secretary placed on her desk the file of a young man by the name of Tristan Lewis. She had been shocked. The person described in that file couldn’t be him, couldn’t be her beloved. Yes, Lewis had passed her selection to become one of the final candidates two years ago, but she had eliminated him within hours of review. He was then placed under additional observation for the following three years (a provision she had put in place, just in case she was wrong about final candidates), but there was nothing to suggest that he could ever be him. She printed the images from the surveillance footage of the boy she met at the gallery and placed them side by side with those of Lewis. That was the same face, no doubt. But Lewis wasn’t her beloved. The boy at the gallery was.
She had agonized over that for days. Tristan Lewis two years ago wasn’t her singer, but now, two years later he was? What on Earth was she thinking? She spent the following weeks trying to find an explanation: twins separated at birth, doppelgängers, spiritual possession, reincarnation, shape-shifting... she had been losing her mind with every single added possibility becoming stranger and stranger.
“Brigitte?” a gentle knock outside the door to her home office roused her from her thoughts. “Are you coming for lunch?”
She opened the door, so she could look at him. He was there, in front of her. That was enough to calm her worries. “I’ll be right there.” He nodded and left.
The second time she met him, she had decided on the spot that it didn’t matter. Her beloved could have as many secrets as he wanted. He was beside her, all real and perfect. Nothing else mattered besides having him, and protecting him. No secrets. No truths. Nothing else.