You asked me in Paris how many women I'd loved. I said one. I should have said two." He cupped her cheek, his thumb rubbing over her bottom lip. "As a child I loved my mother, and as a man I love you.
No. No, you're not like him," she spat. "You're your very own brand of fucked up, Lucien.
...It's not okay." He spoke jerkily, painfully. "I will hurt you, and I will leave you, and I will cheat on you.
I've quit. I didn't get your resignation letter. Invite me in.
