CEO of Hayes International.
Even now, it didn’t feel real.
Ten years ago, I was pitching investors in coffee shops and coding backend features in my friend’s garage. I was the first in my family to make a million, quietly, without a ceremony. The first to own property. The first to make it to Forbes.
I built something from nothing. And I was proud of that. But I sold the company six months ago. Stepped down before the next round, passed the torch. People thought I was gearing up for something bigger, another startup, maybe a fund.
I bet they aren’t expecting it to be…this. The Hayes offer came fast. Quiet dinners, boardroom meetings behind closed doors. Max Hayes had already made up his mind by the time I was sitting in front of him.
Said his daughters weren’t ready. Said he needed someone who understood both growth and loyalty. His advisors had floated two names. Mine stuck.
The salary was way more than what most CEOs earn. Equity on a five-year plan. Perks most people wouldn’t believe if I said them out loud. It was enough to make me a billionaire. So why did it still feel like I was borrowing someone else’s life?
I pulled my laptop closer and opened a browser. I hadn’t been to Paris in over a decade, not since college. I scrolled aimlessly through blogs, some posts,and a few local foodie pages until one spot caught my eye. Marée Noire, a restaurant-slash-lounge with great food, a deep wine list, and a subtle transition into live music and late drinks.
Not too flashy, not too dead.
Perfect.
I tossed on a clean button-down, charcoal slacks, and a dark wool coat. Not overly polished, but not tourist-y either. European casual, the kind of effort that looks like none at all.
Before I left the room, I paused at the mirror. My hair was still damp. My eyes were tired, and I looked like shit.
But I was in Paris.
The hostess seated me near the window, with a soft hum of music, linen napkins, and stoneware plates.
Nothing pretentious at all, but really well done.
I ordered a bottle of red wine from Bordeaux after asking the chef for recommendations. The waitress smiled and brought me a handwritten insert with a few off-menu specials. I picked a slow-roasted duck with fig glaze, not because I was craving duck, but because I didn’t have to think about it. The menu was right there, and she swore it was the best dish.
Tonight was about not thinking too much. It was about enjoying the city and myself.
By the third glass of wine, I was back in one of my oldest habits, watching people. Not in a creepy Edward Cullen reading minds kind of way, but in that quiet, curious, what’s your story kind of way.
There was a couple, two tables down, mid-40s, arguing softly in French. They didn’t look angry, just worn out. The woman kept checking her phone between bites, and the man barely touched his food.
Across the room, two younger guys were clearly on a business dinner that had turned into a posturing match, with too many hand gestures and not enough food eaten. And me? Sitting alone in Paris, drinking good wine, eating better food, and pretending like I wasn’t starting over in a way that scared me more than I cared to admit.
The waitress returned as I was finishing the last bites of my dinner. “Puis-je vous éclairer?” she asked in French with a soft accent. I don’t know why she assumed I spoke French, but I didn’t want to disappoint her.
“S'il vous plaît, faites,” I said, handing her the plate. “And could I take the rest of the wine to the bar?” I knew French, but not enough to maintain this conversation. Or any really.
“Of course.” She said now in English, and gave me a knowing smile, half ‘enjoy your night’, half ‘don’t do anything stupid in my bar’, and disappeared with the tray. I brought my glass and the half-finished bottle to the long, polished bar. The crowd was growing, soft jazz shifting into something with a beat.
The place would be a full-on lounge in an hour, but for now, it still held that in-between energy. It felt relaxed, a bit warm, but buzzing with possibility.
The bartender was a tall brunette with sharp cheekbones and a sex appeal she wasn’t even trying to have. She poured me a fresh glass and then leaned in a little too close, “Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose d'autre?” She has been flirting with me for a while. That much I could tell.
I shook my head, didn’t flirt back, not really. But I didn’t shut it down either. I never did. Not since the divorce. I wasn’t interested in anything more than a night, and most people could tell. Which was fine by me.
I liked sex. I liked the simplicity of something physical, uncomplicated, without expectation. It was honest in a way most things weren’t.
“First time in Paris?” she asked, fingers grazing the bar. “In a while.”
She smiled. “Welcome back then.” I nodded, taking a sip of the wine.
The place was crowded now, layers of conversation, coats being shrugged off, music pulsing under the chatter. But something about the motion at the front caught my eye. A woman stepped in first, petite, with dark red hair pulled into a messy knot, wearing heels that made her legs look impossibly long. Pretty,in that obvious way. The kind of pretty you’re meant to notice.
