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Roman could not have, or be, both. He couldn’t love her and not pay the price of his own actions. He couldn’t love her and not acknowledge that he was more dangerous to his wife and child than any other threat they could face. So the only thing left to him was to burn it all down to the ground. Every last piece of Vladimir’s company—and his marriage along with it.
Because that was the only way to protect Ella and their child, to ensure that his decisions and actions didn’t hurt them beyond repair. To ensure that the damage done to his soul by so many years of vengeance didn’t poison their innocence. The greatest act of love he could show either of them was to walk away.
He paused just outside the doorway to the boardroom, filled with the sycophantic men and women who had bolstered his grandfather’s ego, who had come to represent all that had been inflicted on his mother. In that moment he felt hatred course through his veins. A hatred that had to be more powerful than anything else in him if he was to finally get what he’d wanted. A hatred he needed if he was to overcome the desire to turn back. To seek what he did not deserve. To throw himself at Ella’s feet and beg for forgiveness. With gritted teeth, he hung on to his anger like a drowning man, walked through the doorway and came to a halt at the head of the table.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have a proposition
for you. One that you would be inconceivably stupid not to accept...’
* * *
Célia’s laughter rained over Ella, who had not been able to stop smiling since Fiji. They had celebrated the success of securing their first client with a lovely long lunch—Célia sipping on champagne and Ella on ginger and elderflower pressé.
She leaned a shoulder against Célia’s as they stood at the large iron-work windows of their beautiful new office that looked out over Paris. The nineteenth-century building had needed extensive work to make it a space suitable for their needs, but Célia had risen to the challenge. Ella loved the exposed brickwork and open space of the central offices, settling beneath steel girders that gave it a heady sense of both history and modernity, melded in the way in which they both wanted their business to bring together charities and businesses in order to help those who most needed it.
‘You’ve done such a great job here, Célia.’
‘And you’ve done such a great job with the clients,’ Célia replied, smiling and leaning back into Ella.
Ella couldn’t, wouldn’t, disguise the little squeal of delight, the little jump of joy, nor the smile when she caught Célia rolling her eyes.
‘Are you sure you didn’t have a drink at lunch?’
‘Not a drop.’
‘Then you’re high on hormones and happy ever afters,’ Célia almost groaned.
‘I’m high on success,’ Ella said, pulling on Célia’s arm. ‘After Loukas, I thought we might have some client interest, but three secured, and four more speculative?’ Ella let out another childlike exclamation of glee before sweeping a hand over the now definitely visible bump beneath her loose shirt.
Célia’s eyes caught the gesture, and Ella felt just a little bit of guilt. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay taking on the client-facing work while I’m...’
‘On maternity leave?’ Célia smiled. ‘I will be. I have to be,’ she concluded somewhat ruefully. Ella knew how much Célia disliked being the centre of attention, had witnessed more than once the panic that would descend over her shy friend.
‘Please know that you can call me at any time.’
‘Hmm, except when you’re breastfeeding, changing nappies or gazing adoringly at your husband and child,’ Célia joked then rolled her eyes again when Ella descended into another happy squeal. ‘You’re incorrigible! I still have to get the figures to the accountants by end of play today, and—’
‘And, and, and. I know. Off you go. I’m just going to sit here for a moment and admire all the amazing work you’ve done getting the offices in such beautiful shape before I head back to Puycalvel.’
Ella sank into the swivel chair and swept back around to face the desk that looked out onto the offices, her heart leaping at the sight of Roman striding across the parquet flooring as if nothing else existed other than her. He was so focused that he clearly hadn’t even seen Célia’s awkwardly raised hand in greeting, but any slight Ella might have felt on her friend’s behalf was buried under the happiness she felt at his unexpected visit.
She had risen and crossed the length of her new office by the time he had reached the doorway. She couldn’t help but reach for the lapels on his jacket to pull him closer to her, smiling at the sense of decorum he had in her office space, while she had none. She went to kiss her husband, but he held back.
Finally looking at him closely, she could see signs of strain at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the clench of his jaw.
‘Is everything okay?’
His reply was a slight inclination of his head—one that suggested, maybe not so much.
‘Come. I have something to discuss.’
Frowning and knowing better than to push Roman until he was ready, she picked up her large cream leather handbag and followed him from the office.
He led her out onto the Parisian street, where a limousine was waiting and whisked them a short distance before stopping.
‘Where are we—?’
As she exited the limousine, Roman holding the door to the vehicle open for her, she stepped out onto a street in front of Comte Croix, a three Michelin starred restaurant that reputedly took bookings half a year in advance. For a moment she was speechless—she had always wanted to come here—and Ella warned herself not to inform him of her recent lunch with Célia. Of course, now that she was eating for two, she determined to enjoy every single minute of the treat Roman had organised for her.
