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She remained still, the emotion continuing to rise.
“Gilbert treated you like shit, but you were kind to him anyway. He was the one who forced you on that diet—and you still didn’t throw him under the bus. And yes, I know about that too. Chérie, I know everything.”
Her breathing increased.
“And you forgot one—loyal. Anyone else would cherish their good fortune and live a life of luxury, but you’ve remained loyal to her, through and through. She breathes because of you. She’s gained immunity because of you. She treats you like the villain when you’re the fucking hero, chérie.”
Twenty-One
The Louvre
Melanie
We went out to dinner.
The entire menu was in French, but I was able to decipher better than I used to. I was even able to order for myself without getting a weird look from the waiter. A ten-thousand-euro bottle of wine was on the table for us to share. Candles cast a glow throughout the restaurant, which was full of couples speaking to each other quietly, hands held together on the table.
Fender was dressed in all black with a suit jacket on top, his jawline shaved, his eyes dark. An expensive watch was on his wrist, solid black. He spent the evening sipping the wine, looking at me, eating, and looking at me some more.
There was never a time when we stepped into a room and his gaze strayed.
I imagined he never did, even when he was alone.
His commitment to me was obvious in everything he did, but that didn’t stop women from casting glances his way.
I didn’t even care. Couldn’t blame them. I didn’t realize men like him existed until I met him. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Brooding. Powerful. Rich. Passionate. Loving. Dedicated. How could a man that desirable be so committed to a single woman?
Our dinner was mostly spent in silence. He didn’t seem to mind that.
We finished our meal, he paid the tab, and then we got into his car and left.
But we didn’t head home. We moved deeper into Paris.
His hand held mine on the center console, and he drove through the busy streets of Paris, everyone enjoying the summer evening.
“Where are we going?”
His eyes remained on the road.
When I didn’t get a response, I looked at our joined hands, his big hand wholly encompassing mine.
He turned down a few streets before he stopped and waited for a car to move from its position at the curb. It seemed to be one of his men holding the spot for him because he immediately drove off the second Fender approached.
We parked, walked up many steps, and then stopped at the sight.
The Louvre.
The stone plaza was empty of tourists. The windows of the palace behind it were lit like there were guests inside. And the space around the glass prism was full of lit white candles everywhere.
Everywhere.
There was a narrow path down the middle for the two of us.
With my hand in his, he guided me forward, approaching the pyramid made of glass.
My eyes surveyed the sea of candles around us. They flickered as we passed. Flickered again when a summer breeze moved through. The fountain was the only audible backdrop. All the entrances to the area were blocked off by ropes.
I looked at him, waiting for an explanation for the most beautiful sight I’d ever witnessed.
He ignored me and took me to the base of the pyramid, a wider area that was open in the field of candles.
I looked at it close-up, felt the wind ruffle my hair, felt the heat lick my skin. My heart raced now, pounded in my chest because something was about to happen. “It’s beautiful. But…what’s it for?”
He pulled his fingers away from mine and slid both of his hands into his pockets. He looked up at the structure before us, his gaze casual, like arranging this was no big deal. He could do anything—because he owned everything and everyone.
“I’ve always wanted to come here… It just never worked out.”
He turned to look at me, hands still in his pockets.
I went still, paralyzed by that stare.
He pivoted to face me head on. Drew close. Stared into my eyes like he hadn’t gazed at me over dinner.
Something was about to happen. I could feel it in the air around us. I could breathe it in, and every time it reached my lungs, it burned.
He pulled his left hand from his pocket, and within his fingers was the biggest diamond ring I’d ever seen.
I sucked in a breath. My heart did a weird somersault. My stomach dropped to my feet.
He stared at it in his fingertips for a moment, turning it slightly so the diamond reflected the array of candles around us. “This belonged to Countess Baudelaire—my great-grandmother.” He continued to admire it, the enormous rock made small by his big hand. “I tracked it down. Paid a fortune. But it’s a family heirloom—and it should stay in the family.”
