CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Juliette

I STAND IN front of the mirror and smooth my hands over the skirt of my dress. I’ve always paid for good quality clothing. But I’ve never indulged in luxury before. I never understood why people bothered to spend hundreds or even thousands of dollars on a shirt or dress that would end up with a stain on it the next day.

But right now, standing in front of the oval mirror with the lights of Paris at my back, I understand a little. I was walking down the Champs-élysées earlier this morning when I passed a boutique store. It was so unlike the other gilded storefronts lining the historic road. The dresses in the window were simple yet elegant.

The dress I’m wearing now, with a Queen Anne neckline that adds a touch of regalness to the simple silhouette, was front and center. Colored a periwinkle blue, with a full skirt falling from the waist and a deep V in the back that bares my skin. Combined with the pearl studs I brought from home and my own hair twisted up into something as close to a chignon as I could get, I feel beautiful.

Beautiful.

The word flickers through me, brings back that moment this morning when he whispered that word and it pulsed through me like a heartbeat.

My eyes grow hot and I turn away from the mirror. When he kissed me, when he...touched me, I felt alive. Sensual.

The bastard had ruined it all with one of his casual quips. A reminder that what happened between us had been simple pleasure. Yes, he obviously found me attractive. But I have no interest in going to bed with someone who treats sex so casually. I most definitely have no interest in sleeping with someone who doesn’t trust me and, I suspect, doesn’t even really like me. A mutual feeling , I remind myself as I move toward the door. I don’t trust him either. How could I when he moves in the world he does, with money ruling his decisions? When he’s made it clear his bank balance is the pinnacle of his existence?

My father thought the same thing in the last year of his life. His obsession pushed away the two women who would have loved him to hell and back.

I wasn’t trying to be sneaky when I read that file. I’d glanced down as I’d reached for a spoon. The name at the top of the paper had jolted me into action.

Louis Paul. The same man who had been staying at Peter Walter’s mansion in an exclusive gated community outside Dallas seven months ago when my investigation led to a raid on the warehouse. A raid that resulted in the rescue of nearly half a dozen human trafficking victims.

Paul came out clean. He’d known Walter for years but had never done business with him. There was no evidence of Paul being involved. Even though I hadn’t been actively investigating Paul, I’d kept an eye on him and noted two more trips to Dallas in the past year. Those trips, however, were much more discreet. Paul flew commercial, arrived and left in taxis instead of his usual limo and disappeared into the Dallas suburbs instead of a ritzy hotel downtown.

Yet I couldn’t connect him to anything. And then Lucifer had passed away and Paul faded to the back of my mind. Seeing his name on a possible business deal with Drakos North America was jarring. I thought about telling Gavriil when I saw Paul’s name on the file. That is, until he stormed in and accused me of using our marriage as an espionage tactic.

Fine. If he doesn’t want to bother digging into the backgrounds of people he does business with, then he can suffer the consequences. Just confirms what I suspected all along, too. Gavriil doesn’t care who he does business with so long as it gets him what he wants.

My breath rushes out. Even if I’m not confident in my future career, the habits I’ve developed won’t let me back down. That and an irrational desire to not see Gavriil connected to someone who might be a different kind of a monster than his father, but a monster nonetheless. I don’t know why I care. Only that I do. Which is why I sent a few texts to my most reliable sources. It’s probably nothing, but I’ve never left things like this up to chance.

And if you do find something? What then?

I don’t know if Gavriil would even believe me if I do uncover something. His accusations before our interlude on the couch showed me exactly how little he thinks of me. But he doesn’t seem the type to ignore hard evidence, even if he doesn’t like the findings. I’ve also caught glimpses now and then of a different side of him. The tender respect he gave Dessie after I introduced them after the ceremony. His genuine happiness when I saw him chatting with his sister-in-law Tessa during the reception. The man likes to act like he has no soul. From what I’ve seen, though, he has one. He’s just buried it so deep under what I can only suspect is years of hurt and rejection that most people don’t see it.

I stalk to the window and lean my forehead against the cool glass. I don’t want to see these glimpses. It twists my feelings for him up in knots, complicates what should be a case of simple lust and adds an edge to it. A very dangerous edge that can only lead to heartache.

My phone buzzes and my stomach drops. My fifteen-minute warning before I have to present myself like the dutiful wife and accompany my husband to whatever activity he’s planned for us to be seen by the general public.

The brunch had been casual but delicious, a welcome reprieve after being cooped up in a plane for hours on end. The private tour of the Louvre had also been fascinating. I’d kept my face passive throughout, not wanting to do something that would be untoward for the wife of a billionaire and betray that I was a complete and total fraud, like tear up at the sight of the headless winged goddess guarding the top of the Daru staircase or let my mouth drop open at the sight of the Mona Lisa.

No, the scheduled activities haven’t been excessive. While I’ve done my best to maintain the bored facade I’m sure most people in my position would assume, I’ve enjoyed our excursions, even if it irks me to admit it. But it still makes me feel like an experiment under a microscope.

After our encounter this morning, I got dressed and left the penthouse as quickly as possible. It took me a good hour of wandering up and down random streets for my heart to quiet and some of the ache to lessen. I spent the next hour with my camera, taking shots of the winding streets and shops. I snapped a dozen or so portraits, too, mostly of Paris residents, but a couple expatriates and a group of tourists.

The more time I’ve spent with my camera, drafting passages about the people I’ve met and the stories they’ve shared, the more I’ve felt my heart respond in a way it hasn’t in a long time. When I was younger, before Lucifer Drakos came to Grey House, I wanted to be an author. In middle school, I fell in love with photography. Sure, I took some of my own photos for my investigations, but that wasn’t the primary focus.

I glance at my camera. It’s nearly time to join Gavriil for whatever he has planned for this evening. But I can’t resist flipping the camera on and toggling through the photos. An old man with bronzed skin and a face covered in wrinkles sitting outside his coffee shop. A clay mug full of coffee brewed with cinnamon and sugar, steam curling up from the surface. Two kids standing with chocolate ice cream dripping down their hands as they smile in front of the crowds lining up to see the restored Notre-Dame Cathedral.

There are stories here. The everyday people I’d missed so much of in my quest to bring down the criminal elite. The shop owner emigrated from Mexico over forty years ago after he fell in love with a French woman on a trip to see Sinatra sing in Las Vegas. The two kids are here with their mother and grandparents after losing their father in a car accident. It’s the first time, their mother confided in me with tears in her eyes, that she’s seen them happy in nearly a year.

A part of me still clings to the possibility of jumping back into my investigative work. It doesn’t seem possible that something that has been such a huge part of my life, all the way back to my last years of high school when I started working for the school newspaper and applying for scholarship after scholarship, is over.

But as I turn the camera over in my hands, anticipation flickers through me. Not the demanding urgency of my investigative reporting. Not the thrill of elation when I knew I’d caught someone, a thrill that had turned into something ugly. My version of wealth was the knowledge I hoarded and the power I used to bring them down.

My fingers lightly trace the dials and buttons on top of the camera. This excitement is different. Innocent, new. Something wholly mine. Even if there are fewer jobs and less pay in the areas of photography and photojournalism, I don’t want this next chapter of my life to be rooted in money. I want it to be founded on something more than death and revenge.

I switch off the camera and tuck it back into its case. I still have time. Almost a whole year. Even after the renovations I’ll be making to Grey House, I’ll have a tidy sum left over that, with the right investments, can keep Dessie and me going while I try to figure the rest of my life out.

I walk toward my closet where I have some sensible flats tucked away. My eyes stray to the gold shopping bag, the red tissue paper peeping over the edge. I pause. The trip into the Louboutin store was a spur-of-the-moment decision following a text from Catherine that Dessie had started a new round of physical therapy and had already shown marked improvement. Her relapse appeared to be subsiding this time. I bought her a pair of blush-colored ballet flats with cute straps that wrapped around the heel and the signature red outsole.

And yes, I think with no small amount of acrimony, I bought a pair of heels for myself. A dress and shoes. Anyone would have thought I’d spent another three million dollars by the way Gavriil had snapped at me earlier.

The man really is a pompous jerk. The thought propels me across the room to the bag. I bought them with my money. Would I have bought them without two million sitting in a high-interest savings account? No.

But I bought them for me using money I had before I agreed to this ridiculous arrangement, and I’m going to wear them because I want to. If he doesn’t like it, I can just slip off a shoe and jab him with it.

A highly improbable scenario. I’m not going to jail over him. But it brings a smile to my face nonetheless as I set the bag on the bed and reach inside.

I pull out the heels, nude leather with the sole and stiletto heel colored red. Thankfully the store offered a variety of heel heights. The assistant who helped me, an older man with a thick silver beard and a kind smile, had helped me try on several before I found one I semitrusted myself not to tip over in.

I slip the heels on and stand. I glance at the mirror again. I’ve always believed vanity to be one of the worst sins, especially with how much I’ve seen it in the people I’ve investigated over the years.

But as I look at my reflection, I don’t try to stop the rush of pleasure and confidence. I look good. No, I look great.

With a smile on my face, I open my door and nearly walk straight into my husband.

“Good eve...”

His voice trails off as he rakes me from head to toe with a searing gaze. I clutch my handbag with both hands, willing myself not to feel anything at his blatantly appreciative appraisal.

“Ready?”

“Yes.” I strive for an indifferent tone, as if he hadn’t just had his mouth on my breasts a few hours ago. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. The limo’s waiting downstairs.”

I give him the ghost of a smile. He holds out his arm and I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow as he escorts me out of the suite. I force the smile into something a little more lovesick when the elevator doors open to the lobby. Most people glance at us and look away. A few, though, stare. One pulls out their phone and snaps a photo.

My breath rushes out once we’re in the limo, the tinted windows giving me at least a few minutes’ peace. Gavriil takes the seat opposite me. He leans back into the leather and drapes one arm across the top as he stares at me, his gaze assessing.

“Relax, Grey. It’s not a bad thing to be seen with your husband.”

I shrug. “For all intents and purposes, Drakos, you’re not my husband. We’re business acquaintances. I know these...field trips have a purpose. I’m just not used to the scrutiny.”

I say the words, even if my heart twists inside my chest at the lie. Feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass is draining. But so is trying to keep my walls up. Especially after what happened between us earlier. I need to back away. Maintain the distance I’d established during our wedding and kept up until this morning.

“Many people would enjoy this.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No, you’re not.” Something that looks astonishingly like regret crosses his face. “I have no excuse for earlier. What I said was crass and rude, both before and after we kissed. Let me make it up to you.”

I almost ask why. Why did he say something so horrid?

But asking for a reason, giving him a chance to explain, could take me back to that line I’d straddled this morning. Reintroduce the traces of emotional intimacy that had developed during our coffee on the terrace.

It’s not worth the risk. So I simply nod, telling myself I can stay strong even as my heart whispers a warning.