CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Juliette

I WAKE UP to an empty bed. I lie there in a sea of satin sheets and rumpled pillows, my body pleasantly heavy from making love with Gavriil.

I hadn’t planned on falling asleep in his bed. Didn’t want to risk further deepening the intimacy that had developed between us in just a few hours. Whether that was because I didn’t want to get any more emotionally entangled or didn’t want Gavriil to beat me to it and ask me to leave first, I don’t fully know. Probably a combination of the two. But when he pulled me close and tucked me into the curve of his body after the second time, I promised myself I would just shut my eyes for a moment.

Long, caressing strokes awoke me sometime around dawn. He stirred my body to a fever pitch, teasing me with his touch even as he ignored my pleas for more. I finally took charge, rolling over and straddling him with a speed that stunned him long enough for me to grip his length and guide him inside my body. The pleasure, the heady power of watching his eyes flare as he gripped my hips and guided me up and down, was the most powerful aphrodisiac I’ve ever experienced.

It also, I remembered with a satisfied smile as I stretched my arms above my head, didn’t last long. He flipped me onto my back and drove inside me with long, deep movements that sent me soaring over the edge. We fell asleep draped over each other as if it had always been this way.

I sit up and blink against the bright morning sun streaming through the windows. I grab one of the plush robes hanging in the marble bathroom and make my way out into the main living space. A clink of glassware on the balcony draws me to the doors with a smile growing on my face.

I freeze. The smile disappears. There’s a butler setting the table with bagels, cream cheese, jellies, fresh fruit and boiled eggs. A traditionally light French breakfast. But it’s the single plate and glass that catches my attention.

Gavriil’s gone.

“Bonjour.”

“Bonjour,” I reply automatically, even though my heart is racing. “Is my...husband here?” I only hesitate for a second on the word.

“No, madame. But he did leave a note.”

The butler gestures to a white envelope with the hotel’s logo in the top corner. I wait until he’s gone to sit and open it with trembling fingers. Written in a strong, bold hand, it simply says he’s out for the day and he hopes I enjoy my morning.

I drop the note on my plate, my appetite gone. Not even the sight of Paris sprawling for miles can chase away the sting of disappointment, the burn of humiliation.

I told myself last night that I could handle a casual fling. I promised myself I wouldn’t confuse sex with emotion. But apparently my heart hadn’t listened. The dinner at the Eiffel Tower, his sharing of some of the mysteries and trauma of his past, of listening to my own hurts. All of it continues to peel back the mask Gavriil wore and reveal an entirely different man. One who could still be arrogant and flippant. But one who overcame incredible odds and horrible circumstances. One who, despite being hurt by his brother’s indifference, still managed to have some compassion for what Rafael had probably gone through during his own childhood.

And our lovemaking...the way he pulled me back into bed. The way he held me afterward with such tenderness. I hadn’t thought him in love with me. But I thought he might be starting to care.

I was wrong.

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself firmly as I rub at the painful spot in my chest just beneath my ribs. His absence and the note are clear signs of how he views what happened between us last night.

I give myself a few minutes to sit, to hurt over how easily he withdrew this morning, to grieve what might have developed between us in another life.

Then I force myself to finish my breakfast. I shower, dress and set out on foot, this time without my camera. I wander down the banks of the Seine and eventually hop on a subway to visit Notre-Dame. I join the throngs of people and walk through the renovated interior. The soaring ceilings, the rows of pews and the dim alcoves filled with flickering candles bring me a peace I desperately needed.

The morning may have started out with pain. But it doesn’t erase the good things that have come into my life. Financial independence. Dessie’s healing. A chance to explore a city I’ve dreamed about for years.

I’ve been hurt before. I’ll be hurt again. I’m not going to let it take away the joys I’ve been given. The gifts, both big and small, coming out of this contracted marriage. If I can focus on the gains that will come out of our arrangement, both for myself and for Gavriil, I’ll be able to let go of this pain.

I leave the cathedral with renewed calm and spend the rest of the morning exploring shops like the renowned Shakespeare and Company, filling a tote with books I don’t need but definitely want.

I arrive back at the hotel just after noon. As I contemplate ordering room service and dining on the terrace if Gavriil is still out, I see him. He’s walking out of the lobby with a bouquet of white roses.

My heart drops to my feet. He swore to me on the bluff that cheating was not an activity he engaged in. A few days ago, it would have rubbed me the wrong way. It wouldn’t have twisted me up inside.

But just hours after he left the bed we shared? That stabs deep, leaving a jagged, cold hole straight through my heart.

I tell myself there must be another explanation as I watch him near the doors. But where else would he be going with a dozen white roses?

I hesitate. It’s not like our marriage is real. The day after our one-year anniversary, he’ll file for divorce. But a combination of jealousy and my reporter’s curiosity stop me from walking away.

I follow him. The summer weather has brought out locals and the usual horde of tourists. It’s not hard to keep him in sight while keeping plenty of people between us. He doesn’t even look back over his shoulder.

We walk for nearly fifteen minutes, passing bookstores, restaurants, and the Palais de Chaillot. Then I spy a large stone wall. Up ahead, he turns and disappears through a gate in the wall. I count to twenty and follow.

As soon as I round the corner, I stop. My heart drops again, but not from petty jealousy this time. No, this time it’s grief.

A mix of headstones, crypts and elegant statues fill the space in front of me. People drift among the graves, some snapping photos, some laying down flowers, others on their knees as they grieve. There’s maybe a dozen people within sight. Far less crowded than the street just behind me.

It’s not that hard to spot him. He’s a few rows down in front of a white headstone, the roses at his side. My first instinct is to go to him, to lay a hand on his shoulder and comfort him the way he offered me comfort last night when I confided in him.

But we don’t have that kind of relationship. I’m not even supposed to be here.

I need to leave. Go back to the hotel and never bring this up.

“Did you know that in order to be buried in a Parisian cemetery, one either has to have lived in Paris or died here?”

His voice is low, but in the quiet of the cemetery with the high walls muting a lot of the street noise, I can hear it loud and clear.

I approach slowly. He doesn’t even look up.

“My mother lived here the first three years of her life. She talked about Paris as if she had lived here, but she would say other things, too. Things about my father and how he had promised he would come back for her. How one day he would divorce his wife and come back for the love of his life and his son.”

He looks at me now. Despite the growing heat, he’s wearing another suit. More casual than the ones I’ve seen him in; this one golden beige with a crisp white shirt and no tie. To a distant onlooker, he looks like a wealthy businessman paying his respects.

But when our eyes meet, I see the depths of anger and pain roiling behind the seemingly calm exterior. Feel it as if it were my own.

“When I made my first billion, I tracked down the cemetery in Santorini where she had been buried. A little patch of dirt and a stone that looked like a child had scrawled her name on it,” he spits out. “My father knew exactly where she was buried. He couldn’t be bothered to do anything more for the mother of one of his children. The only reason I even found out he knew was because the record showed that his company had paid for her burial.”

Violence rolls off him in a vicious wave so strong I flinch.

“I contemplated killing him then.” He glances back down at her grave, a cold smile lurking about his lips. “Obviously, I didn’t. I thought even though she had died still living in that fantasy world where Lucifer Drakos would come to rescue her, even though she had said his name more than mine in the eight years I lived with her, she still cared for me as much as I think she was able to.” His gaze sweeps the cemetery. “I petitioned to have her buried in Paris before I discovered she had been born here. I offered them millions. They didn’t budge.”

“You respected that.”

Surprise flashes across his face.

“Yes. I make dozens of offers every year. Money, prestige, power. I don’t have to lie or cheat or steal like Lucifer did. I simply offer people what they want. It’s easy,” he adds quietly, “to know what people want when you’ve grown up wanting and being denied time and time again.”

I take a step forward. “And what do you want?”

He stares at me for a long moment. “I have all that I want.”

Liar.

I don’t say it out loud, not in his moment of grief. But I know that something is missing in Gavriil’s life. And despite everything that’s happened between us, the good and the bad, I fervently wish that one day he’ll figure out what is missing.

“And you, Juliette.” He cocks his head to the side. “I thought at first you wanted to destroy my family. Then I thought you wanted a fortune of your own. I know you wanted revenge on my father, but you’ve succeeded there. So...” His voice trails off as he holds my gaze, his smile as careless as his eyes are hard. “What do you want now?”

I hesitate. Once I thought my career was everything. But somewhere along the way, or perhaps all along, justice and revenge had become synonymous. I’d become obsessive, vengeful, even power-hungry in my own way as I’d taken joy in the downfall of others.

A shiver creeps over my skin. If I was looking in a mirror right now, I would loathe what I see. What I had let myself become. And now, with Lucifer gone and Grey House back in my family once more, the driving force behind so much of what I’d done was gone, leaving me adrift.

“I don’t know.”

A family walks by, a man and woman with three little children in tow. The youngest can’t be more than two, her little feet propelling her down the path as she looks up at the sky and lets out a giggle. I smile, the brief moment of joy that sounds out in a place of remembrance and mourning.

I look back at Gavriil to see him staring at me with narrowed eyes.

“Whatever it is you think you still want, I hope you’re sensible enough to stay away from foolish ideas like true love.”

He’s trying to push me away, to remind me of the boundaries he’s put in place. I don’t need the reminder, not after this morning and his abrupt departure. But I also won’t let him taint something that I want for myself. Something that’s still possible down the road.

“What’s wrong with love?”

“Love is unreliable.” The words flow, cold and calculated. “It can bring happiness, yes. But it can also bring pain and grief like you’ve never experienced before.”

My heart turns over in my chest at the thought of him loving another woman so deeply. All of my research never hinted at any one person, any grand love affair. But the venom in his words tells me that his views on love are rooted in something deeply personal and horribly painful.

“Who was she?”

When his head turns, the knowledge hits me with the force of a train. He crouches down and lays the roses in front of the headstone.

“I loved my mother with everything I had. She chose her grief over me. Chose to lie on a mold-soaked mattress and stare at a wall, wallowing in the pain of loving a man who never returned her affections.” He stands, shoving his hands forcefully into his pockets. “Or she’d drink until she drifted into some fantasy world where it made sense for her to persist in her ridiculous beliefs.”

He turns and walks to me, stopping mere inches away. When he leans down, it’s not the intimate movement of a lover, the closeness of a friend about to confide a secret. It’s for me to see his pain, to feel the depth of his belief that being alone is preferable to risking his heart for anyone ever again.

“I will never make her mistake.”

I tilt my chin up, refusing to be cowed.

“You made it perfectly clear when you proposed what your expectations were for this arrangement.”

He blinks as if surprised by my response. He leans back slightly but keeps his eyes focused on mine.

“I wasn’t sure how you would feel after last night.”

“We had sex. Really good sex. But you needn’t worry about me imagining that there’s anything else between us.”

I say it so convincingly I almost believe it myself. Telling him now that what happened between us last night did mean something, did make me wonder if there could be more, would only create more friction. It also would accomplish absolutely nothing. I have no desire to try and change a man, to bend him to my will. When I get married again—and I will—it will be to someone who loves me and accepts the love I have to offer in return.

I break eye contact and glance up as a light breeze dances through the leaves of the chestnut trees scattered throughout the cemetery. When that happens, it will also be when I’m not in the middle of a personal crisis, trying to figure out if I want to continue the work I’ve dedicated my life to.

“Relax, Drakos.” I give him a small smile. “I won’t fall in love with you.”

Instead of relief, there’s a quick flash of anger. Before I can say anything else, he nods once and then strides past me and out of the cemetery, leaving me alone amongst the headstones.