CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Gavriil

T HE WATERS OF the Rh?ne lap gently at the hull of the boat. On the nearby bank, a bird sings softly to its mate hidden somewhere nearby. The sky is streaked with shades of brilliant pink and vivid purple. My computer sits open on my lap with the latest report on the Paul Properties deal, including an email for an official meeting to discuss pricing and terms when I return from France. A bourbon rests within easy reach. With the press of a button, a butler will be by my side in a minute, available to answer almost any question I have or retrieve anything I want. I have everything.

But in this moment, knowing that the master suite behind me is empty, as is the guest suite on the floor above, I feel like I did right before the wedding ceremony: hollow.

It’s an uncomfortable feeling, one I haven’t experienced this deeply before. Every deal I made, every dollar I added in profits, brought me happiness and a sense of fulfillment I had never found in my life. What I put into Drakos, the company gave back. The finer things that had eluded me in the early years of my life were available with a snap of my fingers. People who would have looked down on me when I was begging on the streets of Santorini now begged for me to consider their properties, their proposals. For the first time in my life, I had respect. Power. Control.

But right now, as I stare out over the water, I feel powerless for the first time in years. It’s been three days since Juliette found me in the Cimetière de Passy. Three days of cool politeness and, on the few occasions we spoke to each other, bland conversation. No repeats of the incredible night we shared.

We spent the night after she followed me in our separate rooms and checked out of the Shangri-La the following morning, traveling by limo to the departure point of the second phase of our honeymoon: a private boat trip down to the French Riviera. It met my requirements of luxury with the opportunity for photos that could be shared on Instagram, reinforcing the illusion of a happily married couple. The limo ride was almost entirely silent, reminiscent of our flight over from the States. Except now there was an added tension. We knew each other far better, physically and emotionally. Knew there were depths beyond the faces we presented to the world. And at least for me, craved what we had shared for one starlit night.

It was for the best, I remind myself for the hundredth time, to stay away from each other. When we made love, I knew as she’d come apart beneath me, as I’d lost myself in her, that I had gotten too close. When I’d woken the next morning, my arms wrapped around her waist and my face buried in her hair, I allowed myself one moment to simply enjoy the indulgence of waking up with a woman I greatly respected and genuinely liked.

Then reality had set in. I had made love to her not once, not twice, but three times. All three times, I’d pulled her close and fallen asleep with her in my arms. I’d wanted it.

Too much. Too much too soon.

So I’d slipped away, beginning the process of putting distance between us. It was necessary. No matter how enjoyable that night had been, no matter how much I had discovered about Juliette and the woman she was, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t risk my sanity again.

Her following me to the cemetery had been a sign. It gave her a chance to see why I would never be the kind of man who could let himself love, who could provide her with the things she obviously wanted, like a family of her own.

The way she’d looked when she’d watched that child dancing down the row in the graveyard had made me ache for something I’d never longed for before. Something I have told myself time and again would never happen. How could it when loving a woman, let alone creating a family, was out of the question?

Yes, her full assurance that she would not be falling in love with me had stung. But shouldn’t I be grateful for it? Instead of tears or begging, she acted exactly as I’d hoped she would, for the reasons why I chose her over the numerous other women who would have jumped at the chance to marry a billionaire. It should have reassured me. It should have calmed the turmoil in my chest.

But it didn’t. I found myself missing the intimacy we discovered at the restaurant. On more than one occasion, I had nearly gone in search of her as the boat had passed one of the numerous landmarks viewable from the river, just for a chance to watch her face light up the way it had when we’d crossed the Pont d’Iéna.

Instead, I focus on the one thing that has always brought me pleasure: work.

For the first day, I convinced myself that things were just as they had always been. The back-and-forth between Drakos Development and Paul Properties. Reviewing the reports, analyses, opinions from my executives as we progressed forward. Yet even completing the tasks that had once made me feel in control now felt hollow. Years and years of building one of the largest fortunes in the world. And how had I spent that money? What had I done with it? My few attempts for community investment feel like a drop in the bucket. I had years to make a difference. Instead, I focused on myself.

Like father, like son.

By day two, as the boat slipped past a magnificent castle that made me wonder if Juliette had managed to snap a photo of the turret, I’d stopped pretending and acknowledged I wasn’t as hard-hearted as I wanted—or needed—to be when it came to her.

When the boat had docked this afternoon near a village renowned for wine, lavender and its twisting maze of stone alleys, I’d wandered the decks with the poor excuse of stretching my legs. I only encountered the crew.

It has now been over forty-eight hours since I last laid eyes on my wife.

I glance down at my watch. It’s well past dinnertime. I drum my fingers on the railing. This is ridiculous. I’m letting myself get bent out of shape because for the first time in years, possibly ever, there’s an extra layer to my relationship with a woman. I manage billions of dollars in assets, oversee hundreds of properties around North America, and survived a man Hell probably spat back out when he arrived at the gates.

I’m more than capable of handling a few emotions. Especially if it means enjoying time with a woman like Juliette. A woman who came apart with a trusting abandon that has lingered in my blood ever since I slid inside her wet heat.

I press the button. Thirty seconds later, Renard appears.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour. I was thinking about having dinner on the top deck with my wife.”

“Madame Drakos has gone into the village.”

I try and fail to quell my irritation as my plan to seduce Juliette into bed while dinner was being prepared falls apart. “I see.”

“Shall I still have dinner served on the top deck?”

“No. No, merci , Renard.”

“ Merci , monsieur.”

Renard is almost to the door when I call him back.

“If I wanted to surprise my wife, how would I get to the village?”

Twenty minutes later, I’m walking through a fairy-tale French village at twilight. The houses and shops are smooshed together, the buildings made of brick and stone, the narrow alleys strung with lights and bursting with blooms that pour from containers on the streets, mounted to the walls, dripping from windowsills.

I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t surrounded by glitz and gold. But there’s elegance here, evident in everything from the well-placed signs advertising the various shops and establishments to the quaint iron lanterns lining the roads. There’s history, too, from the placards noting the years various structures were built to the well-maintained but worn cobblestones beneath my feet. It’s like stepping into another world. I pass shops featuring everything from glass-blown sculptures to artisanal crafted pastries.

I pass a small restaurant, then pause and double back. Juliette is sitting at a little table on a small patio. My eyes devour her. She’s wearing a pale green shirt and a white skirt that falls just past her knees. She’s flipping through her camera, a small smile on her face. I wait a moment, making a mental note of details like the strand of hair framing her face, the spark of happiness when she sees something on her camera screen.

I want to stop time. To freeze this moment and have her be this way forever. Happy. Content.

Slowly, I approach. I don’t know what to expect. The way she confided in me that night at the Eiffel Tower, the way she curled into me after we made love, I thought her just as affected—if not more—than I. But with her casual dismissal in the cemetery, I don’t know what I’m more afraid of: her indifference or her affection.

She looks up as I approach. I see surprise in her eyes before a veil drops over her face and she gives me a polite smile.

“Gavriil.”

“May I join you?”

“Of course.”

A waitress appears moments after I sit. I order a glass of merlot and a plate of assorted cheeses, crackers and fruit.

“What are you looking at?”

Juliette freezes, her hands tightening on her camera. I watch the myriad of emotions cross her face: uncertainty, pride, fear.

Then, slowly, she hands me the camera. I don’t tell her how much it means to me that she’s trusted me with whatever has captured her attention.

I toggle through the photos, not bothering to hide my surprise at the quality of the images she’s captured. The most recent ones are of the village, tourists examining the wares in various shops. An elderly shopkeeper grinning at the camera, the missing tooth adding a touch of character to her broad grin as she gestures to a wall of colorful scarves. Photos of the castle I had noticed the day before, the lighting just right to give the battlements an ethereal touch. Then further still, to Paris. The landmarks are beautiful. But it’s the people she’s captured that impress me the most. Raw yet powerful, personal yet professional.

“You’ve been hiding something from me.”

She tenses, tries to mask it by picking up her glass of wine.

“Like what?”

“Your photography.”

Pink colors her cheeks as she murmurs a soft thank you, trying to pass it off as casual. But I’ve come to know her better than that. I know these photos mean something to her. I take a risk.

“Is this part of that new project you’ve been alluding to?”

She stills. Her eyes dart from side to side as if she’s trying to seek an escape.

“Et voilà!”

The waitress appears with my wine and the charcuterie tray, setting it down alongside a bowl of colorful ratatouille and another glass of wine for Juliette.

After she leaves, Juliette’s gaze flicks between me and the camera.

“Yes.”

The one word sounds like it’s been dragged out of her. Given our last serious conversation, I don’t blame her. I all but pushed her as far away from me as possible. Asking her to share something so personal makes me a bastard.

Before I can tell her she doesn’t have to share, her fingers wrap around the stem of her wineglass and she sighs.

“Did you read my article on the Walter human trafficking case?”

I nod. Peter Walter, renowned hotelier, suspected of smuggling priceless artifacts out of Central and South America. But it wasn’t just art he’d been dealing in. He had been using his network of luxury hotels to smuggle in people, primarily women, with the promise of work, only to turn them over to a network of sex traffickers.

I suddenly remember the report airing on the evening news of a raid at one of Walter’s warehouses in Dallas. The priceless Incan and Peruvian artifacts had been nothing compared to the women found in the back of a truck, half of them close to the point of starvation. Juliette’s article had been published a few days later.

She holds out her hand for the camera. I hand it to her, watch as she types something into the screen. She hands the camera back to me.

My throat tightens. Even though I know exactly what I’m looking at, it takes a moment for my brain to catch up. The empty shackles hanging from the roof of the van. An officer with his arms wrapped around a woman facing away from the camera, the hunching of her shoulders and desperate curl of her fingers in the folds of his shirt hitting me like a train.

“You were there.”

Her eyes glint for a moment before she turns away.

“Yes. I’d been tracking Walter for months. There was plenty of evidence to suggest he was engaged in the smuggling of artifacts. But that night...” Her voice trails off. She blinks, as if trying to banish the image of whatever she saw. “I was the one who called the police. One of the editors threw a fit because I phoned it in instead of going to the paper first.”

The idea of Juliette even being close to something so heinous, so evil, makes my blood run cold. My fingers curl into fists so I don’t reach out and touch her, reassure myself that she is truly sitting in front of me, safe and sound.

“I’d gotten a reliable tip that he was getting a shipment delivered that night. Took my photos, matched a license plate to a robbery that had taken place in Mexico City a week prior.” Her eyes grow distant. “The last truck. It took me a while to realize why it bothered me. The other trucks were enclosed. But that last one had vents all along the top.” She presses her lips together and looks me straight in the eye. “I knew something was wrong. I knew and I almost walked away so that I could have the exclusive on Peter Walter for art smuggling.”

She looks away, and I know the admission had cost her. I reach out, cover her hand with mine. I don’t know if she notices with how far back into the past she’s retreated, how deeply she’s sunk in her own guilt.

But I’m there. I won’t have her thinking that I’m judging her, that I’m finding her wanting. Not after what she risked, what she gave up to do the right thing.

“If I hadn’t listened to my instinct, if I hadn’t set aside my ego and my pride, those women would be lost to the network of sex trafficking.”

Revulsion hits me straight in the gut. The depravity of what humans are capable of, along with how close Juliette came to encountering monsters. I wait for a moment, trying not to let her see how much I’m affected by what she shared.

“But you didn’t.”

“I thought about it though.” She bites her lower lip. “I thought about ignoring that instinct because I wanted that exclusive.”

She suddenly sets her glass down so hard on the table I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. I smile reassuringly at a nearby couple who are watching Juliette, as if wondering if she’s about to burst into tears.

“I wanted to be the one to unmask him. My pride nearly condemned those women to a fate worse than death. I was so blinded by my own past that I failed to see the people who were truly the heart of my work.”

I don’t even bother to question the compassion I feel for her in that moment. I simply offer it because I want to.

“And I thought about killing my father. But I didn’t. Just like you didn’t abandon those women.”

“No, I didn’t.” The shadows in her eyes make my chest ache. “But I hesitated. I hesitated and ignored what makes me a good reporter because for a moment, I did exactly what the people I hunt do. I put myself and my career first.”

“Thinking and doing are two very different things,” I counter.

“You were right, you know.” The look she gives me is full of a sadness so profound it takes everything I have not to stand up, sweep her into my arms and carry her back to the boat where I can hold her and comfort her. “I told myself for so long I do what I do so that what happened to my father doesn’t happen to someone else. But the more I published my work, the more I felt...powerful.”

She spits out the word. I hate the loathing in her voice. I hate hearing how much time and energy she has wasted beating herself up when she is worth so much more. She’s a far better person than the people I’ve rubbed shoulders with and sought the approval of for over twenty years.

The thought stops me cold. That hollow sensation rears up, widens. More than wealth, more than prestige, I’ve wanted power. Survived on what shards I could grasp as a child, then thrived on the steady streams that flowed in as I rose up the ranks. I considered it synonymous with control, with everything I’d dreamed of and been denied in my childhood.

But at what cost? Juliette’s not the monster she believes herself to be. Yet I can’t help but wonder what I would see if I looked in the mirror, if I looked at everything I’ve done to get where I am today.

My grasp on Juliette’s hand tightens. “You called the police. You published your story days later, giving up an exclusive so those women could be rescued. You did the right thing.”

She watches me for a moment, hope flaring in her eyes, before she looks away.

“It still made me question everything. All the stories I’ve written, the people I’ve ruined.”

“They ruined themselves.”

Rafe and I suspected for years that Lucifer was at the very least flirting with the edges of the law, if not outright breaking them. And we did nothing. It took one slip of a girl from the Olympic Coast to bring the devil to his knees.

As I watch her, berating herself for one moment where she contemplated pride over doing the right thing and still made a choice that saved the lives of the women trapped in that truck, as well as future lives who would have been consigned to a fate worse than death, I realize that I can’t even come close to being the kind of person Juliette is in her heart.

But I want to try. For the first time in my life, I want something more than wealth. More than fame.

I want to do something good.

She runs a hand over one cheek, wiping away a tear. “You didn’t, though.”

I falter. “What?”

“I tried. I tried to pin something on you and your brother. These last few months, I knew about Lucifer’s diagnosis. I tracked down everything I could on you and Rafael and came up with nothing.” She rolls her hand over in mine, squeezes my fingers. “I’m sorry. I wanted to believe that you both were like him, to continue on this quest for vengeance. I think a part of me hoped it would fill the void I was experiencing after Texas. After realizing I’d based so much of my work on your father and what he did to mine. Renew my motivation for my career. But you’re nothing like him,” she adds softly.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Her laugh is surprisingly light against the darkness of our conversation.

“Were you relieved? When you realized Rafe and I were not like our father?”

“Not at first. I was surprised. Then I was angry.” She sucks in a deep breath. “And then I was angry with myself for being angry. For wanting you or Rafe to be like him.”

She looks at me then, straight on. I respect her for telling me all of this, even more so knowing how much it cost her. I also feel myself slipping closer and closer to that edge that I came so close to that night in Paris when I realized the kind of woman Juliette Grey truly is.

“Why did you want me to be like Lucifer?”

Her eyes glint with unshed tears, but she doesn’t look away.

“When you live for so long with a single purpose in life, it’s hard to live on the other side of it.” A shuddering sigh breaks from her lips. “I’ve been so incredibly blind. So selfish.”

I nod toward her camera. “Is that what this photo project is about? Trying to find something new?”

“Sort of.”

She picks it up, presses a few more buttons, and then hands it to me. Images of women fill the screen. Most of them young, a couple of them closer to middle age. All of them with a darkness in their eyes that speaks to the horrors they’ve lived through.

But in many of them, there’s also hope. A sense of pride as they meet the gaze of the camera lens.

“Some of the women from Walter’s warehouse wanted their story told. I’d always focused on the perpetrators before. Never the victims.” I look up and she flushes. “I’ve been working on their stories for the past six months. I don’t get the same joy out of investigative reporting that I used to. But telling their stories...” Some of the tension bleeds from her body. “It’s not just fulfilling, it’s inspiring.”

“There’s a difference to you as you’re talking about this.”

She tilts her head to the side. “How so?”

“A softness. The same softness I saw when you looked at Grey House. Contentment.”

I don’t add that I saw the same emotions on her face after we made love. Knowing what I had in my hands, what I pushed away out of fear, makes me sick to my stomach.

She smiles then, a movement so uninhibited and bright it chases away the pain. Juliette is not perfect. She’s human. But right now, as I watch her, I know that she is the most incredible human I’ve ever had the privilege to know. She has more humanity in her so-called selfish heart than I have in my entire body.

Is it even right for me to still want her? To try and convince her to spend the next year with me, in my bed, when I can’t hold a candle to her integrity? When I’ve used people’s desires to achieve my own without a second thought?

“I’ve been wondering for months if I needed to refocus my career. It’s torn me up inside. Ever since I moved in with Dessie, I’ve been fixated on taking down your father. Righting wrongs. But even after I published my first story on your father, there was this...emptiness. I thought maybe the next report would bring me closer finding some peace, some resolution. It wasn’t until after Texas that I started to realize nothing would ever resolve what happened to my family. That I was chasing the unattainable.”

My chest tightens. It’s as if she’s reading my thoughts. Experiencing the emotions that have been growing increasingly tangled over the past few months.

She nods toward the camera in my hands. “But this...this feels different. This feels right.”

“You have a talent.”

I’m not lying as I hold up the camera, the screen depicting a young woman with fatigue in her eyes but hope in the tiniest of smiles. It’s a face I saw time and time again in the poor sections of Santorini. But where I merely glanced on my way to pickpocket the nearest gullible tourist, Juliette has captured a story. She’s brought attention to the faceless, the nameless.

“I told you before, Juliette, that I admire your work. I didn’t lie then, and I don’t lie now when I say this has the potential to be a new beginning for you.”

This time her smile is small, soft. It fills me with a fierce sense of pride.

“Perhaps I’ve found my new calling after all.”

It turns into one of those evenings that drags on for eons yet speeds by in the blink of an eye. We dip into cheese and roasted vegetables as Juliette shares stories of her days at a college in Missouri and I counter with my experiences at Oxford. We laugh, smile, bond over shared memories and an intimacy I’ve never experienced before. Our hands brush, linger. The heat that has existed between us ever since that moment in the hotel grotto, a moment that feels ancient and new, simmers, deepens with the confidences we’ve shared, the vulnerabilities we’ve bared.

It’s nearly midnight when we leave. The walk takes us through the village, then past fields of lavender, the heady scent wrapping around us. I give into impulse and pick a sprig. I tuck it behind her ear, my fingers lingering for a heartbeat in the silky tendrils of her hair. The smile she gives me winds its way around my heart. This time I don’t fight it. I enjoy it. I grasp her hand in mine as we walk down the star-dusted path.

Mine.

My fingers tighten on her as a need surges forth. Not just a need to feel her bare beneath me, surrounding me. But a need to be with her.

When she stops and turns to me and lifts her face to mine, my body stills as moonlight paints silver light across her face.

“Kiss me, Gavriil.”

I’m not strong enough to resist that. But when her arms slide up my chest, when she presses her body against mine in an obvious invitation, I stop her. She pulls back.

“If you don’t—”

“I do.” I hold her against my body, her eyes widening as she feels the evidence of my arousal against her hips. “But I want to do this right.”

She sighs. “It’s hard not to like you when you’re so noble.”

I scoop her up into my arms, savoring her delighted laugh as I carry her across the gangplank onto the ship.

“Not completely noble.”

I carry her to my suite. I ignore any lingering whispers of why this is a bad idea, why I should take her to her room instead of mine.

I’ve spent too many nights with her just out of reach. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But for tonight, at least, my wife is where she needs to be. In my arms.