Chapter fourteen
Luc
The arrangement.
S itting in the back seat of the car, I wait, glancing at the time. The longer I sit here, the more I question my approach. Was I too blunt? I’m not even sure if she’ll show up anymore.
I pull a pen from my pocket, absently clicking the top to keep me focused, but my thoughts scatter in a dozen directions. Click. Click. My mind runs through our earlier conversation, replaying her reactions, the tight smile, the way she pulled back. I should have phrased it differently.
Click, click, click . The pen clicks faster. I catch myself, take a breath, and force my hand still.
She’ll come.
I glance at my watch, dix-neuf heure (nine o’clock) on the dot. Bertrand steps out as she appears, and the tension in my chest eases when I see her. She’s wearing a light-pink trench coat over a beige sweater dress that stops above her beige boots that reach up to her knees. Fuck. I exhale slowly, forcing myself to keep it together as Bertrand opens the door for her.
The moment she slides in, her vanilla scent fills the car. I turn my head to look at her. Her eyebrows are drawn together, and her lips are pressed into a thin line.
“Thanks for coming.” I smile at her.
“Didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.” A tiny huff escapes her as she looks out the window.
I wince slightly. “Sorry, that’s not how I meant it. You do have a choice.”
She turns to me, her gaze softening, and we hold each other’s eyes for a few lingering seconds.
“You’re right. I should know the whole vision before making a decision.” Her lips curve up into a small smile. “Besides, it’s a free meal.”
Her smile eases the tension in my shoulders. The drive to the restaurant is quiet, but it’s a comfortable silence. I steal glances at her while she gazes out the window, lost in thought.
A few minutes later, Bertrand pulls up outside one of my restaurants, a personal investment. My family handed me a hefty inheritance when I turned eighteen, and I’d more than tripled it by the time I turned twenty-five. Hotels, restaurants, and properties across Paris and London.
I step out first, turning to offer her my hand as she exits the car. The cool night air stirs as her fingers slip into mine, and a faint shiver moves through her, tiny sparks climbing up my arm. For a second, I wonder if she feels it, too, or if it’s the chill.
“Right this way.” I gesture for her to go first, not quite trusting myself to say more.
“Merci,” she says as I lead her inside, attracting the curious glances of the group waiting by the door.
The restaurant is packed tonight, as usual, but I’ve made sure they cleared a few tables near ours. I don’t want anyone eavesdropping on our conversation.
I don’t miss the raised eyebrows as we pass. This is one of the best restaurants in Paris, booked out weeks in advance, and I’ve probably irritated a few people by clearing these tables. I smoothed things over with vouchers.
Nadia’s gaze flits from me to Rylee, her eyes widening. Her surprise is subtle, but I catch it—she knows I don’t bring company here, aside from my sister Sophie or Alain. Most times, it’s just me and my sketch pad.
I help Rylee out of her coat, revealing more of her outfit. A white collar shirt peeks out from under her sweater dress, and her hair is sleek and falling over her shoulders. She’s fucking breathtaking. I remove my coat, handing both to Nadia, who passes them off as she leads us to our table.
The restaurant is different at night, quieter, with a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower and the dark Seine River.
Nadia takes our orders before stepping away, leaving us in a soft glow of candlelight.
Rylee raises an eyebrow with a smirk. “No reservations needed?”
I shrug, letting my shoulder relax against the seat. “I know the owner.”
“Oh?” She tilts her head. “And who’s that?”
“A very good-looking guy.”
A quick laugh escapes her. “Didn’t realize you were into men.”
I chuckle. “Hilarious. I was talking about myself. I own it.”
She laughs, and the teasing softens into a smile. A genuine smile. There she is. My heart does an involuntary flip. Stop it. I look away, trying to brush it off. It’s just a smile, I tell myself, willing my pulse to steady.
Nadia returns with a bottle of wine, fresh bread, and a dish of olive oil with herbs, setting them down before pouring us each a glass. “Your food will be here soon,” she says politely before stepping away.
I pick up my glass, tilting it in Rylee’s direction. “I’m guessing this is still your favorite?”
She glances at the glass, swirling it gently before bringing it to her nose. “Actually,” she murmurs, “I haven’t had it since the last time I was here.” She raises the glass and takes a sip, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Still the best wine I’ve ever tasted.” She sets her glass down. Her eyes drift to the view outside the windows. Her fingers play with a small ring on her right hand. She seems far away, lost in her thoughts.
I’d give up my role as CEO to know what she’s thinking right now.
“Can we talk about what happened in the office?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I hadn’t planned on bringing it up tonight, but here I am, unable to ignore the worry knots in my chest.
She avoids my gaze, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Rylee.” Her name falls from my lips, soft but firm.
She looks up, meeting my eyes.
Talk to me, Mon Soleil , I think, hoping she can feel it. “You were crying.”
She sighs, muttering something under her breath. “Tan persistente este hombre (This man is so persistent).”
She has no idea.
“It’s my sister,” she whispers. “She’s having issues with my mom’s new boyfriend.”
I nod, piecing things together. I remember her telling me she wanted custody of her sister.
“You haven’t been able to get custody yet?” I ask gently.
Her eyes widen. “You remember?” There’s a surprise there, like she can’t believe I’d remember.
Of course, I remember. When it comes to her, I have a hyper focus memory. I remember every little detail, like watching a movie.
“If you had three wishes,” I asked her that night, “what would it be?”
“Custody of my sister, dancing on stage one day…” She hesitated on the last one, her eyes holding mine before she glanced away, avoiding my gaze. “And love,” she added quietly. “To love someone and have them love you back,” she elaborated, still staring in the distance. “Someone that knows and sees how broken you are and still loves you anyway, someone that doesn’t only love your body but your heart and soul.” Then she shook her head and laughed like the idea was absurd. But not to me.
“They said I’m not ‘stable enough.’” Her voice breaks through my memory. “I’m not married, and I don’t make enough to support her. Unless I can prove she’s unsafe, there’s no case.”
My mind latches on to one word: Married . An idea forms, impulsive, maybe even insane, but too perfect to ignore. Before I can talk myself out of it, the words are already tumbling out.
“Marry me.”
Her eyes snap up, wide with shock. “What did you say?”
“Marry me,” I repeat, softer this time, watching her reaction carefully. “It could help you get custody of your sister.”
Silence stretches between us; her gaze locked on mine, as if searching for some hint of a joke. “You’re joking.” She bursts into laughter, but I keep my expression serious as her amusement fades into disbelief. “I can’t marry you.”
“Why not?”
She hesitates, glancing away. “Well, for starters, you’re not in love with me.” Her voice is tentative, like she’s hoping I’ll agree and end this conversation. That’s something we’ll have time to talk about. I don’t want to freak her out even more.
“This would be an arrangement that helps us both,” I say as the waitress arrives with our food, and we pause, waiting until she leaves. When she’s out of earshot, I continue. “It would show stability to help you get custody of your sister. And I get to keep my role as CEO.”
Her brow furrows. “What do you mean, keep your role?”
I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. “The board has this outdated rule. They require the CEO to be married by thirty to remain in the position. All the previous CEOs were married by then, so they never bothered to change it. Now, I’m not married, and they’re refusing to budge.”
Her expression shifts, eyebrows knitting as she studies me, piecing things together. “Is that why you brought me here?” she asks, hurt flicking across her face. “Are you trying to help me, or is this about you keeping your title?”
I expected this question, but it still hurts. I lean forward, meeting her gaze. “Rylee, I didn’t even know about the board’s final decision until after I bought your company. I wanted to help you.” And, selfishly, I wanted her back in my life. “I care more about you and your sister than being CEO.” The truth settles between us. “I could live without the title. It’d bruise my ego, sure. It’d probably upset my father. But none of that matters as much as helping you.”
Her eyes are wide enough to make me feel like I’m under a microscope. I think of the last time she talked about wanting custody of her sister and how much it mattered to her. And I get it. I’d do anything for my sister. The thought of her in a dangerous situation and feeling helpless to protect her is something I can’t even imagine.
Rylee glances down at her untouched food, her fingers playing with her fork absently. “How would that even work?”
“However you want.”
She lets out a sigh. “Why am I even entertaining this? It’s a definite no. I don’t want to get married—not now, not ever.”
The pain in her words hits me like a punch, twisting something inside me. Not now, not ever.
“Think of it as a business arrangement,” I say, though the words taste bitter. I don’t want this to be a transaction, but I’ll say it if that’s what it takes. “Nothing more.”
“This is insane,” she mutters, half to herself. “How long would we have to be married for?”
Till death do us part, I think, catching myself before the words slip out. “A year, maybe two. Just enough time to make it believable that it didn’t work out.” The words taste hollow as I say them.
“A year?” She blinks, still processing. “What would that even look like?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I know exactly what she’s getting at.
“You know…”
“I don’t.”
She fidgets slightly, glancing away. “Would we be sharing a room? Since we wouldn’t actually be together, together. Would we still see other people?”
The thought of another man near her lit a fire in my gut. “No man will touch my wife or look at her that way. If we’re keeping this ‘business,’ then we’ll both be celibate for the time we’re married. No one will take care of my wife’s needs except for me.” The answer comes out darker than I intended.
Her eyes widen, and she lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “So, you’re saying you wouldn’t sleep with anyone else? Because, if I’m honest, French men have a reputation for… well…” She smirks slightly. “Being, how do I say it, man whores? I don’t see you keeping it in your pants for a year.”
If only she knew I hadn’t been with anyone else in fifteen months. “I’m not French in that aspect.” I lean in, holding her gaze. “I would never cheat on my wife. She’d be the one I’d want to kiss, the one I’d want to come home to and fuck. Business or not. That would be up to you to decide whether we cross that line.”
She draws in a breath, her throat bobbing as she visibly swallows. “So, you’re open to us being intimate? Wouldn’t that complicate things?”
Not for me. I know exactly what I want. And that’s her . In the silence, it’s as if we’ve slipped back to that night, both of us remembering exactly what we wanted, but something held her back.
“This is too much.” Her eyes glisten under the soft light of the restaurant.
Regret tightens in my chest. I hadn’t planned for this conversation, or meant to overwhelm her, but here we are.
“I want to go,” she says, looking down at her lap, twisting that ring again.
I look at our untouched food. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“At least take it to go.” I raise a hand to catch Nadia’s attention. She hurries over. “Could we get these wrapped up, please?”
“Of course,” she replies in French.
We sit in silence as we wait for Nadia. When she returns, she hands me the bags, and I take a steadying breath before standing. I offer my hand to Rylee to help her up. She hesitates before her fingers slip into mine, warm and familiar, if only for a moment.
I lead her to the exit, where our coats are waiting. My hand hovers at her back, but she steps forward, pulling her coat tight around herself. A few seconds later, Bertrand pulls up to the entrance.
I open the door, waiting as she climbs in before sliding in beside her.
The silence between us is dense, pressing in from all sides. My chest tightens, each breath shallow, as if the quiet is blocking my oxygen. I glance sideways at her, and she’s turned away, eyes fixed on the blur of the city outside.
What was I thinking? I should’ve waited until she’d settled in, and even decided if she wanted to stay. The urge to take it all back, to tell her to forget every word, nearly slips out. But the thought of undoing it, of losing even the possibility of marrying her, twists something tightly in my chest.
I don’t notice we’ve stopped until Bertrand steps out, opening the door for her.
She hesitates, glancing back at me, but I only manage a quiet, “Good night,” before gesturing for Bertrand to close the door behind her.
Once he’s back inside the car, I direct him to the private parking garage. Bertrand pulls into the parking lot, and I step out of the car without waiting for him to open the door. “Good night,” I say over my shoulder, swiping my key card and stepping into the elevator. I lean against the wall, crossing one foot over the other, my shoulders pressing into the cold metal as I exhale through my nose.
My head tips back, eyes closing for half a second before I mutter to myself, “This was a fucking disaster.” That’s what happens when I act on my stupid impulses.
I pull out my phone and dial my lawyer’s number. I don’t care what time it is. He knows better than to ignore my calls.
“This couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” His voice is groggy, but he picked up like I knew he would.
The elevator dings, opening into my penthouse. The stillness of the place wraps around me as I step out, the faint glow of the Eiffel tower spilling through the tall windows. “I need you to look into something for me,” I say, ignoring his question.
There’s a pause. “Okay.”
I tap my fingers against the marble countertop, steadying my thoughts. “What does someone need to do to get custody of their little sister in the US?”
Jude’s voice sharpens a little, the seriousness in my tone waking him up. “She’d need to prove the sister’s better off with her. Like if the parents are dead, using drugs, involved in illegal activities, or abusive. Courts also look for stability—financially and emotionally. It’s easier if she’s married.”
The muscle in my jaw ticks. “What if the mom wants to sign over her rights?”
“That can happen, but only if she’s willing to. If she wants nothing to do with the kid, then it’s simple.”
My grip tightens on the edge of the counter. Simple doesn’t apply here. Not with what I know about Rylee’s mother. She’ll make this as hard as possible, out of spite.
Pushing off the counter, I slowly circle around the kitchen island. “I’m sending you a name and an address. Reach out to your contacts in the US. I want everything. Where they go, what they do, the exact time they fall asleep at night.”
“Okay, got it.”
The call ends, and I drop the phone onto the counter. My hands curl into fists at my sides. I need all the leverage I can get on Rylee’s mom and her boyfriend. She’s going to get her sister back. I’ll make sure of it.
No matter what it takes.