Chapter 49
MYA
I’m halfway through redlining a plumbing layout when someone knocks.
I freeze.
I pad over and open it a crack.
“Bonjour, madame,” the courier says, smiling. “Livraison.”
He’s holding a big, flat package wrapped in brown paper with a deep green ribbon tied around it like it’s Christmas.
“Pour moi?” I ask, dumbly.
“Oui. Mlle Mya Dessen-Jones?”
“That’s me.”
He hands it over.
I close the door, and just stand there in my tiny entryway, staring at the package like it might explode.
I didn’t order anything.
I carry it to the little bistro table I use as a desk and set it down. There’s a card tied to the ribbon. I swallow, untie the bow, and open the card.
For your Paris walls, so you don’t forget us.
Dinner tomorrow? 19 h. Loulou, Jardin des Tuileries. Table is under Miller.
—W.
My heart lurches in my throat.
Worth is here.
In Paris.
And he wants dinner.
At Loulou. The same restaurant where we had our post-courthouse “wedding reception” dinner, where he fed me pasta and we pretended we were newlyweds.
My knees go a little soft.
He was just on the phone with me a few nights ago. He didn’t say he was coming. He didn’t even hint at it. And now he’s here asking me to meet him.
Excitement fizzles, accompanied by a thin line of dread. I don’t know what my heart is going to do when I see him again in person.
I drag the package closer and start tearing at the wrapper. As the brown paper falls away, my hand flies to my mouth.
It’s the wolf sketch. Except this time it’s not the crinkled pencil version I keep in my desk drawer and it features three wolves—a small pack.
This one has been recreated with clean lines, soft watercolor wash behind it, and the moon fuller and brighter, like it’s actually glowing.
And it’s been framed. At the bottom, in neat lettering:
A wolf always finds the moon again.
B. Bri pulls out her sketchbook and a pack of markers. Every few minutes, her phone buzzes.
Finally I look over. “Who are you talking to?”
She goes pink immediately. “My friend.”
I raise a brow. “Which friend?”
“Just… a friend.”
“Mmm.” I lean back, narrow my eyes at her in mock suspicion.
“Dad.” She drags out the word. “It’s Kennedy.”
Ah, right. Kennedy.
“Uh huh. And what are you and Kennedy talking about at 11 a.m. on a school day?”
“He’s on spring break too, remember? And we’re talking about art.”
“As long as you’re being safe,” I state, a slight frown pulling at my brows at the thought. “No sending weird stuff.”
“Ew, gross, Dad.”
I take a couple of calls. One with Seattle and one with the client I’m here to see, but part of my brain keeps drifting.
Did Mya remember today?
Brianna snaps her sketchbook shut after a while. “We should go to dinner tonight,” she announces.
I glance up. “We can do dinner.”
“A fancy dinner,” she says, face bright.
I laugh. “In Paris, everything is fancy.”
“You know what I mean. Somewhere special. Will you let me pick the spot?”
I think about it for half a second. “Sure.”
She pulls out her phone again. “Okay. I’ll make a reservation.”
“You know how to do that?”
“It’s 2025, Dad.”
“Right.”
We finish up around five and head back to the penthouse. I answer a couple more emails and Bri disappears into her room, resurfacing in a dress, tights and a beret she bought just for this trip.
“You look very French.”
“Merci,” Bri says with an exaggerated roll of her tongue.
On the way down, I ask, “Where are we going tonight?”
She smirks. “It’s a surprise.”
I chuckle. “Why the secrecy?”
“You’ll see.”
In the car, Brianna leans forward and whispers the address to the driver like we’re in a spy movie. The man nods and pulls away.
I watch Paris roll by through the window, evening settling in. I wonder again if Mya has remembered this date or shoved it in the part of her brain marked fake marriage, do not open.
After a longer drive than I expected, we turn into the Tuileries side and slow near the entrance to the jardins.
My brows pull together.
The car stops. The driver gets out and opens my door.
No way.
Mya
I step out of the shower, my hair wrapped in a towel and my stomach in knots.
This is ridiculous. It’s just dinner with my ex-husband, in Paris, on what would’ve been our first anniversary.
Totally casual.
I open my tiny wardrobe and immediately make a mess of it, pulling out dresses, blouses, and two pairs of heels I told myself I probably wouldn’t wear here. I lay everything on the bed and stare at it.
Too sexy.
Too serious.
Too “look what you lost.”
Too “I’m fine, actually.”
Too desperate.
I don’t want it to look like I dressed for him.
I’m also very much dressing for him.
After way too long, I land on a dress that’s right in the middle.
I sit at my tiny table to put some light makeup on and cue up the Queen record Worth bought me months ago. I’ve been listening to it on repeat.
Freddie’s voice fills the apartment, and for a minute, I close my eyes.
I wonder if my dad is looking down at me. If he’d be proud of me for how my life turned out.
I let myself think about him properly, not shoving the grief away because I’m scared. I miss him. And I finally accept that that’s what this whole thing with Worth has been: me trying to outrun that first loss, thinking if I control the ending, it won’t hurt as much.
Except it still does.
I grab my little black bag, shrug on a coat, and call a rideshare.
On the way to Loulou, I remember that day a year ago—Worth looking at me like I was really his. I remember thinking, If this were real, I could fall so fast.
How times have changed.
I don’t know what to expect tonight.
The car pulls up to the restaurant, and my pulse skitters. I step out, inhale the cool air, and walk in.
“Bonsoir. Table for Miller, please.”
The ma?tre d’ smiles knowingly. “Bien s?r, madame. This way.”
My heels click against the floor as he leads me through the dining room. I smooth my dress, heart thudding in my throat.
We round the corner to the terrace, and I stop.
Worth
I can’t believe we got this table.
Out of all the places in Paris, and all the restaurants Bri could’ve picked, we’re sitting at the exact table Mya and I sat at a year ago, when we were still figuring out how to pretend to be in love.
“Brianna…” I narrow my eyes at her.
She’s stifling a smile so hard her cheeks puff. Then she lifts the menu to hide her face. “What?”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just heard this place was, like, a staple.”
“A staple,” I repeat, deadpan. “Right. And this has nothing to do with a certain event that happened here last year?”
Brianna presses her lips into a thin line, stifling a smile. “I plead the fifth.”
“And how exactly did you get a reservation on short notice?”
She shrugs without lowering the menu. “I guess they had a cancellation.”
Uh huh.
The waiter comes over. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Miller. Would you like some champagne to begin?” He sets down two flutes.
I gesture to Bri. “She’s underage.”
“Dad, it’s fine. He can leave it.”
The waiter smiles, unbothered, and fills her another glass with water, leaving the extra flute on the side. “For mademoiselle.”
“Merci,” she says in her best French.
We give our appetizer order, and when the waiter leaves, I get a better look at my kid.
Bri is fidgety. Not bored-fidgety. Actually nervous, as if she’s waiting for something to happen.
“Okay,” I say slowly, leaning an elbow on the table. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” she says again, too fast. “I’m just happy to be here with you.”
Before I can press, I catch movement in my periphery.
A woman turns the corner onto the terrace.
I just see the outline of long, dark curls spilled over her shoulders, a deep red dress that hugs every single curve, and heels that make her legs look endless.
Jesus, she’s gorgeous.
I immediately want to smack myself because what the hell am I doing checking out another woman when—
Shit.
It’s not another woman. It’s Mya.
My brain stutters. She’s even more beautiful than the last time I saw her, and she’s walking toward our table like she doesn’t quite believe what she’s seeing either.
I flick my gaze to Bri.
She’s watching me over the edge of her water glass, eyes bright, looking very proud of herself.
“Brianna,” I mutter.
My daughter just grins.