Chapter 21 Tara
Tara
Icry all night.
Not the delicate, cinematic kind of crying—ugly, hiccupping sobs that leave my throat raw and my eyes swollen.
I don’t call home. What would I even say?
Hi, Mama, remember that dream job I moved across the world for? Turns out I’m the headline scandal of Paris because I had a one-night stand with a count who is a paranoid asshole.
When morning comes, my pillow is damp, and my chest is as heavy as stone.
I get up anyway. I shower. I put on clothes, pull my hair into a bun, and walk through the Louvre’s grand doors because even if Gustave doesn’t want me, the Carriera does.
But the marble corridors feel colder today. The echo of my boots sounds too loud.
And the stares—God, the stares—slice into me like blades.
I can hear them, the whispers following me, overlapping like the rustle of taffeta:
That’s her. The American.
La ma?tresse du Comte*.
Did you see the photos?
How gauche to sell them to a tabloid?
What a gold digger!
I keep walking, my chin high. But my hands are trembling by the time I reach the conservation lab.
Giselle is by my canvas.
She’s holding a glossy magazine—Le Monde du Luxe. The pages gleam under the fluorescent lights and spread across the centerfold is a photo of me, laughing with Gustave and Aubert.
It’s the selfie I took.
“Well,” Giselle purrs, her voice dripping with satisfaction, “our little American has been busy. Quite the career strategy. Sleeping with Gustave de Valois? Très audacieux*.”
Her laughter is the match that lights the room. The others join in, uneasy but eager not to be left out. A few avert their eyes. Most don’t.
My stomach knots. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Cece moves to my side. “Don’t you all have a canvas to stretch?” she snaps. “Or are you too busy reading gossip rags to actually work?”
The laughter falters.
Giselle’s smile turns brittle. “Right or not, the damage is done. Voilà—you’re famous, Tara.
Unfortunately, fame isn’t the kind of credential we value here.
” She flips the magazine shut and lets it drop onto the worktable with a slap.
“Tara, you’re fired. Which means your apartment should be cleared immediately.
The Count has been kind enough to give you twenty-four hours to get out of his property. ”
His property?
The words barely register as I realize that I was staying at a place he owned. He never even said.
The room tilts. My throat burns. I can’t think, can’t breathe. My whole body feels like it’s gone hollow. I should pack up my things here, do something, but….
Cece grabs my arm. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
“Cece…,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“Maintenant.” She pulls me down the corridor, past the same people who whispered as I arrived.
Their eyes follow us. Some pitying, most curious. I feel shame crawl up my neck like heat.
By the time we reach the courtyard, my vision is blurring. The gray Parisian sky spins overhead. I press a hand to my mouth, but the sob escapes anyway.
“Don’t listen to them,” Cece orders fiercely, her hands gripping my shoulders. “They’re jackals. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
“I…have to go home,” I whisper. I want my mama!
“Yes.” Cece’s voice softens. “You need to pack your things. I’ll help you.”
I don’t move because I can’t.
“I need a minute.”
“Oui,” she says kindly.
I watch tourists take photos of the glass pyramid, laughing, alive, free. The world goes on.
Mine has stopped.
When I reach the apartment—his apartment—I feel as if I’m trespassing.
There’s evidence of him everywhere. His memory. Where we made love. The wine he brought one night, the empty bottle now a candle stand. I can almost hear him say my name in the dark, the low rumble of his voice that used to make me melt.
Now, it hurts…like a bitch.
I start to pack, but my hands won’t stop shaking. I shove clothes into my suitcase, not caring what fits, what tears.
Cece helps.
I open my sketchpad and burst into tears when I see his face that I sketched one evening like a lovesick fool.
“Tara,” Cece breathes. “Oh, chérie….”
I look up, trying to smile, but it collapses before it reaches my eyes. “I didn’t even know I was staying in his apartment. Can you believe that? He never said it was his.”
She kneels beside me, taking my cold hands in hers. “I’m so sorry.”
My voice trembles. “He thinks I sold…I sold that photo of us…how could he think that?”
“Quel connard*.” She shakes her head, annoyed. “I’m not sleeping with you, but even I know that is not who you are. He should know better! What exactly did he say to you?”
I swallow hard. “He told me to get out.”
Cece’s eyes flash. “That connasse* Simone.”
I blink. “What?”
“I know it’s her,” Cece hisses. “She’s been hanging around him for months, like a vulture. If anyone has the contacts to feed the press, it’s that woman. This is exactly her kind of poison.”
It makes sense. “But…she put her son out there, too.”
“She’s a horrible human being who will do exactly that kind of thing.” Cece’s hands curl into fists. “How did she get that photo out of your phone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You send it to anyone?”
“Ah…I sent it to Aubert and Gustave. They sent me the photos they took.”
Cece gives me a satisfied look. “She got into her son’s phone. Garantie*!”
Sounds plausible, but it doesn’t change a damn thing, does it? Gustave and I are done. And in a way that hurts.
“It’s over and…I had such hopes, Cece. Foolish ones.”
Cece takes my hands in hers and squeezes. “He’s a fool. A handsome, aristocratic fool.”
That makes me laugh—sort of. It’s broken, half a sob.
“I didn’t want any of this,” I whisper. “I didn’t want his money or his world. I…I thought he saw me.”
“You have more integrity in your little finger than all of them put together. Don’t you dare let them take that from you.”
Tears spill down my cheeks. “It doesn’t feel like integrity. It feels like heartbreak.”
Cece brushes my hair from my face and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’ll survive this, Tara. He doesn’t deserve you.”
I huff out a laugh through my tears. “Or want me, either.”
“Come on,” she says gently. “Let’s pack. You’re going home. To your family who love you. To sunshine and real tacos.”
Together, we finish packing. When the final zipper slides shut, a strange stillness settles over me. I feel hollow, yet somehow lighter. The worst has passed, though I know the wounds it’s left behind will take a long time to heal.
I spend the night at Cece’s place, and the next day, after hugs and promises to keep in touch, I take a cab to Charles de Gaulle. I managed to get the last seat on a full flight, direct from CDG to LAX.
On the plane, I look down at Paris—the Seine winding like a silver ribbon through the rooftops. The city looks peaceful from up here. A dream I should never have believed in.
* The count’s mistress (French)
* Very bold (French)
* What an asshole (French)
* Bitch (French)
* Guaranteed (French)