Chapter 19 Enzo
Enzo
Iwake to Remy’s hair tickling my nose and Breck’s arm thrown across both of us. For a moment, I just lie there, taking stock of the situation.
I’ve never done the morning after. Until recently. With Remy. My pattern has always been simple: fuck, sleep if absolutely necessary, then leave before anyone can expect more. No breakfast, no lazy mornings, and no complications.
But right now, with Remy’s back pressed against my chest and her breathing still soft with sleep, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
She stirs, making a slight sound of protest as consciousness creeps in. I tighten my arm around her waist.
“Good morning.” My voice is rough with sleep.
“Hi.” She doesn’t open her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Early. We have a few hours before we need to get ready.”
Breck moves behind her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Good morning, beautiful.”
Remy turns her head to look at him, then back at me. I watch her face for signs of regret or awkwardness. Instead, she smiles, and her expression is genuine, warm, and completely unguarded.
“Good morning to you both.” She stretches, and the movement makes her body slide against mine in ways that are decidedly unhelpful to my self-control.
Breck sits up, running a hand through his hair. “I’m ordering breakfast. Remy, what do you want?”
“Coffee,” she answers dreamily. “And whatever you think I’d like.”
“I think I know exactly what you’d like.” His hand slides up her thigh beneath the sheets.
Remy catches his wrist, laughing as she pushes him away. “We have an important meeting today. Save that energy for later.”
“You’re killing me.” But he’s grinning as he reaches for the room service menu. “Fine. But I’m holding you to ‘later.’”
She winks at him. “I’m counting on it.”
I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at her. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Better than okay.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Though I might need a nap before the meeting.”
“We wore you out?” The satisfaction in my voice is probably embarrassing, but I don’t care.
“So modest.” She laughs, swatting my chest. “Yes, you wore me out. Your ego needed that, I’m sure. Happy?”
I laugh. “Extremely.”
Breck’s on the phone now, ordering breakfast, speaking French. It sounds like he is ordering half the menu. When he hangs up, he grins at us. “Breakfast will be here in thirty minutes.”
Remy glances at the clock. “That’s not much time.”
“It’s plenty of time.” Breck stands, pulling her up with him. “For what I have in mind.”
“Which is?”
“Getting you in the shower. With me.” He’s already walking her backward toward the bathroom. “For efficiency.”
“Efficiency.” Her laugh is breathless. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“I can call it whatever you’d like.” He smirks. “But that doesn’t change what I plan on doing with you.”
They disappear into the bathroom, and I hear the water start, followed by Remy’s laugh and Breck’s lower response. I should probably feel jealous or possessive. Instead, I feel… complete.
That’s the word that fits. Complete.
My brothers and I have been through hell together. We’ve built an empire, survived loss, and protected each other against everything the world threw at us. But there’s always been something missing, some piece we couldn’t quite identify.
Remy is that piece.
She doesn’t complete us individually. She completes us.
She fits into our dynamic as if she were always meant to be there.
Sharing her with Breck and Ansel doesn’t diminish what I feel.
It amplifies it, because I get to see her happy with them, see her laugh at Breck’s jokes, and soften under Ansel’s intensity.
I get to watch my brothers fall for the same woman I’m falling for, and instead of competition, there’s… rightness.
Room service arrives just before the shower shuts off.
They emerge wrapped in the hotel’s plush robes, Remy’s hair damp and curling around her shoulders. Breck’s already talking about the meeting, walking her through key points while she nods and asks clarifying questions.
I pour her coffee from the room service cart and hand it to her. The smile she gives me is worth more than the entire Paris deal.
We eat on the terrace, Remy between us, taking in the morning streets of Paris. The sun makes her hair look like copper fire, and I find myself staring more than eating.
Two hours later, we’re in the back of a car heading to the client meeting. Remy sits between us in a fitted navy suit with her hair pulled back.
We have the presentation ready to go, and although everything is in order, something feels off.
I can’t explain it. It’s just a prickling at the back of my neck, a sense that we’re being watched. I scan the street as we drive, looking for anything out of place. A car that is following too closely. Someone on the sidewalk that is paying too much attention.
There is nothing obvious. But the feeling persists.
I pull out my phone and text the head of our security detail.
Me: Stay extra close to Remy today. Something feels wrong.
Security: Understood. We’ve got her covered.
Remy notices my tension. “Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just being cautious.”
She studies my face, then nods. She’s learned to trust my instincts.
The client’s office is in a modern building near La Défense. We’re ushered into a conference room where three executives wait—two men and one woman. They are all impeccably dressed, radiating that particular French blend of sophistication and skepticism.
Damon would usually be at these meetings, too, and his absence should feel like a void. But instead, the dynamic between Breck, Remy, and me feels balanced in a way it never did before.
Breck handles the introductions, his French flawless. The clients warm to him immediately, which is the point. He’s the face, the personality, and the one who makes people feel comfortable enough to sign contracts.
I’m here as technical backup. To answer the hard questions, to prove we know what we’re talking about, and to show them we’re not just salesmen.
Remy is here because she’s brilliant, and they need to see that.
Breck launches into the presentation, walking them through our security protocols, implementation timeline, and projected outcomes. He’s good at this, making complex technical concepts accessible without being condescending.
The clients nod along, asking occasional clarifying questions. Then the woman—Sophie Martin—leans forward.
“Your proposal is impressive, Mr. Jacobs. But we’ve had security consultants before who promised similar results and failed to deliver. What makes your approach different?”
Before Breck or I can respond, Remy answers in perfect French.
The room goes silent. Sophie’s eyebrows rise, and she responds in French, clearly impressed by Remy’s fluency.
Remy’s smile is warm but professional as she continues the conversation, explaining that she studied in Montreal for a semester in college. She offers to walk them through our methodology in detail—in French, if they prefer.
I stare at her. We’ve been in Paris for three days. Three days of Breck handling all the French interactions, of Remy letting him take the lead, of her playing the role of an American tourist who only speaks English. And she’s been fluent this entire time.
The clients relax, switching between French and English as Remy walks them through technical specifications with the same ease Breck showed with the sales pitch.
She anticipates their concerns, addresses their questions, and by the time we’re shaking hands an hour later, I can see we’ve got the deal.
In the car, on the way back to the hotel, I turn to her. “You speak French.”
“I do.” She doesn’t look guilty; she seems amused.
“What else are you hiding?”
She shrugs. “I kept up with French after college. Languages are just another kind of code.”
Breck leans forward from the front seat. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’ve been translating menus for you all week.”
Her expression softens. “Because I loved that you were taking care of me. That you were handling everything and making me feel special. I didn’t want to interrupt that.”
“You let me show off.” Breck’s voice is rough with emotion.
“You were very impressive.” She reaches forward and squeezes his hand. “My handsome, multilingual boyfriend.”
Boyfriend. The word lands between us, casual and monumental all at once. She said it without hesitation, without qualification. Not “whatever we are” or “the guy I’m seeing.” Boyfriend.
Breck catches my eye, and I raise my eyebrows in approval.
Remy notices the exchange. “Too soon? I can take it back.”
“Don’t.” I pull her closer. “Don’t take it back.”
“Good.” She settles against my side. “Because I meant it. You’re my boyfriends. All three of you. Even Ansel, even though we haven’t…” She trails off, a slight flush creeping into her cheeks.
She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
Ansel’s the only one who hasn’t taken her to bed yet—not from lack of wanting, but from lack of opportunity.
Every time they’ve seen each other lately, it has only been for a brief moment.
There’s always a meeting, a crisis, or a plane to catch.
The anticipation is probably killing them both.
As if summoned, my phone buzzes.
Ansel: How did the meeting go?
Me: We got the deal. Remy impressed them by speaking perfect French. Which she’s been hiding from us all week.
Ansel: Of course she has. Send her my congratulations. And tell her I expect a full explanation when you get home.
Me: Will do. How are things in Singapore?
Ansel: Exhausting. But productive. I’ll be home in three days. Take care of her until then.
Me: Always.
I show Remy the messages, and she smiles. “He worries too much.”
“He worries the right amount.” I put my phone back in my pocket. “We all do.”
For our last night in Paris, Breck chooses a restaurant in the Marais. It’s intimate and romantic. The food is exceptional, the wine is better, and Remy is radiant in one of the dresses we bought her.
She’s telling a story about her semester in Montreal, something involving a miscommunication with her host family and accidentally agreeing to cat-sit for a month. Breck is laughing, and I’m watching her animated expression, memorizing this moment.
This is what I want. More of this. More nights where we can just exist together without threats or complications. More moments where Remy’s laughter fills the space between us.
The dinner stretches late into the evening. We’re the last customers, the staff politely hovering but not rushing us. Finally, reluctantly, we settle the bill and head back to the hotel.
Remy is quiet in the car, leaning against my shoulder, her hand in Breck’s. The contentment radiating from her is palpable.
Back at the hotel, she heads to her room to change while Breck and I pour nightcaps in the living area. I’m thinking about joining her when I hear her voice.
“Enzo. Breck. Can you please come here?” Her tone stops me cold. Not scared, but urgent.
We’re at her door in seconds. She’s standing in the middle of the room, still in her dress, staring at her bed. On the pillow—her pillow, the one she slept on last night—is a folded piece of paper.
“Don’t touch it.” I move past her, pulling out my phone to photograph it before carefully unfolding the note with a tissue.
I recognize the handwriting. It’s the same as the first note she received.
“Enjoying Paris? Did you really think you could run from me? That putting an ocean between us would keep you safe? I’ve had eyes on you. Every restaurant, every shop, every moment, you thought you were alone with them. You’re not safe anywhere. And soon, you won’t be safe with anyone.”
See you soon, Remy.
My blood turns to ice. He was here. In this room. While we were at dinner, Trent or someone working for him got past hotel security, past our guards, and past every precaution we took.
Remy is shaking. “Someone was in my room.”
“He’s gone. I’ve got you.” I pull her against me, one arm around her, while I dial Ansel with my free hand.
He answers on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”
“Trent left another note. In Remy’s room at the hotel. Someone got past our security.”
Ansel curses viciously. “Is she okay?”
“She’s scared, but she’s safe. We’re both with her.”
“Keep her there. Don’t leave the room. I’m calling the jet crew now. You need to be on a flight tonight. I don’t care if you have to leave everything behind. Get Remy home where we can protect her properly.”
“Ansel, are you sure that’s necessary?”
“Tonight, Enzo. I want her on that plane in the next two hours. I’ll have a full security team waiting when you land.” He pauses. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Not for a second.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
I end the call and look at Breck, who’s already packing our bags.
Remy is still pressed against me, and her heart is racing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop.” I tip her chin up, making her look at me. “This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. But we need to get you home. Can you pack your things?”
She nods against my chest.
“Good. Breck and I will handle everything else. You focus on getting ready to leave.”
The following two hours are a blur. Packing. Checking out. We drive to the airport with three security vehicles trailing us. Remy stays between Breck and me the entire time, silent and tense.
By the time we’re on the jet, climbing into French airspace, some of the tension has eased. But as I watch Remy curl up between us, her face pale with exhaustion, I make a silent promise.
Stanley Trent made this personal. He violated her space, her safety, and her peace of mind. And when we find him—not if, when—he’s going to regret ever targeting Remy Ray.