Chapter 35
ADRIAN
“Close your eyes,” I said as the car slowed.
Elizabeth turned to me with immediate suspicion. “Why?”
“Because I’m asking nicely?” I tried for innocent, but her narrowed eyes told me she wasn’t buying it. “Come on. Trust me.”
“Famous last words.”
I reached over and gently placed my hand over her eyes. “Humor me.”
She sighed but didn’t fight it. “Fine. But if this is some elaborate prank—”
“It’s not a prank. It’s a surprise.” I felt the car come to a complete stop. “Keep them closed.”
I helped her out of the car, one hand still covering her eyes, the other guiding her forward. The sound of rotor blades in the distance was unmistakable, but she hadn’t seemed to notice yet.
“Adrian, where are we?”
“Patience.” I positioned her carefully, then stepped back. “Okay. Open.”
She did.
For a moment, she just stared at the sleek black helicopter sitting on the pad in front of us, its blades beginning their slow rotation. Then her head whipped toward me, eyes wide.
“Is that—are we—” She couldn’t seem to finish a sentence.
“We’re taking a helicopter to the venue.” I watched her face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. “I thought you might enjoy seeing it from the air first.”
“A helicopter.” Her voice had gone up an octave. “We’re getting in a helicopter.”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“A problem? Adrian, I’ve never been in a helicopter. I’ve barely been in a plane until this week!” She was talking fast now, her hands gesturing wildly. “What if it crashes? What if the blades fall off? What if—”
I caught her hands, bringing them to my chest. “Elizabeth. Breathe.”
“I’m breathing. I’m breathing very fast, but I’m breathing.”
“Helicopters are incredibly safe. Statistically safer than driving.” I wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but it sounded reassuring. “And our pilot is former military, has thousands of hours of flight time, and has never had an incident.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
She looked back at the helicopter, then at me, then at the helicopter again. I could practically see her internal debate playing out on her face—terror versus the desire to experience something new.
“You’ll be with me the whole time?” she asked finally.
“The entire time. I’ll even hold your hand if you want.”
“I’m definitely going to want.” She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. “Okay. Let’s do this before I change my mind.”
I loved her bravery. We climbed aboard the luxury helicopter. She squeezed my hand as we lifted off.
The helicopter ride from central Paris to Versailles took twenty minutes. Elizabeth spent nineteen of them with her face pressed against the window like a kid on Christmas morning. Clearly, she was no longer afraid.
Her fear evaporated about two minutes into the ride.
“Is that it?” she asked for the third time, pointing at a chateau in the distance.
“Not yet.” I was watching her more than the view, enjoying her excitement. “Trust me, you’ll know when we get there.”
When the palace finally came into view, Elizabeth actually gasped.
I leaned over and stared at the sprawling complex of gold and cream stone trying to see it through her eyes for the first time.
I took in the geometric perfection of the gardens.
The sheer overwhelming scale of the building was astonishing.
“Oh my God. Adrian. Is that—”
“Versailles,” I confirmed. “That’s where we’re holding tonight’s show.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not even a little bit.”
“But that’s Versailles. You can’t just rent Versailles!”
“You absolutely can. For an astronomical fee, admittedly, but it’s available for private events.” The helicopter began its descent to the designated landing area. “Briggs handled all the permits. Took months of negotiation with the French cultural ministry, but he pulled it off.”
Elizabeth was speechless, which was adorable. By the time we landed and made our way toward the palace proper, she’d recovered enough to start peppering me with questions.
“Where exactly is the show? Inside? In the gardens? Are we allowed to go in all the rooms? Can we see the Hall of Mirrors?”
“Yes to most of that. The show itself is in the Galerie des Batailles. The Hall of Mirrors is technically off-limits tonight because we need it clear for traffic flow, but I might be able to arrange a private viewing.” I took her hand as we walked. “Perks of paying an obscene amount of money.”
“This is insane. You know that, right? Your life is completely insane?”
I smiled. “Most weeks aren’t quite this eventful. You just happened to meet me during Fashion of Love Week. Usually it’s more boardrooms and fewer palaces.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
We found Sebastian and Briggs in what had been transformed into a temporary production office. I imagined it had probably been a sitting room originally. It was now filled with monitors and production equipment and several stressed-looking people in headsets.
Sebastian was slumped in a chair, sunglasses on despite being indoors, holding an espresso like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
It probably was.
“You look terrible,” Elizabeth said cheerfully.
“Good, because that’s how I feel,” Sebastian groaned. “Why did I drink so much champagne last night?”
“Because you’re an idiot,” I supplied helpfully. “Also because you insisted on celebrating your ‘genius vision’ until three in the morning. Two nights in a row. You should have stopped with one night.”
“It was a genius vision. The reviews are calling it revolutionary.”
“They’re calling it scandalous,” Briggs corrected, looking up from his tablet. He was, as always, perfectly put together. with his suit pressed, hair neat, and not a single sign that he’d been up since dawn managing logistics. “But scandalous sells, so I’m not complaining.”
Elizabeth perched on the arm of Sebastian’s chair, poking his shoulder. “How many models did you go home with?”
“I’m a gentleman. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“So at least two,” I translated.
“Three, actually,” Sebastian admitted. “But in my defense, they were very persuasive.”
“You’re a disaster,” Elizabeth said, but she was grinning.
“I’m living my best life.” He peered at her over his sunglasses.
“Why don’t you do one of those hydration IVs?” Elizabeth asked. “I thought that’s what you rich folk did.”
He groaned. “I tried. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one in need of hydration. I didn’t have time to wait until they were available, so I have to do this the peasant way.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Poor you.”
Sebastian moaned. “You two look disgustingly happy this morning. Have a nice night in Paris?”
The way he said it made it clear he knew exactly what kind of night we had.
“It was fine,” I said neutrally.
“Fine,” Sebastian repeated. “Right. Well, your ‘fine’ face is a lot more relaxed than your usual ‘stick up the ass’ face, so I’m guessing dinner went well.”
Briggs cleared his throat. “If you’re done interrogating them about their personal lives, we have a show to finalize. Adrian, Elizabeth. Want to help or just stand around being decorative?”
“What needs doing?” I asked.
“Honestly? Nothing. Everything’s on schedule.” Briggs gestured to his tablet with satisfaction. “Unlike certain brothers.” He looked pointedly at Sebastian. “I actually know how to plan an event.”
“Ouch,” Sebastian muttered.
“With my help,” I reminded him.
He rolled his eyes. “I would have had it under control.”
I would give him that. But we both knew he needed some help. That’s what I was supposed to do.
“I’ll give you the tour,” Briggs said. “I know you’re dying to micromanage me. Elizabeth, I assume you want to see the venue?”
Elizabeth lit up. “Can we? I mean, are we allowed to just walk around Versailles?”
“Within reason,” Briggs said, standing. “Some areas are off limits, but most of the palace is accessible. Come on.”
What followed was two hours of Elizabeth experiencing something close to religious ecstasy.
Briggs led us through gilt-covered rooms with painted ceilings, explaining the history while Elizabeth took in every detail with wide-eyed wonder.
What I loved most is she wasn’t pausing every few seconds to take pictures. She was living in the moment.
“This is where Marie Antoinette had her apartments,” Briggs said at one point. “Obviously highly modified since the Revolution, but some original elements remain.”
Elizabeth moved through the space like she was in a dream, touching nothing but clearly wanting to touch everything. When we reached the Galerie des Batailles—where tonight’s show would take place—she actually stopped breathing for a second.
The room was massive, lined with paintings depicting French military victories. The ceiling soared overhead. Our team had already begun setting up the runway down the center, but even with modern equipment intruding, the space was breathtaking.
“This is where I’m going to watch a fashion show tonight,” Elizabeth said faintly. “In Versailles. This is my actual life.”
“Getting used to it?” I asked, coming up behind her.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.” She turned to face me. “How insane your world is. How much access you have to things normal people only see in guidebooks.”
Sebastian appeared, looking slightly more human after whatever combination of caffeine and aspirin he had consumed.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt the moment, but Elizabeth, Annika’s looking for you. Something about fabric you’ve been waiting on?”
“Oh! Right, I need to start on the dresses.” Elizabeth checked her phone. “We only have two days to make three dresses. I should—”
“Go,” I said. “I need to review technical specs with Briggs anyway. Boring CEO stuff.”
“Take pictures,” she instructed. “Of everything. I want to remember every detail.”
“I’m not taking pictures.”
“Please?” She deployed those green eyes, and I was utterly defenseless against them. “Just a few?”
“Fine. A few.”
“And some with you in them. Selfies.”
I groaned. “Elizabeth—”
“Please? I want to remember you here, in Versailles, before tonight when everything gets crazy again.”
There was something in her voice, almost desperation, that made me agree despite my general policy of avoiding selfies.
“Okay. But you’re doing the actual photo-taking. I refuse to hold the phone.”
What followed was fifteen minutes of Elizabeth dragging me around various rooms, making me pose in increasingly ridiculous locations while she snapped photos.
In front of an enormous painting of Napoleon.
Next to a bust of Louis XIV. Standing in a doorway with gilded molding that was just a little ostentatious.
“One more,” she kept saying. “Just one more.”
But I didn’t mind. Not really. Because she was happy and making her happy had become my favorite thing to do.
We ended up in a small anteroom off the main galleries, less ornate than the other spaces but still beautiful in that particular French way. Elizabeth pulled me close for a final photo, and instead of the usual posed smile, she kissed my cheek just as she hit the button.
“Perfect,” she said, showing me the result.
In the photo, I was caught mid-laugh, her lips against my cheek, both of us looking ridiculously happy. Like people in love, not people pretending.
“Send that to me,” I said.
“Really? The great Adrian Blackwell wants a selfie?”
“That specific selfie, yes.” I pulled her closer. “Because you look beautiful in it. And happy. And I want to remember this.”
“Remember what?”
You, I thought. Us. This moment before everything changes.
“This day,” I said instead. “Paris. Versailles. You forcing me to take tourist photos like a normal person.”
She looked at me and smiled. “You are a normal person.”
I wished that was true.
“I should go find Annika,” Elizabeth said. “Those dresses won’t make themselves.”