47. Rafe
RAFE
We drive to Lausanne the next day.
It’s usually a calm drive, across the Alps, leaving Italy behind for the familiar Swiss street signs and license plates. But this time I have a wife riding in the passenger seat.
What she saw last night… I knew it was a risk, having her in my bed. But I didn’t have a choice. At first. And then, when there was a choice, it felt like her presence kept them away.
Maybe it was knowing I was heading to Switzerland that triggered the memories. The falling snow. Etienne’s screams and me fighting to reach the surface, over and over again, only for more snow to crush me beneath its icy boot.
He never screamed in real life.
But in my dreams, it’s all I hear.
She accepted it in stride. Talked to me and then fell back asleep. I didn’t. I lay awake reading, listening to her breathing, and got out of bed at dawn.
We both work during the drive. I spend the first half hour talking to Karim on the phone, going through the agenda. Paige answers emails. When the car is quiet again, she makes her move.
“And now that I have you here where you can’t escape…” she starts.
I groan.
She laughs and stretches out her legs farther. She’s pushed her seat back as far as it can go, and she’s wearing some form of miniskirt that leaves those long, tanned legs dangerously on display.
I hate how much I like them.
And how much I want to feel them wrapped around me.
“No, don’t,” she says. “I promise this is good. I want to talk to you about the latest Mather & Wilde updates.”
“We talk about it all the time,” I say. “I manage a lot of other heritage brands, too.”
“Yes, but this is your wife’s,” she says, and pulls open her laptop. She never seems to travel anywhere without it.
I can relate.
I look over again. She’s wearing an oversized crisp shirt over that miniskirt of hers. There’s a monogram on the sleeve.
“Wilde,” I say, and reach out to turn it to the side. R. M. “You’re wearing my shirt again.”
“It took you almost an hour to notice,” she says.
“You have a black card you can use, yet you can’t stop stealing. What does that say about you?” I ask.
“That I love bothering you,” she says. “Do you hate it?”
No.
Not even a little bit, and that’s more terrifying than the nightmare last night. The nightmare is familiar. This newfound ease with a woman is not.
Women I’ve dated in the past haven’t seen my nightmares before. I never slept beside them long enough for that. And none of them have ever known about my fighting habit.
You’re not dating her, I remind myself.
I married her. But we’re not a couple.
“You really do hate it, don’t you?” she says, and there’s smugness in her tone. “Well, I’m keeping it on.”
I release her sleeve and look back at the winding road. “You’re the one wearing my initials,” I say, like that’s not the hottest fucking thing ever.
She ignores that and launches into talk about the company’s new brand campaigns instead. Listening to her is easy. I haven’t told her, but she’s damn good at what she does. It’s been clear for weeks that her uncle criminally underused her.
She knows the brand inside and out, the products, the people, the audience.
To my surprise, she’s already spoken to the new acting CEO I appointed, and more than once.
“You get along?” I ask.
“Surprisingly… yes,” she admits. “Don’t tell her I said that. She’s Maison Valmont, so I hate her on principle, but she’s been very good so far.”
That makes my lip curl. “Of course I won’t.”
“I like that she’s getting to know all the employees,” Paige says. “We’re off to a good start.”
We’re nearly at Lausanne when Karim calls again. He got us tickets to an opera premiere tonight. It’s not the primary reason for my visit, but making an appearance will work in our favor.
After hanging up, I look over at Paige. She heard the whole thing. “Feel up for a bit more performance?”
“Will there be photographers there?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I didn’t pack a dress that will work.” Her eyes narrow at me. “You knew this, and—”
I laugh. “Paige, we’ll go shopping. It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”
We end up on Rue du Bourg in Lausanne. Large window displays showcase expensive clothing, including bags, shoes, jewelry.
She watches them all, and I watch her. She mentioned that it’s her first time in Switzerland.
This isn’t the country I grew up in. My father relocated us to Paris when I was five, where he established Maison Valmont’s headquarters.
He’d always been determined to expand beyond what Artemis had given us.
But I’ve never felt French. It’s always been American and Swiss, straddling the line between the two, in this home away from home.
She coughs a few times but brushes me off when I ask if she’s fine. “How does it feel,” she asks me instead, “to know that you own more than half of these brands?”
“I don’t think about it,” I say.
She turns those chocolate eyes on me. “Come on, Rafe.”
“I don’t,” I say. She used my first name. She doesn’t do that too often. “Maison Valmont owns the controlling stake in these companies, not me personally.”
“Oh my God, you’re the king of semantics.”
My lip curves. “Are you calling me King?”
“It’s nothing the media hasn’t already said.”
“I believe the term they like to use is King of Luxury, not semantics, but I’ll take it.”
“Of course you will. You hold court, you know. I’ve seen it.”
“I invite people over for dinner.”
Her brows rise, and there’s a feverish sheen to her eyes. A glint and a smile. “Where they all fight for your favor.”
“They do not.”
“They do,” she says, and nudges my elbow with her own. “You can make or break careers. You’re a tastemaker and a kingmaker.”
“I can’t be a king and a kingmaker.”
“You know what I mean. You can elevate a designer or bring them to their ruin.”
“What is happening right now?” I ask her, and can’t help my hand from landing on her low back. “Is my wife giving me compliments?”
“Only you would see these as compliments,” she says, and there’s a flush to her cheeks.
“You’re free to continue,” I say.
She laughs, the sound genuine, and I wonder if I’m imagining it. Paige and I, sharing a moment of argumentative banter that doesn’t end in a staring contest.
“But I really want to know,” she says. “You own them all. You own sixty percent of the luxury brands on the market. Don’t tell me that’s a compliment again. Tell me how it feels.”
“How it feels?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think of it as ownership,” I say. She’s not going to agree with this, has always made it clear that she thinks our attempts at helping Mather & Wilde was immoral. “I see it more as stewardship.”
“Is there a difference?” she asks.
“Yes.” I gesture to the rows of stores we’re passing.
We have yet to choose one for her dress for tonight.
“They existed before Valmont came into the picture, but many of them were struggling. Artistry and business don’t always mix, and they were drowning under mismanagement, petty family squabbles and poor structure.
We take care of that for them, to ensure their survival.
We make sure the artists and craftsmen stay employed for another generation to enjoy. ”
Paige looks at me with an expression that’s halfway between disbelief and interest. It looks like she barely believes me.
“Speechless?” I ask. “That’s a first.”
“I’m not speechless. I’m voluntarily quiet.”
That makes me laugh. “Right, okay. Call it whatever you want. The way I see it, and the way my father saw it, the modern world could’ve turned away from the history, the craftsmanship, the expensive-but-local.
Handcrafted with the finest materials. We could have left all of that behind in favor of industrial efficiency.
After all, what’s the utility of any Maison Valmont product? ”
“Almost nothing,” she says. “That’s true of all luxury.”
“Yes. Exactly. But instead we said look at this. We elevated it. We made it a status symbol and we made sure those legacy industries survived. We employ artisans who hand-print silk using hundred-year-old techniques. Maybe society can innovate elsewhere. Use screens, streamline, effectivize. But not here. Let us preserve the old ways just a little bit longer. It’s a connection to the past.”
She looks at me like she’s never thought of that before. She nods slowly and wets her lips. “Yes. I can see that. It’s what I believe in, too. It’s also helped you get very, very rich.”
“That,” I say, “is a nice by-product of success.”
She’s not off in her critique. Never has been. It’s just never been the whole truth.
“So, where do you want to look for a dress?” I ask her.
“Why don’t you decide,” she says, “if you have such a vested interest in keeping artistry alive?”
My smile widens. “You think you’re setting me up to fail.”
“I’m testing you. Think you can choose something I’ll like?”
“Debatable, since I can’t dress you in one of my shirts,” I say, “but if you dare me, you know I’ll always say yes.”
“I’m learning that. How much time do we have?”
I glance at my watch. “An hour or so before we need to be at Artemis. And I know the spot. Come.”