Chapter 51
PAIGE
We arrive at the Artemis factory forty minutes behind schedule, with three beautiful dresses in the back of the car.
Rafe doesn’t seem to mind that we’re late, which shocks me almost as much as how good I feel.
There are still residual tingles through my body and I feel warm.
My throat is still a bit sore, but it has been for days.
It’s not like I have the time to be sick.
Rafe parks behind a large stone building. It’s protected by high fences, and it looks nondescript, like it might be an old storage unit. The Artemis logo is nowhere to be seen.
Few people have ever seen the insides of Artemis. It’s one of the world’s most legendary watch brands and has been located in this valley for over a century. Rafe’s father inherited it and turned what it offered into Maison Valmont and a wider luxury empire.
But this? It’s where it started.
I keep tapping my hand against my thigh. He notices, of course. He notices everything. “I thought you’d be calmer after that,” he says.
“It’ll take more than a half-good orgasm to calm me down,” I say. I haven’t been in a factory in weeks. I love ours, and I’m so excited to see this place.
Rafe scoffs. “Half-good, she says. Like I didn’t have to kiss you to quiet the moans. And you came twice.”
“I’m loud. You already know I’m loud.”
“Well aware,” he says. He’s got that crooked smirk on his face, the one that used to drive me insane. It’s becoming hard to remember that.
“I want to make it clear,” I say, “that this makes us even. It didn’t give you an additional point or anything.”
His smile widens. “Again, I’m well aware, Wilde.”
“Good.”
“Great,” he says. He holds the door for me and we walk into a lobby. “As fascinating as this conversation is, we’ll have to table it for now.”
The receptionist welcomes us warmly, and we’re soon joined by a middle-aged woman who is head of the factory. She speaks to Rafe in French, and he answers it in a warm tone.
The next hour is one of the most fascinating of my life.
I feel lightheaded with all the things I see. It’s not a factory floor so much as many large factory rooms. Dozens of craftsmen and craftswomen wearing white robes work at individual stations.
Rafe greets people by their names. In one of the rooms where watches are made, he stops behind a man in round glasses with graying hair.
Opposite him is a woman in her forties, focused intently on a watch.
Both have an array of tools on their workstations.
Micro-screwdrivers, fine-tipped tweezers, miniature brushes and loupes.
“Bonjour, Hugo. ?a va?” Rafe asks. I recognize the words. How are you?
Hugo answers in a warm tone, and soon the entire table is looking up from their work. Rafe talks to them all at the same time.
This place bears such a striking similarity to Mather & Wilde that it makes my heart ache. I’m hit with homesickness, here in a Swiss valley, as far away from the ocean and Gloucester as I can be.
But this place is filled with people who take pride in their work. Filled with expertise, and precision, and friendly conversation.
They’re all polite to me, and curious, judging from the gazes thrown my way while Rafe talks.
Hugo tells me in a thick German accent that he’s trained all his life to do this job.
German, because Switzerland has three official languages, and the master watchmakers here come from every corner of the country.
I worked my way up, Hugo tells me.
When I ask the woman opposite him, Yvette, how long she’s worked here, she tells me that her mother was a master watchmaker too. She’s the second generation working here in Lausanne.
“Your mother worked for Artemis?” I ask.
She smiles. “Yes. Hired by Raphael’s own father.”
I look over at Rafe.
The person he is here is different, yet again. Polished, sure. Competent. But I get the feeling that he likes talking to these people. He likes being here. We’re stewards, not owners, he said. Fanciful words, but maybe there’s a sliver of truth in them too.
After we leave the factory, I walk along a hallway next to meeting rooms. There are pictures on the walls of the charities Artemis supports.
Photographs of one of their watches underwater.
Or the watch in space. A screen on the wall shows a ticking number in the millions.
Below, a small plaque tells me the number is what Artemis has donated this year to nature conservation efforts around the world.
The number is so high it takes me several tries to read it. I use my phone for a quick conversion from francs to dollars.
I know Artemis watches are expensive.
I know this company makes money hand over fist.
But that amount…? Is that the entire profit margin?
I wrap my arms around myself and feel slightly ill at it all. At how wrong I might have been, judging Valmont so quickly and painting Rafe out as the devil. He’s profit driven, yes, but he also gives back, and that’s more than I can say about my uncle.
Mather & Wilde should be committed to helping the oceans, too. Our brand is built on bags made out of the fabric of old sails and leather boat shoes. The ocean is ingrained into the DNA of the brand. It’s in our logo. And yet the profit has gone back to my uncle.
It suddenly feels painfully clear what we could have been with better leadership.
Seeing the ticking number on the wall and the pride in the watchmakers faces has cemented what I’m slowly coming to realize. I might resent needing Maison Valmont in the first place. But now that we’re working together, we’re going to make it a smashing success.
A few whirlwind hours later, we arrive at the opera house. One of the three dresses I never tried on fit, thank God, and it’s a long red number that matches my nail polish.
Rafe says what he so often does: We won’t have to stay long.
And for the first time since I married him, I’m grateful for that.
I’ve enjoyed the parties. Sinking into the buzz they provide and the role I’m expected to play.
The music and the glitz and the glamour provide a place to hide, and I’ve loved it.
But tonight, my feet hurt after only a few minutes in the heels, and my knees feel strangely weak. I wonder if I might have a fever.
After twenty minutes of small talk that I can’t quite follow, Rafe wraps an arm around my waist.
“Are you okay?” he asks in my ear.
I nod. The world spins a tiny bit. “I’m fine.”
“Of course you are, but you’re quiet, and you’re never quiet.”
I stumble. It’s a small movement across the plush carpeting of the waiting area we’re in, but he notices. His arm tightens around me. “You didn’t sneak a few shots in the hotel room, did you?”
I try to glare at him. “No.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No,” I say just as quickly. It’s a reflex. Don’t show weakness. “We have to be photographed together first. For my uncle. And I’ve never seen an opera.”
“One night missed won’t make a difference. And there is opera in Milan.”
I lean into him for support.
“Paige,” he says, and he never says my name. He says Wilde or darling, but almost never Paige. His hand comes up to brush over my forehead, and then around to cup my neck. “You’re burning up.”
“I just feel a bit… odd.” The world is spinning around me, and I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. Like I’m flying and falling at the same time.
“How long have you felt sick?”
“I’m not sick,” I protest, and the world spins a little faster.
“You have a fever.” His voice is displeased. I used to like displeasing him.
My head feels heavy. “No I don’t.”
“Can you stop arguing for once?”
“No.”
“Of course you can’t,” he mutters, and then I’m suddenly airborne. His arm comes beneath my knees and the other behind my back, cradling me against his chest.
A shriek escapes me. “Why are you carrying me?”
“Mind your own business, Paige,” he says.
“Being airborne… is… very much my business.” It’s hard to form words.
“I’m taking care of my wife. Can you let me do that?” He nods to someone, and then a door is opening, and we walk through it. “I can’t have you die on me.”
That makes me laugh. Except it’s not really a laugh. It’s barely a scoff. I don’t have the energy for more. “I would never,” I protest. “You’d win on walkover.”
He mutters something I can’t quite make out and walks out of the building, and though I’d never admit it, I think I’m about to faint.