Chapter Twenty
ARIA
Flying to Paris for dinner is not a normal sentence.
I keep reminding myself of this as the jet lifts off from the private airstrip outside Cannes and banks northwest. As Everett sits across from me in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was sewn directly onto his body.
As I smooth the skirt of the black dress Everly packed—floor-length, backless, simple enough to look expensive and devastating enough to look intentional.
We are flying to Paris for dinner.
Like people do.
Like this is our life now.
Everett's sunburn is still visible at the collar of his shirt—the angry pink edge creeping above the white fabric like evidence of yesterday's disaster.
He hasn't mentioned it. I haven't mentioned it.
We are both pretending that yesterday didn't happen, just like we're pretending the night before didn't happen, just like we're pretending this entire week hasn't slowly dismantled every boundary we set.
The flight is short.
Less than two hours, and I'm sure he'll work for most of it.
I watch the French countryside unroll below us. Patchwork of green and gold, rivers catching the fading light, and try to remember that tonight is about business. Pierre's football club that Everett has been trying to buy for years. Now I get to play a part in making that happen for him.
After we land and exit the jet to a waiting town car, I try not to think too hard about the way Everett's hand rests on my lower back as he helps me into the car.
I try not to blush and bite my lip when I catch his eyes tracking the length of me in this dress and then looking away as if he's worried that if he doesn't, he might do something to me in the back of the car that might make us late for dinner.
Focus, Aria. Besides, Everett is too laser-focused and driven to let one little wife in the back of the town car distract him tonight.
Paris greets us with traffic and golden evening light and effortless grandeur that makes every other city feel like it’s trying too hard.
The restaurant is tucked behind an unmarked door on a narrow street in the 8th Arrondissement—the kind of place that doesn't need a sign because the people who eat here already know where it is.
Pierre and Margaux are already seated when we arrive.
Pierre stands immediately when he sees us. His silver hair perfectly brushed back into place, a suit perfectly tailored, just like Everett.
"Everett." He clasps Everett's hand with both of his, then turns to me. "And the beautiful bride. Aria, you are even lovelier than I remember."
"Careful," Margaux says from behind him, rising with a warm smile. "Your wife is right here."
She kisses both my cheeks in greeting, her perfume something rich and floral. I don't know the fragrance. "Ignore him. He flirts with everyone. It's genetic."
"It's French," Pierre corrects.
"It's annoying," Margaux says, but the tone is teasing.
I like her all over again and it's nice to feel back into a place where Everett and I both feel represented in the same social circle. Just like at La Maison Aurelle.
Dinner unfolds in courses so small and beautiful I feel guilty eating them.
Pierre dominates the conversation with charm and strategy.
He asks about Kauffman Holdings' vision, about the club, about what Everett sees for the future of sports ownership in Europe.
He's testing both Everett's knowledge and his intentions with the team.
It's also obvious that Pierre likes being courted and I can see in the way that Everett answers each question, that he understands this too.
Everett handles it like a pro... like he was born for this role. And maybe he was.
Margaux and I talk in the spaces between—about Cannes, about art, about the light on the Riviera this time of year. She asks about the honeymoon with a knowing smile that makes my cheeks warm.
"You look happy," she says simply. "Both of you."
"We are," I say.
It's not a lie, but it's not the entire truth either.
And then I shift a glance at him, to find Everett watching me, waiting to hear my answer as if he was just as curious for my answer as she was.
Halfway through the main course, Pierre lifts his wine glass.
"A toast," he says. "To new partnerships. To beautiful women who make their husbands look far more interesting than they deserve." A pointed look at Everett. "And to birthdays."
He clinks his glass against Everett's.
"Joyeux anniversaire, mon ami."
The world tilts.
Birthday. It's his birthday. Not that he told me exactly but with the trust deadline for him to be married and everything, I should have known it was today.
I keep my face still through sheer force of will.
My eyes cut to Everett, who accepts the toast with a small nod and absolutely no indication that he cares one way or the other if his wife remembered it or not.
Still Pierre knew... and I didn't even wish him a happy birthday this morning. The very bare minimum I could have done.
He catches my gaze across the table. Holds it for one beat.
His gaze drops, then comes back. Not guilt, exactly. More like the quiet awareness that I've just found out and he knows the conversation that's coming later.
I smile. Lift my glass. Play the part.
"Happy birthday," I say, and my voice sounds normal even though my brain is screaming at me that I'm in the most romantic city in the world, on my honeymoon, with my husband, who didn't even bother to tell me that today is his birthday... and we're spending it in a business meeting.
This is, by far, the most "Everett Kauffman" thing he has ever done.
The rest of dinner continues around me while I sit with this new information like a stone in my stomach I can't digest.
He didn't tell me.
We've been sharing a bed. Sharing a villa. Sharing a life, however temporary. And he didn't mention that today—the day we flew to Paris for dinner—was his birthday.
Why not?
After dinner, the table splits naturally.
Pierre invites Everett outside for cigars and scotch to discuss terms. Margaux orders us another glass of champagne and leans back in her chair with the satisfied air of a woman who has been through enough business dinners to know when to let the men think they're being important.
Now, with Everett away from the table, Margaux turns back to speaking French since my French is better than her English and I'm always happy to get more practice to improve it.
Speaking French makes me feel closer to my mother. And today, she feels closer than she has in so long.
"So," she says once they've disappeared. "Tell me how it really is."
I blink. "How what really is?"
"Marriage." She smiles. "To a man like that."
I take a sip of champagne and consider my answer carefully. "Surprising."
Her eyebrows lift.
"He's not what I expected," I say. "In good ways. In confusing ways."
She nods slowly, turning her glass by the stem.
"Pierre was the same. All business on the outside.
All feeling underneath. It took me years to learn the difference between what he said and what he meant.
" She looks at me with something warm and knowing.
"Yours won't take years. I can see the way he looks at you. "
My chest tightens.
"How does he look at me?"
"As if you're the only thing in the room he doesn't know how to acquire.
" She laughs softly. "That terrifies men like them.
Things they can't strategize their way into owning.
You're a commodity that they can't secure, which means you could disappear.
.. slip through their fingers and they can't do anything about it. "
"But I'm not trying to slip through his fingers or disappear. I'm right here."
"I know that, and you know that, but Everett and Pierre grew up quite similarly the way I understand it from Pierre. They both grew up in emotionally stunted homes with transactional relationships from the two people who should have offered unconditional love—their parents."
I don't know the way Pierre grew up but from the little bit of information I've gotten from Everett about his mother, and from the information I know about his father, she's right about Everett's childhood.
"I'm not asking for a transactional relationship," I say, but I guess that's not completely true. It is, after all, how this started. "I just don't know how to break through to him. All he does is work."
"Then give him a better reason not to," she says, pulling her wine glass up to her lips with a lifted brow and then takes a sip.
I don't know what to say to that.
So I drink my champagne and let the words settle.
Pierre and Everett return not long after—Pierre looking pleased and it has me wondering if the deal has finally been agreed to. Everett remains unreadable as usual.
His hand finds my back when he reaches the table. His thumb traces one small circle against my bare skin before settling.
"Are you ready?" he says.
"For what?"
"We have one more stop before we head back." Then he turns back to Pierre and shakes his hand. "Thanks again for making the call."
"Don't thank me. You made me a deal I couldn't refuse, and I hope you two enjoy yourselves."
Everett helps me with my wrap, says goodnight to Pierre and Margaux, and guides me out of the restaurant into the cool Paris night.
"What call did Pierre make?" I ask. "What deal did you make?"
The car is waiting when we exit the restaurant. Everett waves off the driver and opens the door for me first. "I agreed to keep on the administrative staff for all of next year before any restructuring."
I feel a smile break past my lips. "You got the team."
"I got the team... partly because of you."
"Because of me?"
"A man who loves his wife is willing to make deals to make her happy," he says. "Margaux likes you, which is the only reason Pierre agreed to sit down and hear my pitch."
"Turns out I'm becoming more of an asset than you anticipated," I gleam with pride.