Chapter Twenty #2
"Aria... you're becoming far more than that." He stares back, his eyes searching mine for a moment.
I slide in and then Everett shuts the door and walks around the back of the town car to get in on the other side so that I don't have to scoot over in my dress.
But we don't head in the direction of the airstrip.
I notice after two turns. Then three.
"This isn't the way back to the jet," I say.
He doesn't look at me. "No."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It will be in about four minutes."
I look out the window and watch Paris slide by—the Seine glittering under bridges, the buildings lit gold, the streets still alive with people even this late.
Then the car slows.
And I see it.
The museum.
The one Gabriel mentioned. The private preview that was invitation only and no additional tickets were given out. The one with the painter I've studied since I was nineteen and thought I'd never see in person.
The building is dark.
It's no longer open. Not lit up with the preview party I missed hours ago. But there are two staff members standing at the entrance. Waiting.
The car stops.
I turn to Everett.
He's already watching me.
"Pierre has a friend on the board," he says quietly. "I asked."
My mouth gapes open for a moment.
"This is the deal you made..." I say, because it's not a question.
He bartered for something with Pierre to get me this. He gave up something so I could have this tonight.
"It's closed," he continues. "The event ended two hours ago. But the pieces are still up. And they'll stay for us as long as we want."
I stare at him.
At this man who didn't tell me it was his birthday but arranged a private museum showing because I mentioned once, in passing, to someone else, that I wanted to go.
Everett Kauffman: Billionaire heir, savage business negotiator... the same man who has been working on this deal for five years gave up something in the negotiations in order to give me one night.
"Everett."
"You don't have to say anything or thank me."
"Please don't do that," I say, and my voice comes out shaky in a way I don't bother hiding. "Don't minimize what you did for me."
He goes quiet.
I lean across the seat and press my mouth to his cheek. Soft and slow. Feeling the warmth of his skin and the slight roughness at his jaw and the way he holds perfectly still like he doesn't trust himself to move.
"Thank you," I whisper.
Then I pull back, open the car door, and step out into the Paris night before I say anything else I’m not ready to take back. Everett is there quickly, a hand out to help me up the stairs of the museum.
The museum is silent when we walk in.
It's not an empty-silent. It's a sacred-silent. The kind of quiet that only happens in spaces built to hold beautiful things after all the people have gone home.
Our footsteps echo on marble floors. The lighting is low which makes everything feel intimate and private and slightly unreal. A guard trails us at a distance. One attendant offered to walk us through but Everett declined with a nod.
Just us.
In a museum.
In Paris.
At midnight.
If I ever wanted to know what Cinderella felt like, it was probably something like this.
I stop in front of the first piece and forget how to breathe.
It's a Cézanne.
It's not a print or reproduction like I've seen.
This is the actual painting, right there, close enough to touch if I were insane enough to try.
The brushwork is visible and gorgeous. The texture is alive as if it was just set days ago, not years.
Colors I've studied in books for years glowing under the soft lights in ways no photograph has ever captured.
I press my fingers to my mouth.
Everett stands beside me. Silently like he's assessing everything the way he does, but I feel his eyes on me, not the painting.
Looking at me.
I can feel it.
But turning to catch him in the act now isn't an option. It could break something free that I'm not sure either of us are ready for. Something that could put our entire agreement at jeopardy.
We move through the rooms slowly. Room after room.
Piece after piece. Impressionists I worshipped as a teenager.
Post-impressionists who changed how I understood color.
A Morisot I've only ever seen online. A Cassatt that makes my eyes sting because my mother had a print of it hanging in our kitchen and I never thought I'd see the real thing.
I stand in front of it for a long time.
Everett doesn't rush me.
Doesn't check his phone.
Doesn't shift or cough or look anywhere else.
He just waits.
Like he understands that what's happening inside me right now is bigger than anything he could interrupt with words.
At one point, in a room full of Monets, I turn to him.
"How did you know?" I ask. "That I wanted to see this."
"Gabriel mentioned it." His hands are in his pockets. His expression is steady. "You mentioned it. Your face did the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing it does when you want something and decide not to ask for it."
He noticed. Of course he did.
The wanting I tried to smooth away before it became inconvenient. He saw it anyway and found a way to make something impossible, possible, at the expense of a bartering chip with Pierre. He did this for me, and for no other reason.
This isn't some purchased gift wrapped in ribbon or delivered by an assistant. This is access to beauty.
The thing I lost. The thing I've been slowly finding my way back to in Cannes with paint on my fingers and the sea in front of me.
He gave it back.
I don't say anything.
I don't trust my voice.
Instead I slide my hand into his—his fingers warm and steady when they close around mine—and we keep walking through the museum in silence, hand in hand, while Paris sleeps outside and the paintings watch us move through their rooms like we belong there.
By the time we're back in the car, I press my hand against my sternum without thinking.
The jet is warm and waiting when we arrive at the airstrip.
I climb the stairs on slightly unsteady legs though Everett is behind me, as if always here to catch me if I stumble.
The champagne and emotion and the still-buzzing feeling of standing in front of masterpieces at midnight with a man who noticed me wanting things I wouldn't ask for.
We settle in.
The engines hum to life.
And then, once we're in the air and the lights of Paris are falling away beneath us, I turn to him.
"It's your birthday."
He looks up from the glass of whiskey he's barely touched. "It is."
"You didn't tell me."
"I don't do birthdays."
"Everyone does birthdays."
His mouth twitches without any real humor in it. "It's a little different when every milestone birthday you've ever had was someone else's payday."
I go still.
He takes a sip. Sets the glass down. In normal Everett style, he doesn't elaborate... but he doesn't need to.
I already know about his mother. About the payouts and the milestones that weren't celebrations but transactions. Every birthday, and every accomplishment was less about him and more about what she stood to gain from him reaching the next mark.
Of course he doesn't do birthdays.
Of course he didn't tell me.
I stand up.
His eyes follow me as I move across the cabin.
I stop in front of him. He's slouched against the seat—jacket off, shirt open at the collar, the edge of the sunburn still visible above the white fabric. His legs are spread slightly, his arm resting along the back of the seat, his whiskey abandoned beside him.
He looks up at me with an expression of slight confusion. He hasn't already calculated my next move. That's a first and there's a little thrill that runs through me that he doesn't know what's going to happen next
"What are you doing?" he asks.
I reach for the buttons of my dress. The zipper at the side. I pull it down slowly and let the fabric slide off my shoulders, down my arms, past my hips. It pools at my feet in a puddle of black silk.
Underneath I'm wearing nothing but the lingerie Lana packed. It’s black and lace… and completely see-through.
His hands tighten on the armrest, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip.
"Aria."
"You just gave me one of the most incredible nights of my life," I say.
I unclip the bra and let it fall to the ground, pushing down my panties next, until I'm completely naked.
"You arranged a private showing of paintings I never thought I'd see in person. You gave me back something I thought grief took from me permanently." I step closer. Between his knees. "And now I want to give you something back."
His jaw clenches. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." I lower myself onto his lap, one knee on either side of his hips, my hands settling on his shoulders. "I want to."
His hands come to my waist automatically. Warm and large and steadying. Everything about Everett's hands on my body feels right.
"What do you want for your birthday?" I ask softly.
His eyes move over my face. Down to my naked body and then back up.
"You," he says. Just like that. Just the raw, stripped-back truth.
I lean in and kiss him.
Slow at first. My hands frame his jaw, tilting his head back, controlling the angle in a way I haven't before. Every other time we've done this, he's been driving—Leading. Taking and giving.
Not tonight.
Tonight he gave me something priceless. Something no one has ever given me and something no one will ever be able to replicate. He gave me back a dream. He gave me back inspiration.
Tonight I want to give it back.
His hands tighten on my waist when I roll my hips against him. Even through his suit pants I can feel how hard he is already—thick and straining against the fabric. Knowledge that I do that, that this is for me, sends a hot pulse of want straight through my center.