32. Alexander
— ? —
Alexander
The Whitmore Maison anniversary event was exactly the sort of evening I used to dread.
A crowded room of guests, all of them expecting me to perform the role of charming CEO. Small talk that was work. Speeches that required rehearsal. The particular exhaustion of being watched all night by people who wanted a piece of me.
But Sophia was coming with me, and that made everything different.
She’d flown in from Florence that morning, arriving at my apartment with a garment bag over her arm and a suitcase that suggested she was planning to stay for more than just the party.
“I thought I’d spend the weekend,” she said when I raised an eyebrow at the luggage. “Unless you had other plans.”
“My plans involved missing you from across multiple countries. This is significantly better.”
She laughed, and I pulled her into a kiss that lasted longer than strictly necessary given that we had an event to prepare for.
“We’re going to be late,” she said against my mouth.
“I don’t care.”
“You should care. It’s your company’s anniversary.”
“The company will survive if I’m a few minutes late. It survived me taking evenings off. It survived me delegating. It’ll survive me kissing my girlfriend for longer than the schedule allows.”
She pulled back, her eyes bright. “Girlfriend?”
“Is that okay? I realized I’ve been avoiding labels because I wasn’t sure what we were calling this.”
“Girlfriend is more than okay.” She kissed me again. “It’s perfect.”
We got ready together, which turned out to be its own kind of intimacy.
Sophia in my bathroom doing her makeup while I tied my tie in the bedroom mirror.
Her asking my opinion on earrings while I buttoned my shirt.
The domestic normalcy of it, after everything we’d been through, was a grace I hadn’t expected.
Before we left, I caught her in the hallway and kissed her forehead.
She blushed. Actually blushed, her cheeks going pink in a way I hadn’t seen in years.
“Did you just…”
“Kiss your forehead? Yes.” I grinned. “Did that embarrass you?”
“No.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not blushing.”
I kissed her forehead again, slower this time, and watched the color deepen.
“Did you just kiss me twice because you know it embarrasses me?” she demanded.
“Obviously.”
She swatted my arm, but she was smiling, and the ease between us felt significant after the difficult weeks we’d survived.
We’d learned how to fight without destroying each other.
We’d learned how to apologize and mean it.
We’d learned that loving someone meant more than just wanting to be with them.
It meant doing the work to deserve them.
The event was held at the Maison’s headquarters, the same building where we’d met, where we’d worked together, where we’d fallen in love and fallen apart. Walking through the doors with Sophia on my arm closed a circle I’d thought was broken for good.
“You okay?” she asked, squeezing my hand.
“Better than okay.”
“You look nervous.”
“I look like a man who’s about to spend three hours making small talk with people who’ve known me since I was a boy.” I tugged at my cuff, and she reached over and stilled my hand. “Nervous is appropriate.”
“You’ll be fine. You’re good at this.”
“I’m adequate at this. You’re the one who’s actually charming.”
She laughed, and we stepped into the crowd.
The first hour went smoothly. Sophia stayed close, navigating conversations with the ease I’d always admired in her.
She remembered names, asked thoughtful questions, made people feel like they had her full attention.
I watched her work the room and felt a surge of pride that had nothing to do with her being mine.
She was extraordinary. She’d always been extraordinary. I’d just been too focused on other things to notice.
The problems started when people began assuming she was back.
“Sophia, how wonderful to see you at Whitmore again!” An older woman whose name I should have remembered clasped her hands. “We’ve missed you terribly. When are you coming back to us?”
I saw Sophia’s smile tighten slightly. “I’m actually running my own atelier in Florence now. But thank you for the warm welcome.”
“Oh, of course, that little project of yours. But surely now that you and Alexander are back together, you’ll be returning to Paris? It must be so difficult managing a long-distance relationship.”
“It’s not as difficult as you might think. We’re making it work.”
The woman patted her arm with the condescension of someone who’d made certain assumptions and wasn’t interested in having them challenged. “Well, I’m sure you’ll sort it out. It’s just lovely to have you back where you belong.”
Sophia’s jaw tightened, but she kept her composure until the woman wandered off.
“Does everyone think I’m moving back to Paris?” she asked under her breath.
“They might be making assumptions.”
“They definitely are. That’s the third person who’s welcomed me ‘back to Whitmore’ like I’ve been on an extended vacation instead of building an entire career somewhere else.”
“Do you want me to step in?”
“No. I can handle it myself.” She straightened her shoulders. “But I might need to be more direct about correcting people.”
She was, I watched her do it for the rest of the evening, politely but firmly explaining that Florence was her home, that her atelier was her career, that being with me didn’t mean disappearing back into the life she’d left.
Then my mother arrived.
Marguerite swept toward us with the particular grace she reserved for public events, her smile warm but her eyes sharp.
“Alexander. Sophia.” She kissed both our cheeks. “You look lovely together. It’s so good to see you back.”
“Thank you for having me,” Sophia said.
“Of course. You’re family.” Marguerite’s hand lingered on Sophia’s arm. “I’ve been telling everyone how happy we are that you’ve reconciled. I assume you’ll be moving back to Paris soon? It must be exhausting, maintaining the distance.”
I saw Sophia’s shoulders tense. Saw her prepare to deliver the same correction she’d been giving all night. And I saw the moment she noticed me opening my mouth to answer for her.
She shot me a look that stopped me cold.
“Actually, Marguerite, I’m planning to stay in Florence,” she said. “My atelier is there, my clients are there, my life is there. Alexander and I are figuring out how to make a relationship work across distance, but I’m not abandoning the career I’ve built.”
“But surely…”
“It’s not temporary.” Sophia’s voice was firm but kind. “Florence is my home. I’m not visiting Paris because I’m planning to come back. I’m visiting because I want to spend time with Alexander. Those are different things.”
Marguerite looked at me, clearly expecting support. I kept my mouth shut.
“Well,” she said after a moment. “That’s certainly modern of you.”
“It’s practical. We’re both people with careers and lives. Making a relationship work means finding ways to honor both, not asking one person to give up everything they’ve built.”
“Alexander, you’re not going to say anything?”
“I think Sophia’s said it perfectly.” I put my arm around her waist. “She’s built an extraordinary career in Florence. I’m not going to ask her to abandon it just because it would be more convenient for me.”
Marguerite’s expression suggested she had opinions about this, but she was too well-bred to voice them at a company event. She excused herself with promises to catch up later, and I felt Sophia relax beside me.
It should have ended there. It didn’t.
Monsieur Fontaine found us near the champagne, the same Fontaine who had slid a tablet across a conference table three years ago and watched my wife defend herself against a change she never made.
He shook my hand, kissed Sophia’s cheek, and then, with the oblivious cruelty of a man who thinks he’s making conversation, said the thing I had spent three years hoping no one would ever say to her face.
“I’ll admit, we were all relieved when you two sorted things out. After that unpleasantness with her designs, some of us did wonder whether Madame Laurent was quite as steady as everyone had thought.” He chuckled into his glass. “Water under the bridge now, of course.”
I felt Sophia go still beside me. Not hurt. Braced. The particular stillness of a woman who had learned, a long time ago, that this room would always believe the worst of her and call it prudence.
Three years ago I would have smoothed it over.
I would have laughed, changed the subject, walked her away from it and told myself I was protecting her.
That instinct was the whole disease. I had spent our entire marriage managing the discomfort of the people who doubted her instead of ending the doubt.
So I didn’t smooth it over.
“There was no unpleasantness with her designs,” I said.
My voice carried further than I intended, and I let it.
A few nearby conversations thinned into listening.
“There was a woman who wanted my wife’s place badly enough to take it from her.
She went into Sophia’s designs and ruined them, one careful change at a time, so that everyone in this room would do exactly what you just did.
Whisper. Doubt her. Decide the problem was Sophia and not the person standing beside her smiling about it.
I found out who it was a long time ago. It was never Sophia.
It was never anything but a lie told by someone who envied her. ”
Fontaine’s smile curdled. “Alexander, this is hardly the-”