CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
Tessa
I GLANCE AROUND the dining room of La Tour d’Argent. The simple ivory-colored tablecloths and caned chairs keep the focus on the food and the view outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Seine River curves through Paris, a dark blue ribbon dotted with boats. The towers of Notre Dame are backlit by the sun sinking toward the horizon.
The kind of restaurant one would take a date.
My eyes flicker to Rafe, who’s seated across from me perusing the menu. Once I would have given anything to be on a date with him. The man who captured my imagination as a child with his dark intensity. Who transformed into an unattainable, romantic hero during my teenage years.
The man I fell into what I thought was love simply because he was the only man who ever noticed me.
The ache in my chest grows as Rafe’s eyes cut to me. I know what he’s doing; evaluating me, trying to see if there’s any chink in my armor he can use to his advantage. Why he wants me to stay, I have no idea. It’s certainly not because he wants me . I’m not going down the road again of thinking hope and love can conquer all, at least where Rafael Drakos is concerned. That dream died the night of our wedding when I overheard exactly what he thought of me and our arranged marriage.
The events of the last hour have taken their toll. Exhaustion pulls at me. Sharp pricks of pain shoot up my calves. Nothing I haven’t faced before, but it’s more challenging tonight. Going to physical therapy this morning and then using my crutches tonight, coupled with the psychological stress of having my soon-to-be ex-husband unexpectedly show up outside my door, has taken its toll.
Still, I force myself to sit up straight, to casually raise my glass of wine and take a modest drink of my rosé. I’ve gotten much more comfortable asserting myself and telling people around me what I need. But I refuse to be vulnerable with Rafe.
I stare out the window at a tourist boat drifting down the river. This restaurant was on my list of places to try this summer. But instead of reading over the menu or enjoying the sight of Paris at night, my awareness is laser-focused on him.
Am I aching because I’m nervous of why he’s here? Why he’s finally sought me out after all this time when he barely said two words to me at his brother’s wedding? Or is it because a part of me wants to cling to him, to what I thought our future could be, even though I know I have to let go?
“How are you enjoying Paris?”
Irritation pierces my melancholy thoughts. “As much as I appreciate the attempt at small talk, let’s not pretend, Rafe. You invited me to dinner to discuss our arrangement.”
He tilts his head to the side, that smile still on his face. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. No, this is classic Rafe: calm, cold, calculated. He has a reason for being here, and it’s not me.
The ache deepens.
“I don’t recall you being so direct.”
“I’ve changed a lot.”
“I noticed.”
His eyes darken as his gaze sweeps down over my bare shoulders. I freeze. Tension charges the air between us as his eyes rest on my breasts, then travel over my arm to where my fingers are wrapped around the stem of my wineglass.
Then his gaze snaps back to mine. God, I feel pathetic. There’s no warmth in his stare, no fleeting hint of desire. There’s just ice.
“You’re here because of the divorce papers.”
“I am.”
The waiter appears with Rafe’s bourbon and a plate of artfully arranged brioche toast points covered in ricotta cheese and topped with spring peas and bacon, all resting on sprigs of rosemary. I focus on the art of the food, the relaxing aromatic scent of the herbs that reminds me of walking through the ancient forest of Fontainebleau with Katie that first month. Nothing but soaring trees, sandstone boulders, and the calming scent of pine as I’d relished my newfound freedom.
Better to think of that than linger on the fact that Rafe and I are officially enjoying our first meal as husband and wife. I barely ate anything at our sham of a wedding reception. I was too sick to my stomach, too heartbroken at what I’d overheard, to eat anything.
Calm. I serve myself a piece of brioche and bite down, savoring the flavors with a quiet hum of appreciation.
“I received your petition for divorce.”
I swallow too fast and cough. Rafe presses a glass of water into my hands.
“And?” I finally say after I clear my throat and barely resist glaring at him.
“You truly want a divorce?”
“I wouldn’t have sent the papers otherwise.”
He stares at me for so long I know he’s testing me. Using his legendary ability to stay silent to get me to talk. To reveal something that will unveil an elaborate plot.
But there is no plot. Nothing sinister. When Rafe proposed to me, he told me upfront it was a business arrangement. He wanted the real estate firm my father had inherited after the unexpected deaths of my grandfather and aunt the year prior. A firm that had been in our family for over fifty years, hence my father’s reluctance to sell even if it meant hanging on to something that could ruin him.
My lips twitch. Apparently holding on to things that aren’t good for us runs in the family.
I set the water glass down and resume eating, ignoring Rafe’s hard gaze. I knew what he was offering when I said yes. I latched on to the lifeline he had offered with both hands, as someone drowning grabs on to a life preserver without bothering to see who’s towing them to shore. Entertained some idiotic notion that, over time, he might come to feel something more and that, in the interim, I could be happy with the unique friendship we’d developed over the years.
Until our wedding night. Until that horrible moment when I’d passed by the library during the cocktail hour and overheard Rafe and his father talking. Realized that whatever fairy tales I had concocted were just that: fiction.
Yet it was also the last tie, the last thing tethering me to my past, to my own fears and doubts. I’d gone back to my room, packed my bags, and even arranged my own transportation back to Santorini with a staff member who was thankfully discreet. Each move away from my old life had been like shedding a shackle, the weights dropping off the farther I went. It helped temper the dull throb of a heartache years in the making.
Coming to Paris was the first thing I’ve truly done on my own. I spent the majority of the last four months building a new life, one where I depend on no one but myself.
I have my sister, Katie, of course, and a few friends I’ve made. I have my own apartment that’s half the size of the bedroom Rafe had designated for me at his villa. I wake up every morning excited to face a new day and see what it brings instead of knowing the exact schedule of every waking moment. A schedule created by an overprotective mother who cared more about keeping me safe than letting me potentially fail.
I also have Tessa’s Interiors. My heart swells as I repeat the name in my mind. My own interior design firm. It’s already growing faster than I expected. Out of my first three clients, two are accessible design clients. The kind of projects I had hoped to specialize in one day, never anticipating I would get to try my hand at them so quickly. Combining my love of design with creating functional spaces that represent my clients is a dream come true.
In Paris, I’m not dependent on others for my own happiness. I’m making my own. And I’m not about to surrender that to my so-called husband.
“Do your parents know?”
Irritation makes the pain in my calves dig deeper as a hard ball settles in my stomach. I’m twenty-eight years old. I don’t need my parents’ permission to live my life.
“I haven’t told them, no.”
“Have you talked to them since you left?”
I drop the piece of toast I just picked up and sit back with a sigh. “No, I haven’t.” I don’t mention how my mother blew up my phone the first week after I left, leaving dozens of voicemails and hundreds of text messages until I changed my number. “Contrary to what everyone back on Santorini believes, I’m an adult. I have my own place, my own business and my own money to keep me going until my company is more secure.”
“That would be the trust fund left to you by your mother’s mother.”
Of course he knows every detail of my life. “Yes.”
He cocks his head to one side as he raises his glass to his lips. “A rather small amount.”
I don’t bother to hide my snort. “Two million euros would mean a lot to almost anyone else in the world. And the interest is enough for me to live on, even without my business, for decades if I live within my means.”
“You could have more.”
I curl my fingers into a fist. “You can’t offer me what I want.”
His brows knit together. “I’m one of the wealthiest men in the world. Of course I can.”
God, Gavriil was right. His older brother is truly incapable of seeing anything but facts and dollar signs.
Too late, I realize I said the first part out loud. Heat floods my cheeks. “I…”
“What was Gavriil right about?”
Rafe’s voice is silky, just as smooth as the bourbon in his glass as he holds it up to the light. Nervousness makes my throat dry. I grab my rosé and take a long drink as I mentally prepare myself for what needs to be said.
“That you only care about Drakos Development.”
One corner of Rafe’s mouth quirks. “Care is a strong word.”
“Regardless, there’s no room for anything else in your life.” I pause, fight past the resurgence of pain I tried to bury four months ago. “Including a wife and children.”
His eyes snap to mine, that pale blue swirl of ice and mystery that enticed me when I was young and stupid. That lingered in my heart after the quiet conversations he engaged me in at the dinners, galas and fundraisers our families attended.
That I mistook for something more than business.
“The contract clearly states—”
“I know what it states.” I try to keep my tone even, my voice steady as I fight against the demons I thought I had conquered. The ones urging me to just accept what was already offered, including a loveless marriage with a strict no-children clause.
“I’ve changed my mind, Rafe.”
His blink is the only outward sign he’s heard me. “You signed, Tessa.”
“I did.” For all the wrong reasons. “But I’ve changed my mind. Living in Paris has opened my eyes to what’s possible for me when I’m not locked up on Santorini.”
The flash of fury is unexpected. He leans forward, his gaze fierce. “Locked up?”
A shiver creeps down my spine at the lethalness underlying those two words.
“Figure of speech,” I murmur.
Just like that, the anger is gone, replaced by that aloofness no one can break. Did I imagine it? Am I still so desperate for some sliver of his attention that I’m spinning stories in my head?
He sits back, picks up his bourbon again. “Care to elaborate?”
The waiter comes by with another glass of rosé. Normally I stick to two glasses for an entire meal. But tonight seems like the perfect night to throw those rules out the window. I drain the last of my first glass and hand it to the waiter, deciding how much I want to share.
A shudder passes through me as I remember how involved my mother was with my care. Involved doesn’t begin to scratch the surface of what I’ve come to realize was an unhealthy obsession, a role she poured herself into until there was nothing else. Caring for me was her entire identity. One I didn’t fight for the longest time because I wanted to keep the peace, even if it meant sitting off to the side and watching life pass me by.
But it wasn’t just some altruistic form of guilt that kept me tethered to my former life for so long. There was also the fear. Even on the days I felt trapped, the alternative of making my own way was overwhelming. Frightening.
My stomach rolls just thinking about my past fragility.
“My parents found it hard to let me live my own life,” I finally say. “My mother carried a lot of guilt over my accident. I did, too, so I tried to keep the peace for a long time.” I shrug. “Then one day I realized I was unhappy with letting them make most of my choices.”
There’s no point in telling him about my mother dissolving into a fit of screaming hysterics at the thought of me traveling to Paris alone last year to visit my sister, an incident that resulted in me canceling my trip to make her stop and assuage my own remorse for even attempting something without her. It also dragged a deeply rooted resentment to the surface where I could no longer ignore it. My mother may have started out with good intentions with her obsessive control. But at some point she had become unhealthily fixated on her mission of keeping me shielded from any further harm.
Shielded and protected. Smothered and imprisoned.
My eyes flick to the glittering spire of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. After sunset, the tower lights up, a glimmering beacon every hour on the hour until midnight. Even though I can see the tower from my attic apartment, I’m constantly seeking it out. Some call it cliché, others boring or the most overrated landmark.
To me, it’s beautiful. A symbol of adventure and romance, of new beginnings and timelessness. It may have taken some horrible circumstances to force me to do something with my life.
But I did it.
“So my proposal came at an opportune time.”
I tap one finger against the base of my wineglass. Rafe won’t understand emotions. But intelligence, shrewdness? Those are qualities he respects.
“Yes.”
Another blink. “I see.”
Damn it, why do I feel guilty when he says that? Why does it matter one whit given that he married me for the company my father inherited after my grandfather and aunt passed away in a car accident earlier this year?
“So once you had your freedom from your parents, you left.”
“Yes.” A bald-faced lie. I left because I heard him telling his father the only reason he married me was to get his hands on my father’s firm. The company Rafe’s father, Lucifer, had tried to buy numerous times from my grandfather. A point Rafe made with a cold, cruel smugness that had stabbed me straight through my na?ve heart.
My marriage, this potentially grand love affair I’d concocted in my adolescence, wasn’t just a business arrangement. It was revenge, all to one-up the man Rafe and Gavriil both hated.
I’d known I was nothing more than a means to an end. But to hear it stated in such callous terms, to realize revenge was more important than what I had thought was at least a friendship, had killed the girl I used to be.
But, I reminded myself as a couple passes by, the man’s arm wrapped possessively about the woman’s waist as he places a gentle kiss on her forehead, it was a good thing I overheard everything. Who knows how long I may have clung to the idea that our relationship could change? How long I would have gone without realizing all the other things that could be?
“You want children now?”
I look away from him. It’s too painful to look into his eyes. To remember how I once used to dream about a child with his eyes when my dreams were an escape. Before a doctor told me those dreams could be a reality.
If I’d needed any other sign that I needed to end my marriage, that had been it. I’d contacted the judge the next day.
“I’ve always wanted them.” A smile tugs at my lips as I remember the moment my new doctor finally answered the question I’d avoided asking for so long. “I just didn’t think I could for the longest time. Katie said a doctor told my mom I probably wouldn’t be able to have kids right after my accident. But my current doctor says I can.” Giddiness bubbles in my chest. “There have been a lot of advancements since my accident.”
“Why did your mother not follow up with a doctor sooner?”
My smile turns sad. “Because my mother and I are, or at least were, a lot alike. Not knowing the answer and living in her little bubble was safer than having her worst fears confirmed.”
Although it crossed my mind that maybe my mother hadn’t pursued anything because it made it easier to keep me by her side, to pretend like I would always need her. The only reason she agreed to my marriage to Rafe was because my father put his foot down for the first and only time.
The two things that seem to motivate my parents: money and guilt. I will break that pattern, starting now. I’m not touching the bank account Rafe set up in my name. And I’m not letting guilt keep me tied to a marriage I no longer want.
The sounds from the restaurant amplify as silence falls between us. Cutlery clinking on porcelain plates. The rise and fall of voices as several different languages drift on the air. The quiet creak of a chair as someone shifts in their seat.
And the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my throat so hard it hurts.
“That is your only reason for asking for a divorce?”
Not even close. “Yes.” I swallow against the discomfort of lying. “There’s no one else. I’m not trying to alter yours and my father’s agreement in any way, although from what I can tell the sale is final. Nothing can change that.”
“No,” Rafe agrees.
“The only timeline in there was the two years before we were allowed to…” Bile rises in my throat. When I’d read the clause about no affairs for two years, I’d framed it as having two years to show him how much I loved him. I want to shake some sense into the woman I was. “So there’s no reason for us to continue on. I’m invoking the provision allowing one of us to change their minds, especially if their future wishes no longer align with the other party’s.”
More silence. Long seconds that stretch out into what feels like an eternity as I face down the man I thought I’d be with forever. The man I thought might be able to fall in love with me.
Idiot.
“I’ll sign.”
I breathe out. It hurts, how easily he can let us go. But it’s just another reminder I never should have agreed to this in the first place. And at least there’s relief in knowing this will be over soon. That I will finally be able to move on and embrace my future.
“Thank you.”
“On one condition.”
Apprehension pricks the back of my neck. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. “Oh?”
“The divorce won’t be finalized until after our first anniversary.”