Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MADELINE
There's a mark on my collarbone.
Faint but visible, left by Bastien's mouth sometime in the night. I touch it with trembling fingers, watching my reflection flush in the guest room mirror. I have exactly twelve minutes to become a functioning adult.
I shower until the water turns my skin pink, twist my hair into a bun, dab concealer on the mark until it disappears. The woman in the mirror looks like someone who definitely slept alone last night.
She looks like she's been practicing.
Luc came back Wednesday. Before that there were two days of just us—quiet mornings, Bastien's hands finding me in doorways, whole conversations that went nowhere and didn't need to.
Then Luc's key in the lock, and every morning since we've been two people who happen to live in the same apartment.
Perfectly normal. The nights are a different arrangement, but by breakfast it's as if they didn't happen.
I've gotten disturbingly good at it.
Downstairs, Luc is eating toast and Bastien is pouring coffee like nothing happened. Like he didn't have me pinned against his headboard hours ago, whispering things in French that I'm still translating in my head.
"Oh—and before I forget—" he slides a cup toward me. "The coordination meeting this afternoon? We'll meet at Raphael's new hotel."
My stomach drops. "All three?"
"Yes, the kids too." He meets my eyes. "étienne flew back from Milan early."
"When?"
"Four o'clock." He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes still on me. "Should be interesting."
I'm standing in a private dining room at Raphael's newest hotel, watching Sophie critique the napkin folds while my entire nervous system tries to leave my body.
"The creases aren't symmetrical," Sophie announces, holding up exhibit A. "This one has three folds. That one has four. It's chaos."
"It's linen," Luc says without looking up from his sketchbook. "Nobody cares."
"I care. That's somebody."
Emma leans over to inspect Sophie's napkin. "Can I have the one with four folds? Four is my lucky number."
"You said seven was your lucky number yesterday."
"I changed my mind. That's allowed." She pauses. "Is it allowed?"
"Yes, Emma."
"Okay good because I also changed my mind about wanting a hamster. I want two hamsters. So they're not lonely."
I love these children. I love them so much it hurts. And in approximately ten minutes, their fathers are going to walk through that door and I'm going to have to sit across from all three of them while pretending my body doesn't remember exactly what two of them feel like.
"Madeline?" Emma tugs my sleeve. "You look weird. Are you sick?"
"Just tired, sweetheart."
"Papa says tired is code for stressed. Are you stressed?"
"I'm fine."
"You're making the face Papa makes when he's lying about being fine."
This child is going to be the death of me.
The door opens.
Bastien walks in first, still in the rumpled linen from this morning. His eyes find mine immediately, and the corner of his mouth curves. He takes the seat to my left like it belongs to him.
étienne is next.
I haven't seen him since he sent me away. Since he touched me and then shut down so completely I felt like I'd imagined everything.
He's in a charcoal suit, jaw set, and when his eyes find mine, the room shrinks. Ice blue. Direct. He holds my gaze for one searing second, long enough for my body to remember everything, then looks past me to his phone. Opens his emails. Starts scrolling.
Like I'm not even in the room.
That burns worse than I expected.
He sits directly across from me.
And then Raphael.
He enters last, quieter than the others, in a navy suit that brings out the warmth in his eyes. But today that warmth is different. Still there, still steady, but banked. Held back.
He knows.
Not the details, maybe. But something. I can see it in the careful way he moves, the extra space he leaves between us when he passes my chair. He's always been attuned to people. Of course he noticed. Of course he felt the shift.
"Shall we get started?" He takes the seat at the head of the table, and when he speaks, his voice is lower than usual. Quieter. The kind of quiet that fills a room instead of emptying it. "I know everyone has busy schedules."
What follows is the most excruciating hour of my life.
On the surface, it's perfectly normal. Pickup schedules. Handoff logistics. Which driver is available when. The mundane machinery of co-parenting across three households.
Under the surface, it's a battlefield.
"The rotation schedule seems to have become... flexible." étienne's voice is ice. "Perhaps we should discuss whether the current arrangement is still serving its purpose."
"The arrangement is working beautifully," Bastien says, leaning back. His arm stretches along the back of my chair. "I've had no complaints."
"I'm sure you haven't."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means flexibility seems to benefit some households more than others."
Under the table, Bastien's hand finds my knee. One touch. Deliberate. I don't move away.
"If you have concerns about the schedule," Raphael says, his voice carefully even, "perhaps we should address them directly."
"My concerns are logistical." étienne's jaw tightens. "The children thrive on consistency. If the rotation is being adjusted without proper communication—"
"—The only adjustment was at your request." Bastien's voice goes soft. "Milan, remember? You asked me to take her early."
Take her.
étienne's eyes snap to mine. Blazing. Possessive. My thighs press together under the table.
"Gentlemen." Raphael doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. "The children are in the next room."
Silence.
I watch Raphael as the others retreat to their corners.
He's not performing calm. He is calm. Steady in a way that makes everyone else's sharp edges feel exhausting.
But there's a tension in his forearms where his sleeves are rolled, the cords of muscle visible as his hands rest flat on the table. Controlled. Deliberately so.
I did that. Whatever he's carrying, I put it there.
"The driver schedule for next week," Raphael continues. "Bernard is taking time off. We'll need to coordinate coverage."
"I can handle my own transportation," étienne says flatly.
"As can I." Bastien's thumb traces one circle on my knee, then his hand withdraws. "The question is who handles Madeline's."
A muscle jumps in Raphael's jaw. There and gone.
"We'll sort it out," he says. "Moving on."
The meeting continues. I try to focus on logistics, on calendars, on anything except the three different kinds of tension radiating from three different directions.
"I think that covers everything," Raphael says, closing his tablet. "Unless there's anything else?"
Silence. Then:
"Actually," Raphael adds, his tone carefully neutral, "given that we're here and the children are settled, Emma's been excited about seeing the hotel. It might make sense for Madeline to stay tonight. The rotation shifts to my household tomorrow anyway. This would simplify the logistics."
Bastien goes still beside me.
étienne's eyes narrow.
"I can arrange a suite," Raphael continues, not looking at either of them. "Adjacent to Emma's room, in case she needs anything. If Madeline is comfortable with that."
All three of them look at me.
Raphael's face is patient. Waiting. Giving nothing away. But I can feel it now, underneath the calm. Something deliberate that's been building while I wasn't paying attention.
He's not asking permission from Bastien.
"That's fine," I hear myself say. "If it's easier."
Bastien's hand squeezes my knee once, then releases.
The children pile in from the lounge, full of opinions about dinner. Sophie informs us that the hotel's children's menu is "adequate but uninspired." Emma wants to know if she can live here forever. Luc has opinions about the carpet pattern.
"The children can stay for dinner," Raphael says. "They haven't been together properly in a week."
"I don't eat chicken fingers," Sophie announces. "They're processed."
"They have a salad."
"Is it organic?"
"Sophie."
"Fine." She sighs with the weariness of someone who has been forced to compromise her principles. "But I need the ingredient list."
The fathers drift toward their children. Bastien catches my eye as he passes, something careful in his gaze. étienne doesn't look at me, but I feel his attention on my back as he leaves.
And then Raphael is beside me.
"I'll have the bellman show you up after dinner," he says quietly. "Top floor. The view is worth it."
"Thank you."
He pauses. The steadiness cracks, just for a moment. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. Fast. Like he didn't mean to.
Dinner takes another hour. Sophie negotiates the ingredient list and declares the salad passable. Luc eats two desserts. Emma falls asleep at the table somewhere between the main course and the chocolate mousse, her head drooping onto my shoulder.
One by one the fathers collect their children. Bastien squeezes my hand briefly on his way out. étienne doesn't touch me, doesn't look at me, just lifts a sleeping Sophie from her chair.
Then it's just Raphael, Emma, and me.
He carries her up himself. I follow, watching his broad back in the hallway, the easy way he holds her weight. We settle her in the adjoining room together, tucking the stuffed rabbit under her chin.
"I'll check on you later," he says. "To make sure you have everything you need."
He leaves before I can respond.
Later.
The suite is obscene.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Eiffel Tower glittering against the night sky. The sheets feel like sleeping in clouds.
A handwritten note rests on the pillow:
Make yourself comfortable. –R
I trace his handwriting with my fingertip. Neat but not fussy. Controlled but warm.
Like him.
I shower, change into the silk robe the hotel provides, and pour myself a glass of wine. Stand at the window. The city does its thing—beautiful and indifferent—while my mind refuses to settle.
I don't know what I'm doing. That's the part I can't say out loud.
A knock at the door.
My hand tightens on the wine glass.
Raphael is standing in the hallway, still in his suit from the meeting, but the tie is gone now, collar unbuttoned. He looks tired. Worn. Human in a way he rarely lets anyone see.
My hair is still wet, dampening the shoulders of the robe, and his eyes move over it before coming back to my face.
"I thought you might want to see the rooftop," he says. "The view is worth it."
"I'm not exactly dressed for—"
"You're fine."
"But Emma—"
"The night manager has strict instructions to call me immediately if she wakes. I'll be five minutes away." He holds my gaze. "But she won't wake. She never does, once she's out."
I nod, set the wine glass down and step into the hallway.
The elevator is small. We stand on opposite sides and I watch him in the mirrored walls. He's already watching me. His gaze travels down the silk, unhurried, and when I catch him he holds it.
I look away first.
The floor numbers climb. I'm very aware of the damp silk against my skin, the fact that there is nothing under this robe.
I glance back. He hasn't moved. Still watching, entirely unapologetic.
The doors open. Cool rooftop air rushes in, lifting the hem of the robe, and Raphael extends his hand without looking away from my face.
I take it. His fingers close around mine, warm and certain, and he draws me forward into the dark.