He has no idea how right he is.
“Here you go, Madame Quinn,” Amir says now, giving me the key card.
He doesn’t take his hand back right away and our fingers touch for a brief moment. I hate how that makes me feel. I hate that it makes me feel anything at all.
“And if there’s something we can do to make your stay with us more pleasant, please don’t hesitate to ask. My name is Amir.”
He watches me look at his badge again, an excuse to linger.
I thank him once more—always that need to please, good old Taylor that I am—then make my way to the elevator, clutching the key to my honeymoon room, still not quite believing that I’m doing this. As the metal doors close in front of me, trapping me inside this tiny box propelling meupward, a cold fact dawns on me. I’m alone in a foreign city. If anything happens to me, it could be days before I’m found.
But I couldn’t stay home.
I had to get away.
And Paris was my only possible destination.
Chapter 2
Cassie
Now
A squeal escapes my lips when we enter our suite, after I managed to hold myself back throughout the lobby. Thegildedlobby, I should say. It has floor-to-ceiling mirrors, glistening chandeliers so imposing they’d kill whomever was underneath if they collapsed, and thick black carpet, the kind that makes you feel like you’re stepping on clouds. It’s all too much, too expensive, too fancy. Everything I thought I’d never have. Most people only go on their honeymoon once, right? It’s supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. So of course I want to be here. I do. Yeah, I definitely do.
As I take in my home away from home for the next week, I’m glad I let Olivier book our accommodation. There’s a king-sized bed made up in white linen with black trim, monogrammed with the B from the hotel’s name. Fresh white flowers arranged in a tall vase give off a powdery scent that I wish I could capture on my phone. The black velvet armchairs look deep enough to curl up in, and the wooden dresser is so polished I can see myself in it.
Hi, Cassie. Looking good! Maybe a little tired, too, but nothing a filter can’t fix.
On the right, I spot a walk-in closet that seems bigger than my bedroomat home.Our bedroom, I guess. Nope, actually, it’s stillmybedroom. My space. But this, here, is something else. On the left, the door to the bathroom is open enough for me to spot the claw-foot cast-iron tub and a whole lot of marble. Shiny, shiny, shiny.
And there’s more. I walk to the other side of the room, leaving my dear husband behind. Olivier decided to carry both our bags up, even though a porter insisted he’d be happy to take them to our room. I read that in luxury hotels like this, you don’t have to do anything. They can wake you up at a certain hour, recommend and book restaurants, and even organize your whole stay if you want them to. I might want them to, actually. Everything happened so fast and I haven’t had a chance to think about, well, anything.
Even before opening the French doors—is that what they call them over here?—I can already see the Eiffel Tower standing tall in the distance. Frankly, I don’t know why people fuss over a metal sculpture so much. What am I not getting? But I do know this: staying in a hotel suite overlooking Paris’s most recognizable monument means something. Money, glamour, love in the air.
I’d drown in jealousy if I weren’t me. I step out onto the balcony, my phone at the ready. There’s a light breeze in the air, which wakes me up a little. I dozed off on the plane—thanks to the sleeping pills I got for the trip—but the taxi ride over put me back to sleep.
Sounds from the street travel up, mostly cars honking and the hum from the bus that just stopped. Notsoglamorous—I’ll mute the video. I record it all: the big phallic iron thing, of course, but also the perfectly lined-up slate roofs with their cute little chimneys, the creaminess of the facades, and the balconies decorated with perfectly groomed potted plants. Then I turn around, catching my reflection in the spotless glass of the doors, and give a casual wave for the camera, like I feel so normal about being here. Like I’m in my element, when everyone knows that… Nope. They only know what I tell them. What Ishowthem.
When I’m done filming, I immediately hit Play. Even though I’m here, experiencing it live, I can’t help but marvel at how it all looks: thepastel-blue sky above the roofs, the soft glow of Parisian summer, my fresh blond highlights catching the sun, my hairliterallyglowing.
I don’t overthink it on the caption. I think this two-thousand-dollar-a-night view will do all of the explaining.
Honeymoon Day One
Pinch me! ??????
Back inside the room, Olivier is slouched in one of the armchairs, staring at the wall. Not at his phone. At thewall. The bare one.
“You were right,” I say. “This place is perfect.”
Olivier slowly turns to me, like he forgot I was here. “Glad you like it.”
I’ll admit the honeymoon wasn’t exactly part of the plan, but things change. Sometimes you have to shake things up a little.
“Mind if I take a quick video?” I say, already pressing the red button.
“Why would I?”
