Then it’s gone.
My phone buzzes.I step into the corridor to escape the tension and answer.“Hello?”
“Ma chérie,” comes Mémé Ada’s unmistakable voice.“Are you ready for tonight’s soirée?”
I blink.“I’m sorry—what soirée?”
“The Champagne Étoilée Investor Gala,” she says like I should have it circled in red on my nonexistent billionaire social calendar.“It’s a cocktail reception hosted at Villa Lumière.Very private.Very exclusive.Roarke always goes.And tonight, you will be his guest.”
"I wasn't aware I was invited," I say carefully.
"Pah!Of course you are invited.He gets a plus-one, and he has not used it in over a year.This is perfect opportunity to show investors that he is not just cold businessman, but man with...how you say...personal life."
"Mémé Ada, I'm not sure that's appropriate.I'm his employee."
"You are perfect woman for him!And tonight, you will look the part.I am sending help."
Click.
Two hours later, I understand what "sending help" means when three people in identical black outfits board the yacht carrying enough equipment to stock a small salon.
"Miss Rossi?"The woman leading the charge extends a manicured hand."I'm Céline, your stylist for this evening.Mémé Ada has given us very specific instructions."
"There's been a misunderstanding.”I shake my head as they transform the main salon into a beauty station."I'm not attending any event tonight."
"Oh, but you are," Céline says cheerfully, producing a garment bag that probably costs more than my monthly salary."Mémé Ada was very clear.You are to look 'devastating' tonight.Her word, not mine."
I catch Roarke watching the chaos from the upper deck, his expression unreadable.When our eyes meet, he simply nods once and disappears back into his office.
Four hours after that, I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror in a midnight blue dress that hugs every curve I used to be insecure about.My hair gleams in cascading waves, and my eyes look smoky and mysterious and nothing like the exhausted forty-three-year-old in the mirror that I’ve been trying to outrun.
By the time Roarke emerges to escort me, he’s dressed in a dark tux, gray-blue eyes narrowed, his silver-streaked black hair styled just enough to make my pulse fly into my throat.
“You look…” his deep voice falters when he sees me.His gaze drags down, slow and scorching.“…amazing.”
"Your grandmother is very persistent," I reply, smoothing the silk skirt.
"She's many things.Subtle isn't one of them."He offers his arm.“Shall we?”
The Champagne Étoilée is held at Villa Lumière, a private 19th-century estate perched above the bay, its marble terrace gleaming with chandeliers, fountains, and champagne towers that would bankrupt a small nation.
Servers float past with trays of oysters and gold-dusted macarons.
The air smells like brine and earth and wealth.
Meanwhile, Roarke slips effortlessly into business mode.
His broad shoulders squared, perfect poise calibrating.
He talks numbers with investors and strategy with start-up founders, and I nod and sip.And smile.
But he doesn’t look at me.Not once.
Until he does.
And that’s when I see him.
My ex.
