“It’s my pleasure,” the flight attendant says. “I’ll leave the appetizers on the table. Let me know when you’re ready for dinner.”
With a smile, she turns on her heel.
I lift my glass. “Here’s to Paris!”
“I second that,” Michaela says.
“And here’s to my father-in-law and his unbendable demands,” I say.
Something unreadable veils Michaela’s eyes.
“What is it, hellion?” I brace myself.
“I won at the lottery.” Her eyes well up. “You’re a good man, Phoenix König.” She blinks the tears back, but one rolls down her cheek. She wipes it away with the back of her hand.
I reach out and squeeze her knee for comfort.
For a few long breaths, we stare at each other.
No words are needed.
After this morning’s meeting, Michaela was pretty shaken up by my revelations. She’s grateful she’s not indebted to an evil psychopathic asshole without a conscience. Her father would’ve laid his life on the line to make sure she didn’t end up as Ripley Madigan’s property.
My need to protect her is stronger now than it was when I gave Niels my word.
I fight for what’s mine.
“Five glorious days in Paris,” Michaela says, breaking the silence.
I lean in. “I wish we could stay longer, but there’s too much going on in LA, and you know this is kind of last-minute.”
“I haven’t been to Paris in so long, you won’t hear me complain.”
I want to ask her when she last visited the French capital, but I refrain. This is the kind of information people in love know. The flight attendant, captain and the first officer signed nondisclosure agreements, but why chance it?
There’s still so much to discover about you, Mrs. König.
“Other than the gala, what else is on the agenda?” She bounces in her seat.
“I have to pop into our three Pompadour hotels to take in the lay of the land and meet with upper management. It was on Dad’s agenda, and now I shoulder the responsibility. It’s going to be grueling, but I don’t have much of a choice.”
“Oh, okay,” she says. “It sounds like I’m going to spend most of my days alone.”
I sense her disappointment.
“Paris is a beautiful city. Since you haven’t been in a while, there’s a lot to see and do—so many amazing restaurants to discover. Feel free to give my Black American Express card a good workout.”
“I guess.” She shrugs.
“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You were less than eager to take on my last name––which most women would trip all over themselves to agree to––and now I suggest shopping, upscale restaurants and sightseeing in Paris and you’re lukewarm at the perspective. You’re an enigma.”
“Don’t get me wrong, all those things sound appealing, but it’s a reminder I don’t have anything to challenge me,” she says. “A life of daily shopping, spas, and lunch dates at LA’s hot new eatery—or at the Pompadour—will become boring real fast.”
I chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“After our lunch last week on the yacht, I knew expecting you to wait for me at the penthouse like a good little wife at the end of a demanding day with my slippers, a cigar, and a tumbler of fine scotch was fooling myself?—”
