Flip.
Flip.
Flip.
I let out a long sigh.
I check the time on my phone and go back to being a bored, Stepford wife.
“It’s six-thirty.” I huff. “When will he get off that darn conference call?”
I didn’t expect this morning’s revelation to topsy-turvy Phoenix’s day.
He’s been locked up in the office in our suite on back to back conference calls. He had me sit in on his calls with his father and brothers. All three men share Phoenix’s acrimonious feelings for the duplicitous couple. Once we updated his family—minus Roman, who doesn’t need to deal with this shit right now—he suggested I contact the art buyer for the hotels in France, Spain, and Italy.
Victorine Ardant was expecting my call. Giddy at the prospect of stepping into my new role as Art Director and Principal Art Buyer for König Imperial Holding, I met up with her.
Victorine gave me a tour of her studio and the storage room packed with art located in the basement of the Pompadour, Saint-Germain hotel. After the meeting, I called Phoenix to see if he was available for lunch. He was in work mode, so I invited Victorine instead.
She’s so French. Her personality is as effervescent as her name. It’s wild to share your first name with a famous Louis Vuitton luxury monogram wallet. We’re going to get along famously.
Contrary to Marie-Clémence, Victorine isn’t a stuck-up snob who looks down at people because they only speak one language. Victorine didn’t mind my accent or the fact I couldn’t remember certain French words.
We had a great time getting acquainted with each other better.
After lunch, I returned to the suite to find Phoenix still wearing his CEO-slash-COO hat. I knew this would be a honeymoon-slash-work week, but I was hoping we’d spend more time together.
Bummed out, I plopped myself on the sofa with my phone in hand. To keep myself busy, I called Keira to catch up and share all the details of my post-wedded bliss in Paris.
Then, I called Daddy. I told him about Brock and Thana. He shared his unpleasant conversation with Potter. The call with my father was supposed to be all shop talk, but it ended as an emotional thank-you-for-choosing-Phoenix-as-my-husband-instead-of-selling-me-off-to-the-dirty-old-man heart-to-heart. I told him about Ripley’s disturbing perversions. Daddy was horrified. We were both crying by the end of the call.
Since there was still no sign of my husband emerging from his office, I headed out to comb the streets of Paris, soaking up the unique atmosphere. I could’ve hit the shops to give Phoenix’s credit card a good workout, but there was something more pressing on the agenda. French desserts.
I could snap my fingers and get the pastry chefs at the hotel to deliver a scrumptious assortment to our suite, but it’s not the same as pastry shop hopping. Not to mention, if you have to walk from one pastry shop to another you burn calories, which means you can keep stuffing your face silly. As a result, I indulged in way too many lip-smacking sweets. Full and riding a sugar high, I hopped in a taxi and made my way from Saint-Germain-des-Prés to the Pompadour.
So, here I am, waiting after my husband.
Phoenix promised his last conference call of the day would be quick.
He lied.
An hour later, he’s still locked up, and I’m still sitting on this sofa. Alone.
I’m starting to feel deprived.
Four days into my marriage and my husband is already ignoring me.
Well, we’ll see about that.
I set aside theVoguemagazine and make my way to that darn office.
I rap my knuckles against the door and wait.
He opens the door and waves me in.
I step inside and he closes the door.
“Hey,” he says in a theatre whisper.
