“But aren’tIsupposed to be Slayer’s girlfriend?”
“Yes, and everyone knows it.” Milo’s eyes flick between me and the exits I’ve been cataloging since we arrived. “Are you upset?”
I try to stay calm, my fingers finding Keesha’s Ethiopian cross. It’s probably the only real thing about me tonight.
Across the table, Valentina and Slayer share another French exchange.
She laughs, her hand landing on his forearm and lingering there. Valentina fits here, in this polished world. I’m just playing dress-up.
Throughout dinner, I push seafood around on my plate, barely tasting the exquisite meal.
Valentina dominates the conversation with stories of mutualacquaintances, exclusive parties, and inside jokes that leave me feeling like an outsider at my own table.
Slayer contributes occasionally, his eyes finding mine across the candlelight. His expression unreadable.
“Remember that party in Greenwich?” Valentina asks him, her voice dropping intimately.
“That was a different lifetime,” Slayer replies, but there’s something in his tone that tightens my chest.
The photographers swarm us as we leave—Sterling’s perfect timing, of course. Slayer pulls me close, his fingers pressing into my hip with surprising intensity.
For a moment, I’m back in his apartment, remembering how those hands felt elsewhere. His breath catches slightly, and I wonder if he remembers too.
“One at a time, boys,” Sterling calls in English, while someone translates. I smile mechanically.
Slayer’s arm slides around my waist—all show, no warmth.
“Now we’re off to an after-party,” Sterling announces, gesturing for us to get into the car.
“Would you mind if I take a taxi home?” My voice sounds thin. “I’m not feeling well.”
“What’s wrong?!” asks Sterling.
“Just a mild headache. Jet lag. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“Get in, and we’ll drop you at the hotel,” Sterling says firmly.
I slide into the limo, already focused on my escape.
Ten minutes later, they drop me at the hotel and pull away with Valentina’s melodic laugh floating through the open window.
Once in my bedroom, I tear off Antoine’s creation like it’s burning my skin.
I change into black jeans, a simple top, and my long strands of pearls. No more ethereal Grace Kelly wannabe. Just me.
Then I head back downstairs. The Saint-Tropez streets feel alive at this hour. Tourists laughing. Late diners at waterfront cafés. The gentle lap of waves against the shore.
In the town square, I pause by an ornate fountain and raise my phone for a photo.
“Bix?”
I turn to see Paul.
“Hello. What are you doing here this time of night?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says with that adorable dimpled smile.
“Just finished a tense dinner. Needed to clear my head...”
