It’s the same hollow shroud that used to settle over me in my marriage. Those endless dinners where Pete’s eyes were on his phone, not on me. Where my voice could vanish mid-sentence and he wouldn’t even notice. And here it is again, risingunbidden, reminding me just how easily I can slip back into that space of invisibility.
I draw a slow breath, steadying myself. Sam hasn’t done anything wrong, but the ache doesn’t care. It presses in anyway, sharp and uninvited.
Still, this time, it doesn’t swallow me whole. I recognize the shadow for what it is. An echo, not a truth. I’ve already lived that kind of emptiness once, and I won’t let it claim me again.
So I lift my glass, find my smile, and turn back to Sin. Because whatever this thing with Sam is—or could become—I intend to face it with my eyes open.
9
SAM
“Good seeing you again, Daniel.” I extend a hand as we step into the night air. The street outside the bar hums with passing traffic and laughter spilling from nearby streets. “Safe flight.”
“Merci, Sam.” Daniel Thibault’s voice is smooth, unhurried, though he checks his watch mid-smile. “Paris won’t wait for me, unfortunately. We’ll talk once I’m back, yes? I think this partnership could be something special.”
I nod, meaning it. “I’ll send over the numbers.”
He claps my shoulder, the polished confidence of a man used to closing deals wherever he lands.
“Bon. I like your vision. And Yasmine—” He glances toward his daughter, standing just behind me. “You’ll see yourself home?”
But before she can answer, her posture sways, the color draining from her face. “Yasmine?” I move toward her, and she wobbles once, twice then her knees fold.
I catch her just in time. She’s light, almost boneless in my arms. For a heartbeat, I think she’s out cold, but then her lashes flutter open, slow and deliberate.
“Yasmine?” I tap her cheek gently. “Hey. You all right?”
Blinking up at me, she is dazed but conscious. “I’m…I’m fine.”
She looks anything but and her father curses softly in French, glancing toward the street where his driver waits with the trunk open.
“Mon Dieu. I have to go. If I miss this flight…” He looks torn, then fixes his daughter with a father’s mix of worry and exasperation. “Can you manage, chérie?” He looks up at me. “She’s been working too much. Yasmine, chérie, you need rest. I’ll call when I land.”
She shakes her head weakly, clutching at my sleeve. “Papa, I’ll be fine. Please…go. You’re going to miss your flight. Just let Sam take me home. You can drop me off, oui?”
I hesitate. “I can call someone for you.” Nah, that’s a shitty thing to suggest and I rush to fix my callous behavior. “Or maybe we should get you checked out? You fainted, Yasmine.”
Her eyes lift to mine, wide and glistening under the streetlight. “Please don’t fuss. It was just the wine. And…maybe I wanted a reason to keep talking.” The corner of her mouth tilts faintly, and I can’t tell if she’s teasing or not.
Daniel squeezes my arm. “Merci, Sam. I appreciate you seeing her safely home.”
“Of course.” My uncertainty as to whether I’ve just volunteered for a favor or walked into something else is clear in my voice
He strides toward his waiting car, already on his phone, and soon the taillights vanish into traffic.
Yasmine straightens, smoothing her dress, a faint smile playing at her lips. “See? Crisis over.”
I study her. She is still too pale, or was she maybe just pretending to be? Someone can’t do that. She’s either pale ornot. Yet, something about it doesn’t sit right. Maybe she fainted. Maybe shedecidedto faint. Either way, it worked.
“Let’s get you home.” Resigned, I step back from her. “Wait here a sec. I need to let Olivia know I’m leaving.”
Her lips press into a thin line and she nods, brushing invisible dust from her clothes.
When I step back into the bar, the warmth and noise crash over me—music, laughter, the clink of glassware. I scan the crowd for Olivia, searching for the soft blue of her dress, for something real after whatever that just was outside.
Nothing.
Yasmine’s perfume still clings to my shirt collar. Sweet, expensive, suffocating. I roll my shoulders as if I can shrug it off, but the smell lingers. That niggle within me grows into a sizzle at the back of my neck.
