No.
Not even a little bit, and that’s more terrifying than the nightmare last night. The nightmare is familiar. This newfound ease with a woman is not.
Women I’ve dated in the past haven’t seen my nightmares before. I never slept beside them long enough for that. And none of them have ever known about my fighting habit.
You’re not dating her,I remind myself.
I married her. But we’re not a couple.
“You really do hate it, don’t you?” she says, and there’s smugness in her tone. “Well, I’m keeping it on.”
I release her sleeve and look back at the winding road. “You’re the one wearing my initials,” I say, like that’s not the hottest fucking thing ever.
She ignores that and launches into talk about the company’s new brand campaigns instead. Listening to her is easy. I haven’t told her, but she’s damn good at what she does. It’s been clear for weeks that her uncle criminally underused her.
She knows the brand inside and out, the products, the people, the audience.
To my surprise, she’s already spoken to the new acting CEO I appointed, and more than once.
“You get along?” I ask.
“Surprisingly… yes,” she admits. “Don’t tell her I said that. She’s Maison Valmont, so I hate her on principle, but she’s been very good so far.”
That makes my lip curl. “Of course I won’t.”
“I like that she’s getting to know all the employees,” Paige says. “We’re off to a good start.”
We’re nearly at Lausanne when Karim calls again. He got us tickets to an opera premiere tonight. It’s not the primary reason for my visit, but making an appearance will work in our favor.
After hanging up, I look over at Paige. She heard the whole thing. “Feel up for a bit more performance?”
“Will there be photographers there?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I didn’t pack a dress that will work.” Her eyes narrow at me. “You knew this, and?—”
I laugh. “Paige, we’ll go shopping. It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”
We end up on Rue du Bourg in Lausanne. Large window displays showcase expensive clothing, including bags, shoes, jewelry.
She watches them all, and I watch her. She mentioned that it’s her first time in Switzerland.
This isn’t the country I grew up in. My father relocated us to Paris when I was five, where he established Maison Valmont’s headquarters. He’d always been determined to expand beyond what Artemis had given us. But I’ve never felt French. It’s always been American and Swiss, straddling the line between the two, in this home away from home.
She coughs a few times but brushes me off when I ask if she’s fine. “How does it feel,” she asks me instead, “to know that you own more than half of these brands?”
“I don’t think about it,” I say.
She turns those chocolate eyes on me. “Come on, Rafe.”
“I don’t,” I say. She used my first name. She doesn’t do that too often. “Maison Valmont owns the controlling stake in these companies, not me personally.”
“Oh my God, you’re the king of semantics.”
My lip curves. “Are you calling me King?”
“It’s nothing the media hasn’t already said.”
