I look over at Rafe.
The person he is here is different, yet again. Polished, sure. Competent. But I get the feeling that he likes talking to these people. He likes being here.We’re stewards, not owners, he said. Fanciful words, but maybe there’s a sliver of truth in them too.
After we leave the factory, I walk along a hallway next to meeting rooms. There are pictures on the walls of the charities Artemis supports. Photographs of one of their watches underwater. Or the watch in space. A screen on the wall shows a ticking number in the millions. Below, a small plaque tells me the number is what Artemis has donated this year to nature conservation efforts around the world.
The number is so high it takes me several tries to read it. I use my phone for a quick conversion from francs to dollars.
I know Artemis watches are expensive.
I know this company makes money hand over fist.
But that amount…? Is that the entire profit margin?
I wrap my arms around myself and feel slightly ill at it all. At how wrong I might have been, judging Valmont so quickly and painting Rafe out as the devil. He’s profit driven, yes, but he also gives back, and that’s more than I can say about my uncle.
Mather & Wilde should be committed to helping the oceans, too. Our brand is built on bags made out of the fabric of old sails and leather boat shoes. The ocean is ingrained into the DNA of the brand. It’s in our logo. And yet the profit has gone back to my uncle.
It suddenly feels painfully clear what we could have been with better leadership.
Seeing the ticking number on the wall and the pride in the watchmakers faces has cemented what I’m slowly coming to realize. I might resent needing Maison Valmont in the first place. But now that we’re working together, we’re going to make it a smashing success.
A few whirlwind hours later, we arrive at the opera house. One of the three dresses I never tried on fit, thank God, and it’s a long red number that matches my nail polish.
Rafe says what he so often does:We won’t have to stay long. And for the first time since I married him, I’m grateful for that. I’ve enjoyed the parties. Sinking into the buzz they provide and the role I’m expected to play. The music and the glitz and the glamour provide a place to hide, and I’ve loved it.
But tonight, my feet hurt after only a few minutes in the heels, and my knees feel strangely weak. I wonder if I might have a fever.
After twenty minutes of small talk that I can’t quite follow, Rafe wraps an arm around my waist.
“Are you okay?” he asks in my ear.
I nod. The world spins a tiny bit. “I’m fine.”
“Of course you are, but you’re quiet, and you’re never quiet.”
I stumble. It’s a small movement across the plush carpeting of the waiting area we’re in, but he notices. His arm tightens around me. “You didn’t sneak a few shots in the hotel room, did you?”
I try to glare at him. “No.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No,” I say just as quickly. It’s a reflex.Don’t show weakness.“We have to be photographed together first. For my uncle. And I’ve never seen an opera.”
“One night missed won’t make a difference. And there is opera in Milan.”
I lean into him for support.
“Paige,” he says, and heneversays my name. He saysWildeordarling, but almost never Paige. His hand comes up to brush over my forehead, and then around to cup my neck. “You’re burning up.”
“I just feel a bit… odd.” The world is spinning around me, and I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. Like I’m flying and falling at the same time.
“How long have you felt sick?”
“I’m not sick,” I protest, and the world spins a little faster.
“You have a fever.” His voice is displeased. I used to like displeasing him.
My head feels heavy. “No I don’t.”
