Suck it, woman! You did a lot of harm, and for what? The man is still mine!
Once the hoopla tamps down and everyone is back to regular programming, Aubert walks up to his mother.
“She’s angry,” I say when I see her speak to her son.
“Yes.” Gustave kisses my temple. “But she has no reason to be.”
Heads turn. Eyes flick from Aubert and Simone to Gustave and me.
That’s when Philippe swaggers up to us. He looks half amused, half proud, a champagne flute dangling from his hand. “Now, both of you will be on the cover of every tabloid.”
“Oui.” Gustave squeezes my waist. “I’m sorry for that, Tara.”
“Don’t be. I knew what was going to happen if I came here. I came anyway.”
We watch as Simone opens her mouth in response to something her son said, then closes it again. After a beat, she turns on her heel and glides out of the room. Her exit is followed by a collective exhale.
Philippe raises his glass. “Well,” he drawls, “that was long overdue.”
As if sensing the tension, the musicians strike up something livelier—violins bright, piano teasing. The scandalous moment ripples, softens, and is soon sweptaway in the familiar swirl of champagne, laughter,andgossip.
Aubert insists he’s fine when he joins us.
“I’m an adult. I can handle her,” he states. “In fact, I want to.”
After the ball, Gustave takes me to his apartment. It’s familiar in the best way. Like home.
A fire dances in the marble hearth, softening the September chill. The door closes behind us, and I shed my shoes and sink onto the couch with a long, grateful sigh.
“Well, that was surreal.” I unfasten my earrings that Mama made for me. I lay them one by one on the salon table.
Gustave loosens his tie, still smiling faintly. “Surreal?”
“You introduced me to your parents and half of Paris as the woman you love.”
He leans on the mantel, looking pleased with himself. “Should I have introduced you as my mistress instead? For tradition’s sake?”
I laugh. “Sometimes,querido?*, you’re so French.”
He crosses the room and sits beside me, his hand finding my knee. “They needed to know who you are.”
“They didn’t look thrilled, Gustave. Your father barely smiled, and your mother was polite but—Dios mío, if looks could kill! I think she’d rather have seen you declare bankruptcy inLe Figaro.”
His eyes soften. “They were raised in a different world,mon amour. Their version of love looks like alliances and family crests.”
“I’m afraid”—I curl closer to him—“I’m more tacos and paint stains than tiaras.”
He chuckles, brushing a lock of hair from my face. “And I love you more because of it.”
I look at him then, serious now. “You don’t care that they don’t approve?”
He tilts his head, considering. “I care that you’re here. That’s all.”
I try to hold on to my doubts. I do. But then he takes my hand, intertwines our fingers, and says with that infuriating calm, “When we have children, they’ll spend their holidays with Juan and Estrella. I want them to learn how to dance before they can walk, to know the taste of tortillas beforefoie gras.”
I laugh, startled. “You’ve already planned our children’s holidays?”
“Bien sûr?*.” He grins. “They’ll speak French, Spanish, and sarcasm fluently.”
