“Please.Do me this favor.”I open my mouth to argue, but he says, “I’d already asked the driver here and something came up.Take the car.”
He sounds like he’s managing a subordinate, and it grates.Three years ago, he opened doors because he wanted to, not because he was orchestrating logistics.Now everything between us is transactional.
“And we can meet up…for an early dinner?”
The question lands softer than his tone.There’s something tentative in it—a crack in the executive veneer.For an instant, the yacht resurfaces—the gentle sway of the sea, the feel of silk against my skin, his touch.I blink, forcing the image away.Professional.Always professional.
My first instinct is to decline, to keep this clean and compartmentalized.But Hudson wants me to loop back, to probe for what Adrien might be holding close.And if I’m honest, part of me wants to say yes for reasons that have nothing to do with the job.
“Text me the address,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.Professional.
As the sedan pulls away, I catch his reflection in the rearview.He’s still standing there, watching.I look away first.
ChapterEleven
Adrien
Instead of going back to my office, I head straight to the judge’s chambers, riding in the back of the second car I ordered.The route to Foley Square is a slow grind of yellow lights and brake taps, giving me time to watch the blue dot on my phone slide uptown—north, then west.
Interesting.I would’ve pegged her for the Upper East Side—classic six, pre-war bones—but the West Side fits better.Less pedigree, more anonymity.I’d bet she runs at dawn when the park is empty and uncomplicated.
Minutes later, a text pings—a photo of Brie entering a building beneath a green canopy, a suited doorman holding the door.Excellent.
I’ll charm the doorman, have him buzz her, learn her unit.Confirm that her name really is Brie Anderson.Even if I already know it is.Even if what I’m really confirming is that Monaco wasn’t a fever dream.
Of course, this shouldn’t matter.Not when my first independent venture might implode spectacularly.But obsession, like luxury, rarely answers to reason.We d’Avricourts excel at unreasonable.
Margot’s name flashes on my screen.It’s after dinner in Paris—she’ll be on her second glass of Sancerre, antennae sharpened.She’ll hear the strain in my voice within three words, and with Alicia Morgan’s name already logged in her mental dossier, she’ll extract every detail until I crack.I decline the call.Not today.
When I arrive at the courthouse, I take the concrete steps two by two, weaving through a mix of suits and those who’ve clearly decided impressing a judge is optional.On the right floor, I’m greeted by Canary, a young Black legal clerk with a bright, white smile.
“He’s still in session,” she says.
“No problem.I’ll wait.”
“I’m not sure you can?—”
“Consider me the inconvenient husband.”
Her brows lift, but she grins, playing along.“I’ll look the other way, just this once.You want a soda?”
“A what?”
“I’m getting a Coke.Want anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“If the phone rings, can you answer it?”
“My.I’ve gone from uninvited guest to trusted secretary.”
“A notepad’s by the phone.Answer with, ‘Judge Brennan’s office.’”
“Doesn’t he have voicemail?”
“He does, but then I’d have to check it.Easier to read your handwriting.”
The second I lower into his office chair, the tan phone rings.Naturally.I let it.
