How stupid could I be?
CHAPTER 9
Amelia
Florin stopped the car along the banks of the Seine, and for a moment I just sat there, taking it all in.
The river glittered with reflected lights from the buildings lining its shores. The Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance, its hourly light show just beginning. It was impossibly romantic—the kind of scene you saw in movies but never actually experienced.
Florin came around and opened my door, extending his hand to help me out.
As I stepped out, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A red carpet stretched from where we’d parked all the way to a private marina. And at the end of that carpet, floating majestically on the Seine, was the most elegant yacht I’d ever seen. It was black with accents of gold all over.
“Is that—” I started.
A valet in a crisp uniform approached. Florin handed him the car keys without looking away from me.
He took my hand and brought it to his lips, his gray-blue eyes locked on mine. “Here’s to a special night for the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen.”
We walked hand in hand down the red carpet. My heels clicked against the fabric with each step, and I felt like I was walking into a dream.
As we reached the yacht, a group of five staff members in matching uniforms appeared, bowing slightly as Florin led me aboard.
“Welcome to my humble yacht,” Florin said, that slight smile playing at his lips.
The interior was breathtaking. Rich mahogany wood paneling, cream leather furniture, and crystal chandeliers glittering softly. In thecenter of the main salon, a table was set for two with white linen, fine china, and candles flickering in the gentle breeze from the open windows.
A live violinist had started playing something soft and romantic as soon as we had entered. Oh gosh! Was this all happening for real?
“Please, sit.” Florin pulled out my chair.
I sat, still trying to process everything, and a waiter immediately appeared with champagne. Not just any champagne—Dom Pérignon, if I was reading the label correctly.
The meal was extraordinary. Caviar served on mother-of-pearl spoons. Some kind of delicate fish in a butter sauce that made me close my eyes with pleasure. Duck that practically melted on my tongue. Each dish paired with a different wine, each one more silky and exquisite than anything I’d ever tasted.
And through it all, Florin asked about me.
What did I love about pottery? What inspired my designs? What made me feel alive?
No one had asked me questions like that in years. No one had treated my art as something important, something worth discussing in depth.
“You have such passion,” Florin said as dessert arrived—a delicate chocolate soufflé. “The way you speak about your work, I can see your devotion to your art. It is beautiful.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Thank you.”
“I mean it, Amelia. You are extraordinary.”
After dessert, as we sipped French coffee, Florin quietly produced a red Cartier box and kept it on the table.
My heart stuttered. “What is this?”
“Just a little gift. For you. Please, open it.”
With trembling fingers, I lifted the lid.
My mouth fell open.
Inside, nestled on black velvet, was the most stunning diamond necklace I’d ever seen. The necklace held what had to be dozens of perfectly cut diamonds, arranged in a cascading pattern that would fall just at the hollow of a woman’s throat.
