Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 68688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“Fuck you.”
He drew in a slow breath and closed his eyes briefly. “You wouldn’t be this angry if you didn’t still love me.”
“I’m just an angry person, Adrien.”
“You’re a passionate person, Fleur. There’s a difference,” he said. “It happened once, and it won’t happen again. I will do anything you want to make this work because, despite what you think, I love you with everything I have.”
I stepped away because I didn’t want to look at him anymore. Rain started to pelt the windows and the skylight above the kitchen. The curtains were open, and the light from the lampposts illuminated the city and the wet pavement in the rain.
“Fleur.”
I kept my back to him.
“I’ll never give you a divorce. Every time you submit your paperwork, the judge will deny it. You will never remarry because your marriage to me will remain intact. The only way I’ll lift those restrictions is if you try to make this work.”
I continued to look out the window.
“If you work on this marriage with me.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, and I felt the cold from the windowpane. I could see my reflection as a faint outline. The city below was so beautiful, but it was hard to appreciate it when I felt so low. I never shed a tear in front of him. I turned to the feeling that was the easiest to feel—which was anger. “Were there others?”
“No.” His answer was quick, almost too quick.
I turned around and faced him, studying his hard eyes. His hair was dark like espresso, and his eyes were warm like hazelnut. His Italian ancestry was visible on his skin, and he spoke both French and Italian, one of the things that had attracted me to him. Marriage was such a profound experience that changed everything, and my marriage had left all kinds of scars. Even when we were so far apart, I still felt attached to him. But I didn’t want to be attached to him. “Were there others?”
His eyes flinched slightly when I asked the question again, a subtle hesitation. “No.”
I studied his face, searching for a hint of a lie and unsure how to decipher what I saw. But I knew that I shouldn’t even have to ask the question, that I shouldn’t have to wonder if it was a lie or the truth. “I need to think.”
“There was no one else—”
“I need space, Adrien. Stop blowing up my phone and lurking in my apartment like a goddamn stalker so I can have two seconds to think.” I turned back to the window and watched a water drop streak to the bottom and disappear.
He lingered for a moment, his eyes hot on my spine, but then his feet eventually shifted and he left the apartment, taking as long as possible, as if I might ask him to come back.
I was a bartender at Silencio, a bar that was a thirty-minute walk from my apartment. I never took a taxi, even when I got off work at almost three in the morning, because it was just too expensive. And there was nothing more peaceful than walking Paris at night—especially in the rain.
It was a busy night at the bar, lots of people in the main room and dispersed throughout the other lounges. Waitresses would wait on those people and bring them drinks and small bites. I stayed at the bar and helped the people waiting for a table. At the beginning of the night, it was usually young people who’d just gotten off work and needed a drink after a stressful day. As the night passed, it turned into romantic dates. And then around midnight, different characters came in, rich men who wanted a place to drink in peace.
I’d adopted a habit of constantly scanning down the bar to see if anyone else needed a drink, and while my gaze wandered, I spotted him come through the door.
I gripped a bottle by the neck and halted where I stood. Holy fuck.
The second he entered the room, he disturbed the air around him. I wasn’t sure what I noticed first, the fact that he was tall as fuck or hot as fuck. He had to be at least six foot three, but that might have been a conservative guess. He wore only a black t-shirt even though it was a rainy night, and he filled it out better than any mannequin at the mall. Thick shoulders and muscular arms, the kind that had veins so strained they looked like they were about to pop. He carried himself like he was important but also with an I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. He had black ink everywhere, visible on both of his arms and on his hands, and even up his neck to his jawline. I’d never felt any particular way about tattoos, but I’d also never seen a man wear them so well.