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I give myself a few minutes to sit, to hurt over how easily he withdrew this morning, to grieve what might have developed between us in another life.
Then I force myself to finish my breakfast. I shower, dress and set out on foot, this time without my camera. I wander down the banks of the Seine and eventually hop on a subway to visit Notre-Dame. I join the throngs of people and walk through the renovated interior. The soaring ceilings, the rows of pews and the dim alcoves filled with flickering candles bring me a peace I desperately needed.
The morning may have started out with pain. But it doesn’t erase the good things that have come into my life. Financial independence. Dessie’s healing. A chance to explore a city I’ve dreamed about for years.
I’ve been hurt before. I’ll be hurt again. I’m not going to let it take away the joys I’ve been given. The gifts, both big and small, coming out of this contracted marriage. If I can focus on the gains that will come out of our arrangement, both for myself and for Gavriil, I’ll be able to let go of this pain.
I leave the cathedral with renewed calm and spend the rest of the morning exploring shops like the renowned Shakespeare and Company, filling a tote with books I don’t need but definitely want.
I arrive back at the hotel just after noon. As I contemplate ordering room service and dining on the terrace if Gavriil is still out, I see him. He’s walking out of the lobby with a bouquet of white roses.
My heart drops to my feet. He swore to me on the bluff that cheating was not an activity he engaged in. A few days ago, it would have rubbed me the wrong way. It wouldn’t have twisted me up inside.
But just hours after he left the bed we shared? That stabs deep, leaving a jagged, cold hole straight through my heart.
I tell myself there must be another explanation as I watch him near the doors. But where else would he be going with a dozen white roses?
I hesitate. It’s not like our marriage is real. The day after our one-year anniversary, he’ll file for divorce. But a combination of jealousy and my reporter’s curiosity stop me from walking away.
I follow him. The summer weather has brought out locals and the usual horde of tourists. It’s not hard to keep him in sight while keeping plenty of people between us. He doesn’t even look back over his shoulder.
We walk for nearly fifteen minutes, passing bookstores, restaurants, and the Palais de Chaillot. Then I spy a large stone wall. Up ahead, he turns and disappears through a gate in the wall. I count to twenty and follow.
As soon as I round the corner, I stop. My heart drops again, but not from petty jealousy this time. No, this time it’s grief.
A mix of headstones, crypts and elegant statues fill the space in front of me. People drift among the graves, some snapping photos, some laying down flowers, others on their knees as they grieve. There’s maybe a dozen people within sight. Far less crowded than the street just behind me.
It’s not that hard to spot him. He’s a few rows down in front of a white headstone, the roses at his side. My first instinct is to go to him, to lay a hand on his shoulder and comfort him the way he offered me comfort last night when I confided in him.
But we don’t have that kind of relationship. I’m not even supposed to be here.
I need to leave. Go back to the hotel and never bring this up.
“Did you know that in order to be buried in a Parisian cemetery, one either has to have lived in Paris or died here?”
His voice is low, but in the quiet of the cemetery with the high walls muting a lot of the street noise, I can hear it loud and clear.
I approach slowly. He doesn’t even look up.
“My mother lived here the first three years of her life. She talked about Paris as if she had lived here, but she would say other things, too. Things about my father and how he had promised he would come back for her. How one day he would divorce his wife and come back for the love of his life and his son.”
He looks at me now. Despite the growing heat, he’s wearing another suit. More casual than the ones I’ve seen him in; this one golden beige with a crisp white shirt and no tie. To a distant onlooker, he looks like a wealthy businessman paying his respects.
But when our eyes meet, I see the depths of anger and pain roiling behind the seemingly calm exterior. Feel it as if it were my own.
“When I made my first billion, I tracked down the cemetery in Santorini where she had been buried. A little patch of dirt and a stone that looked like a child had scrawled her name on it,” he spits out. “My father knew exactly where she was buried. He couldn’t be bothered to do anything more for the mother of one of his children. The only reason I even found out he knew was because the record showed that his company had paid for her burial.”
Violence rolls off him in a vicious wave so strong I flinch.
“I contemplated killing him then.” He glances back down at her grave, a cold smile lurking about his lips. “Obviously, I didn’t. I thought even though she had died still living in that fantasy world where Lucifer Drakos would come to rescue her, even though she had said his name more than mine in the eight years I lived with her, she still cared for me as much as I think she was able to.” His gaze sweeps the cemetery. “I petitioned to have her buried in Paris before I discovered she had been born here. I offered them millions. They didn’t budge.”
“You respected that.”
Surprise flashes across his face.
“Yes. I make dozens of offers every year. Money, prestige, power. I don’t have to lie or cheat or steal like Lucifer did. I simply offer people what they want. It’s easy,” he adds quietly, “to know what people want when you’ve grown up wanting and being denied time and time again.”
I take a step forward. “And what do you want?”