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THEWATERSOFthe Rhône lap gently at the hull of the boat. On the nearby bank, a bird sings softly to its mate hidden somewhere nearby. The sky is streaked with shades of brilliant pink and vivid purple. My computer sits open on my lap with the latest report on the Paul Properties deal, including an email for an official meeting to discuss pricing and terms when I return from France. A bourbon rests within easy reach. With the press of a button, a butler will be by my side in a minute, available to answer almost any question I have or retrieve anything I want. I have everything.
But in this moment, knowing that the master suite behind me is empty, as is the guest suite on the floor above, I feel like I did right before the wedding ceremony: hollow.
It’s an uncomfortable feeling, one I haven’t experienced this deeply before. Every deal I made, every dollar I added in profits, brought me happiness and a sense of fulfillment I had never found in my life. What I put into Drakos, the company gave back. The finer things that had eluded me in the early years of my life were available with a snap of my fingers. People who would have looked down on me when I was begging on the streets of Santorini now begged for me to consider their properties, their proposals. For the first time in my life, I had respect. Power. Control.
But right now, as I stare out over the water, I feel powerless for the first time in years. It’s been three days since Juliette found me in the Cimetière de Passy. Three days of cool politeness and, on the few occasions we spoke to each other, bland conversation. No repeats of the incredible night we shared.
We spent the night after she followed me in our separate rooms and checked out of the Shangri-La the following morning, traveling by limo to the departure point of the second phase of our honeymoon: a private boat trip down to the French Riviera. It met my requirements of luxury with the opportunity for photos that could be shared on Instagram, reinforcing the illusion of a happily married couple. The limo ride was almost entirely silent, reminiscent of our flight over from the States. Except now there was an added tension. We knew each other far better, physically and emotionally. Knew there were depths beyond the faces we presented to the world. And at least for me, craved what we had shared for one starlit night.
It was for the best, I remind myself for the hundredth time, to stay away from each other. When we made love, I knew as she’d come apart beneath me, as I’d lost myself in her, that I had gotten too close. When I’d woken the next morning, my arms wrapped around her waist and my face buried in her hair, I allowed myself one moment to simply enjoy the indulgence of waking up with a woman I greatly respected and genuinely liked.
Then reality had set in. I had made love to her not once, not twice, but three times. All three times, I’d pulled her close and fallen asleep with her in my arms. I’d wanted it.
Too much. Too much too soon.
So I’d slipped away, beginning the process of putting distance between us. It was necessary. No matter how enjoyable that night had been, no matter how much I had discovered about Juliette and the woman she was, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t risk my sanity again.
Her following me to the cemetery had been a sign. It gave her a chance to see why I would never be the kind of man who could let himself love, who could provide her with the things she obviously wanted, like a family of her own.
The way she’d looked when she’d watched that child dancing down the row in the graveyard had made me ache for something I’d never longed for before. Something I have told myself time and again would never happen. How could it when loving a woman, let alone creating a family, was out of the question?
Yes, her full assurance that she would not be falling in love with me had stung. But shouldn’t I be grateful for it? Instead of tears or begging, she acted exactly as I’d hoped she would, for the reasons why I chose her over the numerous other women who would have jumped at the chance to marry a billionaire. It should have reassured me. It should have calmed the turmoil in my chest.
But it didn’t. I found myself missing the intimacy we discovered at the restaurant. On more than one occasion, I had nearly gone in search of her as the boat had passed one of the numerous landmarks viewable from the river, just for a chance to watch her face light up the way it had when we’d crossed the Pont d’Iéna.
Instead, I focus on the one thing that has always brought me pleasure: work.
For the first day, I convinced myself that things were just as they had always been. The back-and-forth between Drakos Development and Paul Properties. Reviewing the reports, analyses, opinions from my executives as we progressed forward. Yet even completing the tasks that had once made me feel in control now felt hollow. Years and years of building one of the largest fortunes in the world. And how had I spent that money? What had I done with it? My few attempts for community investment feel like a drop in the bucket. I had years to make a difference. Instead, I focused on myself.
Like father, like son.
By day two, as the boat slipped past a magnificent castle that made me wonder if Juliette had managed to snap a photo of the turret, I’d stopped pretending and acknowledged I wasn’t as hard-hearted as I wanted—or needed—to be when it came to her.
When the boat had docked this afternoon near a village renowned for wine, lavender and its twisting maze of stone alleys, I’d wandered the decks with the poor excuse of stretching my legs. I only encountered the crew.
It has now been over forty-eight hours since I last laid eyes on my wife.
I glance down at my watch. It’s well past dinnertime. I drum my fingers on the railing. This is ridiculous. I’m letting myself get bent out of shape because for the first time in years, possibly ever, there’s an extra layer to my relationship with a woman. I manage billions of dollars in assets, oversee hundreds of properties around North America, and survived a man Hell probably spat back out when he arrived at the gates.
I’m more than capable of handling a few emotions. Especially if it means enjoying time with a woman like Juliette. A woman who came apart with a trusting abandon that has lingered in my blood ever since I slid inside her wet heat.
I press the button. Thirty seconds later, Renard appears.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour. I was thinking about having dinner on the top deck with my wife.”
“Madame Drakos has gone into the village.”
I try and fail to quell my irritation as my plan to seduce Juliette into bed while dinner was being prepared falls apart. “I see.”
“Shall I still have dinner served on the top deck?”
“No. No,merci, Renard.”
“Merci, monsieur.”
Renard is almost to the door when I call him back.