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She stole a spot she didn’t earn, taking ten when she had no claim to it. She said that she’d blackmailed her way into the Dix competition, stealing a place from a brilliant pastry chef from Colombia. And like a fucking idiot, I never made the connection until now.

“I received a letter saying I’d been chosen as the last contestant—number ten. I was so happy I cried because that was going to be my chance at freedom.” Angélica’s face falls, and I feel my heart clench in my chest. “But later that week, I received a call saying there’d been a mistake. Someone else had been chosen instead of me. I was almost good enough, butal que no le toca, no le toca.”

“When it’s not your turn, it’s not your turn,” Javi translates, his face ashen. Because he’s just realized the same thing I have.

Number ten was supposed to be Angélica. All these years—all the bloodshed, the heartache, the rage, the torment, the guilt—it never should have happened. Because it was always meant to beher.We’ve been fighting fate for a decade, trying to find our way back to each other when we should have been together all along.I’ve had ten years with my angel stolen from me. And one of these days, that venomous blonde cunt is going to pay.

“What’s wrong?” Angélica asks, wary of the charged silence hanging in the air.

Javi and I exchange a look, but neither of us knows how to tell her she was robbed of the life she should have had. Not after we’ve both lost so much because of it. “I don’t think I could explain it if I tried, angel,” I sigh. “But I promise one day, I will. Right now, I could really use a fucking drink.”

“Want to head to L’Armurerie like old times?” Javi suggests. “It’s still open for a couple more hours.”

I turn to Angélica, seeing her for the first time as someone who was truly meant to be mine. “What do you say, angel? In the mood for a drink?”

We’ve already been up for over twenty-four hours with no sleep, but Angélica still looks like she could handle anything we throw at her.

She smiles up at me, and I want to kiss her for her constant bravery. “I’d love one.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

GREYSON

My fingers are intertwined with Angélica’s as I drag her down the familiar cobblestone streets of Piagella, the red light district in Paris. I haven’t given her any hints about what our date is tonight, and she’s been fidgety since she woke up this morning. I like her like this—on the edge, panicked, eager for whatever twisted surprises I have in store for her. And this will be my best one yet.

“Haven’t you tortured me long enough?” she pleads.

She tugs at the thin, black dress that flows down to her ankles and swishes with every step. Underneath, she’s wearing a gorgeous set of dark red lingerie that I bought from a high-end érotique shop in Paris. Since it’s her first trip here, I thought my angel could use a little spoiling.

Although, from the moment she tried it on, it was clear who was really being spoiled by the sight of her full hips, ass, and tits swathed in bits of lace and silk. She doesn’t know it yet, but I bought her ten more sets just like it to use when we get home.

Ourhome. The thought invades my head without me even noticing. And I need it to be true more than I’veever needed anything else. These past few days together have shown me that I don’t want to suffer through the days when she isn’t beside me every moment.

I want to wake up to her beautiful face every morning. I want to cook with her in my kitchen. I want to take her home and feed her. I want to fuck her and hurt her until she’s nearly comatose. Then I want to fuck her to sleep in our bed. And I want to do it all again every day for the rest of my life.

If that’s not a declaration of motherfucking love, I don’t know what is.

I used to think getting attached was a sort of fatal disease contracted by the weak who couldn’t resist self-destruction. In a way, itisself-destruction because you’re remaking yourself in a way that requires another half to survive. It’s weakness on the most basic level, but I find I don’t mind it so much when she’s the one who makes me whole.

I’ve succumbed to the disease like every other simpering twat, and I feel pretty fucking good about it.

“Quit sulking. We’re almost there.”

I used to visit the club whenever I came to Paris, but I’ve been so distracted by my angel that I’ve not been able to drag myself away for six months. Obsession at its very finest.

I pull her in front of the dilapidated confiserie, letting her survey the gold-flaked walls, blacked-out windows, and tattered striped awnings in complete silence.

“Have you lost your senses and purchased a very run-down confectionery?” she asks after I’ve worn her patience too thin.

I laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea. “I’m not even sure if I can handle managing one property in Paris, let alone two.” I tug her toward the front door and press the button to ring in.

“Maître Greyson!” Noémie greets in excitement from the intercom. “Ça fait longtemps qu’on ne t’a pas vu ici!”

“Année chargée,” I respond in French, partiallyto piss off Angélica. I know my random use of French is one of her particular irritations, so I endeavor to do it as often as possible.

“Qui est la jolie chose?” she asks, her interest immediately turning to the pretty girl she can see on the front camera standing beside me.

“Ma femme.” I don’t miss the startled look on my angel’s face when she notices I’ve called her my girlfriend. “Dis à M que je lui dois mille euros.” Madame M and I have had a bet over the past decade about whether I would ever fall for anyone. I just fucking lost.