Page 196 of Boss of the Year

Wanting to feel my absolute best tonight, I took some time to pamper myself with shea butter, lotion, and a spritz of my favorite scent, then combing out my hair and setting it with a bit of gel to let my natural curls come out.

Taking care of myself had new meaning now. After all, it wasn’t only me who would be depending on me soon enough.

While waiting for the gel to set, I paused at the vanity. And then, against my better judgment, I reached for my phone.

I only let myself do it once a week now. That was the deal. One search. No spiraling.

I typed his name into the search bar.

Lucas Lyons

Most of the searches revealed the same things. A Wikipedia profile. The article about him inForbesfrom two years ago that I must have read at least twenty times. The occasional one-liner in the papers, usually referencing some statement about a new investment.

Unlike Daniel, Lucas stayed out of the spotlight. I couldn’t get the misery I’d seen in the wedding photographs out of my mind, though.

I just wanted to know he was okay.

To my surprise, a few new headlines appeared.

The first was fromBloomberg:

LYONS CORP SHAKES WALL STREET: Lucas Lyons Announces transfer of shares to trust managed by non-profit. “We’re Done Profiting Off Collapse.”

That was…shocking. We’d had a few conversations, of course, about the morality of his family’s wealth. About how they profited from the exploitation of others, whether they wanted to or not. But I hadn’t realized that my opinions—the opinions of an assistant cook—had actually mattered.

Maybe they didn’t. Maybe this had nothing to do with those conversations.

The second headline from thePosthit harder.

WHERE IS LUCAS LYONS? CEO Vanishes After Controversial Market Shift—Stock Dips, Board Members Panic

I stared at the screen, where a particularly handsome picture of Lucas was embedded below the headline. My heart did that stupid thing it still sometimes did when I saw a picture like this. Skipped. Stammered. Remembered.

He loved me, he’d said.

And then he’d disappeared.

I set the phone down on the vanity and faced the mirror, then pressed a hand to the curve of my belly.

“For you,” I whispered. “For us. We don’t chase men who don’t show up.”

An hour later,I went back downstairs.

“Beautiful!” Louis crowed when I walked outside, where the jazz trio was setting up under his and Kate’s watchful eyes. “I knew this dress would fit you perfectly.”

I tugged at the skirt of the tea-length dress Louis and I had found at a vintage shop in Périgueux last week. It was a pretty green silk thing from the forties with loose sleeves and a bloused bodice over an A-line skirt that swished just above my ankles. Festive enough for the occasion without being too elfin. Flattering without making it noticeable that I was pregnant. And conservative enough that I would feel at ease.

It had been fun for a while playing the vixen, the girl who wore skimpy swimsuits and cropped shirts and see-through blouses in wild nightclubs while billionaires fought for her kisses. Educational, to say the least. But in the end, that wasn’t me any more than the wallflower had been either. The real Marie Zola was somewhere in the middle.

“I do love it,” I told him honestly.

Kate finished turning on the last of the space heaters that would make the patio usable even in mid-December, then plugged in the extension cord that lit up the fairy lights strung from the rafters of the pergola.

And just like that, my dream was happening.

“Is this the right place?” called Jacques, the handsome young guitarist from the trio and the mason who had overseen the work on the chateau’s exterior.

“I’ll show you the right place,” Kate murmured next to me. “Or maybe you should, Marie.”