Page 21 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Eva

T he boardroom for the meeting overlooks the Champs-élysées, but I’m not here for the view. I’m here to remind three very stupid men why they should never try to renegotiate a Novak Consortium contract out of season.

The meeting ends with handshakes and subtle threats wrapped in politeness. As I gather my files, I feel something odd. A warm, unexpected hum beneath my breastbone. The thought of returning to the hotel.

To Robin.

I’ve handled billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, negotiated with warlords and presidents with equal ease. So why does the thought of her eyes lighting up when she sees me feel more exciting than any of this?

Leon sticks close as we go back down to the street. “Meeting went well?”

“As expected.” I slide into the back of the car, already mentally cataloging the afternoon’s remaining appointments. “The Consortium’s French interests are secure.”

“You seem distracted,” Leon observes as we pull into traffic.

I give him a sharp look. “Mind your own business.”

Leon doesn’t flinch. He never does. “You are my business. And as such, I need to ask about the girl.”

The girl . As if Robin Rivers weren’t all woman. I ignore him, looking out the window instead.

“If things are getting serious with this girl,” he says carefully, “I should arrange closer protection for her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The words snap out harder than I intended. “She’s a way to blow off steam, nothing more. And anyway, I thought we had someone on her?”

Leon’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. He knows me too well. “We do. But they are hanging back, as you asked. Allowing the girl to think she is free.”

“She is free,” I say belligerently. And after a pause, I hear myself ask, “What has she been doing today?”

“Wandering Paris. Getting lost. Eating many, many pastries.”

I catch myself smiling before I can stop it. She’ll make herself sick on sugar, like a child. Like someone who’s never had unlimited access to the world’s finest patisseries.

“We are in Paris,” Leon says stolidly.

“Yes. I am aware.”

“Last time you were in Paris?—”

“Alright, you don’t have to remind me,” I snap. I glare moodily out the window now, the pleasurable anticipation of seeing her again dying down. “But for her safety,” I say after a moment, “perhaps we should assign a closer watch tomorrow.”

Leon arches an eyebrow but says nothing.

“She means nothing to me,” I add coolly, “but outsiders won’t understand that. I don’t want her suffering needlessly.”

It’s not about her, I tell myself. It’s about optics. That’s all.

“As you wish,” is all Leon says.

The hotel suite is quiet when I enter, but I hear a soft groan from the bedroom. My mind fills at once with the most erotic images, but I find Robin sprawled across the bed, still in the dress I bought her this morning, one hand pressed to her stomach.

“I think I’m dying,” she announces dramatically.

“Too many pastries?” I ask, fighting back amusement.

“ So many pastries.” She rolls onto her back, looking up at me with self-pitying blue eyes. “I couldn’t help myself. Everything looked so good.”

I lean against the doorframe, studying her. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup.

Gorgeous.

“I booked us dinner at L’Ambroisie,” I say. “It has three Michelin stars. But I can cancel.”

Robin bolts upright so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t fall off the bed. “No! I can totally eat more.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hell, yes.” She stands, smoothing down her dress. “I just hope I still fit into the clothes you bought me.”

“If they don’t fit, we’ll buy new ones.”

Robin laughs, shaking her head. “I can’t let you keep buying me a new wardrobe every time I overdose on pastries.”

“Of course you can.” I step closer, letting my fingers trail along her arm. “Whatever I want, I get. And while you’re with me, the same applies to you.”

Her breath catches. “Eva...”

“Tomorrow, you’ll have a bodyguard with you. And he’ll carry a credit card.” I pause, watching her face. “Buy anything you want.”

Her eyes go wide. “Anything?”

“Anything. Even more pastries.” I touch her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin. “While you’re with me, the world is yours.”

She doesn’t mention the bodyguard, doesn’t ask why she needs protection. Good. I don’t want her worrying about the risks that come with being associated with me.

But then her face changes. “Why are you being so generous?” she asks quietly.

Because you make me want to give you everything. Because when you smile, something in my chest loosens. Because I’ve never met anyone who looks at the world with such wonder.

“Because I can,” I say instead. “So why the hell not?”

L’Ambroisie is a temple to French cuisine, and the ma?tre d’ bows when he sees me. “Madame Novak, your table is ready.”

I watch Robin take in the ambience—the perfectly pressed linens, the flowers and candles, the way the other diners steal glances at us. But she doesn’t gawk like a tourist. Instead, she observes with that quiet intelligence and joy I’ve come to appreciate.

“This is incredible,” she murmurs as we’re seated.

“You should see the wine cellar.”

The sommelier appears as if summoned, presenting a vintage Bordeaux. Robin sips it with wide-eyed anxiety. “It’s so good,” she whispers, as though someone might snatch it from her if she’s too loud.

“What is your favorite food?” I ask, surprising myself with the question. Normally I wouldn’t care in the slightest about my companions’ likes and dislikes. Mine have always been much more important.

She tilts her head. “That’s random.”

“Humor me.”

“Mac and cheese with a side of garlic bread,” she says without hesitation.

“The kind of mac and cheese that comes in a box. I know it’s not exactly great cuisine, but when everything was falling apart, right after Mom died, I could always make mac and cheese, heat up some frozen garlic bread, and everyone loved it.

It was our comfort meal. But I guess I’ll have to change my answer by the time I get back there. ”

“Why is that?”

“Well, because now I know what great food actually tastes like.” She gestures to the plate in front of her—duck confit with cherry reduction, artfully arranged. She grins. “But I’ll still make mac and cheese for the kids.”

I think about my own childhood—private chefs, meals that were business meetings, food as fuel rather than comfort. “You’re quite the homemaker.”

“I’m just someone who cares for her family.” She meets my eyes. “Family takes care of family. Right?”

I nod slowly. I know about family loyalty, about the weight of responsibility. But I’ve never thought of it as care. For me, family has always been duty.

“What about you?” Robin asks. “What’s your favorite?”

I consider lying, but only for a moment. “My father used to make these terrible American pancakes when I was small. He’d burn them every time, but he’d cover them in so much syrup it didn’t matter.”

Robin’s face softens. “That sounds perfect.”

“It was.” The admission slips out before I can stop it: “I miss him.”

She reaches across the table and briefly touches my hand. The contact sends electricity up my arm. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she says. “For all of this.”

I want to tell her she doesn’t need to thank me. I want to tell her that seeing her wonder is worth more than any business deal. Instead, I just lift my wine glass.

“To new experiences,” I say.

“To new experiences,” she echoes, clinking her glass against mine.

After dinner, we walk along the Seine, with Leon keeping a respectful distance. The city glitters around us, golden light over ancient stones. Robin stops at every bridge, every view, marveling at the beauty of it all.

“I used to dream about this,” she says, leaning against the railing. “Walking along the Seine at night, feeling like I was in a movie.”

“And now?”

“Now I feel like I’m living someone else’s life.” She turns to me, her face serious. “A much better life.”

I’ve given women any amount of jewelry. I’ve bought them cars, houses, art. But I’ve never seen gratitude like this—pure, unguarded, real.

“Robin,” I start, but she’s already moving closer.

“I know what this is,” she says softly. “I know it’s temporary. But right now, in this moment, I’ve never been happier.”

She kisses me then, soft and sweet and tasting of wine. I let myself sink into it, let myself pretend that this could be more than a handful of days, more than a transaction.

When we break apart, she’s smiling. “Come on. Show me more of your city.”

My city. As if Paris belongs to me. As if I could give it to her if she asked.

And I see now why Uncle Stefan encouraged me to come here.

Paris has been my one weakness, a place of terror and sorrow.

But seeing it with Robin has swept away the shadows and made it magical once more.

My father loved Paris. It was why he always insisted on coming to Paris himself, even though Stefan was technically supposed to handle European meetings.

Paris was where he honeymooned with my mother, and he confided in me that coming there with me was a way to remember her.

And now coming here with Robin has been a way for me to remember him .

We walk until late, her hand in mine, and I find myself laughing at her observations, her questions, her complete lack of cynicism about the world. I haven’t laughed like this in years.

“What are you thinking about?” Robin asks as we make our way back to the hotel.

“You,” I say, and it’s the truth.

She stops walking. “Eva...”

“Don’t.” I touch her face, memorizing the feel of her skin. “Don’t say anything else.”

She nods, understanding. We both know this is dangerous territory, these moments of honesty between us. But neither of us seems capable of stepping back.

Back at the hotel, I plan to devour her. To lose myself in her body, to take and take until I remember why I bought her in the first place. I head to the bathroom to prepare myself, to gather my composure.

But when I emerge, Robin is face-down on the bed, completely unconscious. She’s still in her dress, one arm dangling off the side of the mattress. Her breathing is deep and even, punctuated by soft little snuffles that shouldn’t be as endearing as they are.

She sleeps like the innocent she is. Like someone who’s never had to sleep with one eye open, never had to build walls just to survive. Like someone who believes the world is fundamentally good.

I stand frozen, watching her. She’s so innocent. So trusting. So completely unaware of the darkness that follows me everywhere.

I can do anything, go anywhere. I hold the world in the palm of my hand, and yet right now, I envy her. I envy her ability to find joy in simple pleasures, to trust so completely, to sleep the sleep of the blameless.

I cross the room and carefully remove her shoes, setting them aside. She doesn’t stir. I pull the duvet up over her shoulders, tucking her in like a child.

For a moment—just a moment—I consider sliding in next to her. I’ve never slept in the same bed as one of my lovers. Never let anyone that close. And as Robin’s breathing evens out again, I force myself to step back from her.

Tonight was so perfect. I don’t want to spoil it.

But the idea is so tempting…