Page 72 of Thorns of Love

“Hats were a good call.” She smiled, fixing it so it was tilted fashionably and we continued down the sidewalk.

It didn’t take long to get to the humble, slow-moving river, the Seine. The river flowed through Troyes and through the heart of the city. My step halted and I watched the lights reflect across the surface of the river. The beauty of it hit me and a memory I had forgotten came rushing through.

“Adrian, why can’t we stop in Paris on the way home?”

“I have work.”

I let out a frustrated breath. “You took time to come to Russia. We can take an extra two days and stop in Paris.”

Adrian had taken me to a parking lot in Russia before ending at the hotel room. Our honeymoon was frankly shitty and totally not what I had been expecting. Not even a dinner at a restaurant. Instead, he ordered room service. Yesterday and today.

“No. When I’m dead, go to Paris.”

I blinked confused, then repeated slowly. “When you’re dead…”

His gaze met mine. Unemotional. Cold. Leveled.

“Go to Paris,” he finished the sentence.

Clenching my fists, I gritted, “Then let’s go walk the streets of Moscow.”

It was an understatement of the century to say I was pissed off. I deserved better than this. If I uttered a single word to Vasili that my honeymoon sucked, he’d handle it but I didn’t want to have to do that. I didn’t want to hear ‘I told you not to date him’ from my eldest brother.

Adrian returned his eyes to the screen and I stomped my foot, fury threatening to boil over.

“Adrian!”

The streets and sights of Moscow were better than staring at these four walls. If he’d devoured me and we’d spent them between the sheets, I could be convinced to stay in. But he hadn’t even touched me.

“You can go,” he retorted, never lifting his eyes off the screen. “I’ll wait for you here.”

Anger boiled deep inside me, but I refused to start an argument on my honeymoon. No matter how shitty it was. So I grabbed a coat and left without a backward glance.

And here I was. In Paris. Years too late. A life too short.

“Are you okay?” Isla’s breath clouded the air, her eyes on me full of worry. I nodded, turning my attention to the Seine. I stared down the river, the sounds of soft, romantic music traveling on the breeze.

“It’s ironic, you know,” I started softly, something deep inside me aching. Somehow both of my marriages had ended up starting the same way. Elopement. Rushing to Russia. “Adrian, my first husband, took me to Russia for our honeymoon too.” She frowned, watching me confused. I shook my head, then sighed. “It’s a long story,” I added.

She remained silent, waiting for me to continue. Except, I didn’t know where this story would take me. Another disappointment? Another clue?

“I’m glad I got to come here with you,” I said warmly.

“Me too.” She squeezed my hand. “W-was he good to you?”

Bitterness could be like poison, slithering through your veins until you forgot everything but the wrongs. It was so easy to get lost in the wrongs. His. Mine. Ours. It didn’t even matter. I remembered the boy who snuck ice cream to me when Vasili said no. The boy who beat up my bullies in high school when Sasha was in the service.

In recent weeks, or maybe even months, I had come to the realization that Adrianhad beengood to me. Until we got married.

Then instead of bringing us closer together, our marriage had torn us apart. And, with each discovery, the seeds of doubt grew and suspicion started to form. Adrian wasn’t who I thought he was.

“Yes,” I finally answered because anything else was too complicated. Adrian was gone and now, I just wanted to learn the truth. Have him rest in peace. Find peace for myself. We had earned it. I turned to her and smiled. “We are in the most romantic city in the world. Let’s enjoy it tonight.”

And we did. We strolled through the centuries old streets. Its stunning architecture shone in a completely different light.

A Paris night cruise along the Seine River. Drinks at a Rooftop Bar. We swung by an Art Déco Pool. Then ate in Montmartre.

We even shopped. We drifted in and out of the stores. French sales women were more than eager to sell us anything and everything. They called us rich Russians. I didn’t bother correcting them until we were leaving the store with bags of dresses and shoes.