The private jet touches down at Charles de Gaulle with barely a tremor, the descent as smooth and controlled as the man who owns it. I gaze out the window as Paris materializes through wisps of morning fog, the city of light appearing almost ethereal in the distance.
My wedding ring feels impossibly heavy on my finger, the weight disproportionate to its physical mass. I performed my role flawlessly.
And now we're here. Paris.
"We'll be escorted through a private terminal," Gage informs me as the plane taxis toward a separate hangar away from the main terminals. "No customs lines or baggage claim. The car is waiting to take us directly to the hotel."
I nod, having expected nothing less. Gage Blackwood moves through the world with an efficiency most can only imagine, obstacles removed before they materialize, convenience arranged with the precision of military operations.
He studies me with that assessing gaze I've grown accustomed to over the past weeks. "You're quiet this morning."
"Just tired," I reply, the partial truth easier than articulating the storm of emotions that has kept me withdrawn since the ceremony. "The flight was long."
"You barely slept," he observes, confirming my suspicion that he monitors me even when pretending to rest. "We can delay our plans if you prefer to rest."
"What plans?" I ask, genuinely curious despite myself. Gage has kept our itinerary private revealing next to nothing.
"Dinner reservations this evening at L'Ambroisie," he says. "Though there's no obligation if you prefer delivery service tonight."
The unexpected consideration—offering choice rather than dictating schedule—feels significant, though I'm wary of reading too much into small mercies.
"I'd like to see Paris," I say finally. "I've never been before."
Something like satisfaction crosses his expression. "Then we'll keep the reservation."
The flight attendant appears, informing us we're clear to disembark. Gage rises with fluid grace, extending his hand to help me from my seat—a gesture I accept automatically.
His hand is warm against mine, the brief contact sending an unwelcome awareness through my body. I've grown increasingly conscious of these physical reactions—my body's betrayal of my mind's continued resistance. The private terminal processes our arrival with efficiency—passport formalities handled by staff while we wait in a luxurious lounge, luggage transferred directly to the waiting vehicle. Within thirty minutes of landing, we're seated in the back of a sleek Mercedes, Paris unfolding around us as we glide toward the city center.
The City of Light awakening to morning routines, cafés opening their doors, merchants arranging displays. Under different circumstances, I might have pressed my face to the glass like an excited tourist, eagerly absorbing the beauty of acity I've visited only once before, briefly, during a college study program.
Instead, I watch with measured interest, maintaining emotional distance even from the city's undeniable beauty. The driver navigates through increasingly exclusive neighborhoods before turning onto a private drive hidden behind ornate gates that open at our approach.
The villa reveals itself gradually—a nineteenth-century mansion of pale stone and elegant proportions, set within manicured gardens that provide both beauty and privacy. Not the towering modern structure I'd expected from Gage's aesthetic preferences, but something with history, with substance, with roots deeper than contemporary wealth.
"The property has been in the Blackwood portfolio for nearly thirty years," Gage explains as we approach. "My mother preferred it to more modern accommodations in the city center."
The reference to his mother—rare in our conversations—catches my attention more than the property itself. Before I can decide whether to acknowledge it, the car stops at the entrance where a small staff contingent waits with practiced welcome.
"Monsieur Blackwood, Madame," the apparent head of household greets us with formal warmth. "Welcome to Villa Lumière. We are honored to receive you."
Gage responds in flawless French, introducing me with proper formality before inquiring about arrangements. The conversation flows around me as I follow them into the villa's entrance hall—a soaring space of marble floors, elegant moldings, and a sweeping staircase that curves toward upper floors.
"Your suite has been prepared as requested," the housekeeper explains, switching to English for my benefit. "Breakfast awaits in the morning room whenever you wish to refresh yourselves."
"Thank you, Madame Rousseau," Gage replies. "We'll take breakfast in thirty minutes, after we've had a chance to settle."
The staff withdraw with practiced discretion, leaving us alone in the entrance hall. Gage turns to me, his expression unreadable as always.
"Our suite is on the second floor, overlooking the garden," he says. "The entire east wing has been arranged for our privacy."
I follow him up the staircase, taking in the villa's details with appreciation—original artwork on walls, antique furnishings that speak of genuine provenance rather than decorated acquisitions, fresh flowers strategically placed.
The suite proves to be a collection of connected rooms rather than a single space—a sitting room opening to a massive bedroom and adjoining bathroom.
"Our room is through there," Gage indicates a doorway to the right. "I've taken the liberty of having your luggage unpacked. If anything is missing or arranged incorrectly, Madame Rousseau can adjust as needed."
I move toward the indicated door, pausing with my hand on the knob. "Thank you," I say, the words emerging from social training rather than genuine sentiment.
