Inside, warm water cascades from multiple directions, enveloping us in a private world of steam and sensation. Gage takes his time washing me, hands gliding soap-slicked across every inch of skin, paying special attention to places still sensitive from our earlier activities.
When his fingers slip between my thighs, I gasp despite myself, my body responding instantly to his touch.
"Still so responsive," he murmurs against my ear, pressing me against the cool tile wall. "So ready for me."
What follows is another claiming—less gentle than before, more urgent. My hands brace against marble as he takes me from behind, one arm wrapped around my waist to hold me steady against his forceful thrusts, the other hand working between my legs to ensure my pleasure.
Water cascades over us, washing away evidence of previous encounters only to create new ones. His groans echo off tile walls as my body welcomes him, accepts him, responds to him with embarrassing eagerness.
When we finally emerge, skin flushed from hot water and exertion, I feel marked by him in ways that transcend the visible. My reflection in the steamed mirror shows a woman I barely recognize—hair darkened by water, eyes bright with lingering pleasure, lips swollen from his kisses.
This is the woman the world will see today—Gage Blackwood's wife, physically satisfied if emotionally conflicted, moving through Paris on his arm as if she belongs there.
Paris unfoldsaround us like a dream—golden light on ancient buildings, narrow streets opening to unexpected vistas, the Seine flowing languidly beneath historic bridges. In the back ofGage's luxury car, I watch the city pass by the window, conscious of his hand resting casually on my knee.
"We'll start with l'Orangerie as requested," he says, checking his watch. "I've arranged private access before regular opening hours."
Of course he has. Nothing is impossible when you're Gage Blackwood—no door remains closed, no schedule can't be adjusted, no rules apply that he doesn't choose to acknowledge.
The museum is indeed empty when we arrive, a nervous curator greeting us at a side entrance with effusive welcome. Gage responds in flawless French, introducing me as his wife with casual possession that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
"This way, Madame Blackwood," the curator says, switching to English for my benefit.
The name still feels foreign—a label applied to a person I don't fully recognize. I follow without comment, aware of Gage's hand at the small of my back, guiding me through empty galleries toward the oval rooms housing Monet's masterpieces.
When we enter the first room, I stop involuntarily, breath catching at the immersive beauty of the enormous canvases. Water lilies stretch across curved walls, surrounding us completely, drawing the eye into painted depths that seem to continue infinitely.
For the first time since our arrival in Paris, I forget my circumstances completely—forget the legal bindings, the physical claims, the uncertain future. Art has always affected me deeply, and these paintings more than most, their tranquil beauty a balm to troubled minds.
I move slowly around the room, absorbing each panel, each subtle variation in color and texture. Gage remains a few paces behind, allowing me this moment of genuine appreciation without interruption.
"They're even more beautiful than I imagined," I say finally, unaware I've spoken aloud until Gage responds.
"The curved walls were Monet's idea," he says, stepping closer. "He wanted viewers surrounded by the paintings, immersed completely in his vision of serenity."
I glance at him, surprised by both the information and the evident appreciation in his voice. "You're familiar with his work?"
"My mother was an admirer," he explains. "She had several smaller Monet pieces in her personal collection."
This glimpse of Gage's background—of the woman who shaped him before her untimely death—catches me off guard. It's the third mention of his mother since our arrival in Paris, all without my prompting. Significant, though I'm not yet sure how.
We move to the second oval room, equally breathtaking in different hues. Here, Gage stands beside me rather than behind, our shoulders nearly touching as we observe the paintings together.
"What do you see in them?" he asks unexpectedly.
I consider the question honestly. "Peace," I say finally. "A moment of perfect stillness captured forever. The artist's vision of paradise preserved for others to experience."
He nods thoughtfully. "My mother said something similar. That Monet painted not just water lilies, but the silence between heartbeats."
The poetic description surprises me, revealing a sensitivity I wouldn't have associated with the calculated businessman I've come to know.
"She sounds like a remarkable woman," I offer carefully.
"She was," he agrees, his expression softening momentarily before returning to its usual controlled neutrality. "We should continue if you want to see the Jeu de Paume before lunch."
The spell breaks, reality reasserting itself. I am still his wife by arrangement, still bound by legal documents and physical possession. This moment of shared appreciation changes nothing fundamental about our situation.
Yet as we move through Paris together, from museum to gallery, from historic church to hidden courtyard, I find myself observing him with new awareness. Gage moves through the world with confident authority, yet there's genuine appreciation in his interaction with art and architecture. He speaks knowledgeably about history and culture, revealing an education far broader than purely business-focused.
