Page 110 of Pretend To Be Mine

“Within reason,” Briggs said, standing. “Some areas are off limits, but most of the palace is accessible. Come on.”

What followed was two hours of Elizabeth experiencing something close to religious ecstasy. Briggs led us through gilt-covered rooms with painted ceilings, explaining the history while Elizabeth took in every detail with wide-eyed wonder. What I loved most is she wasn’t pausing every few seconds to take pictures. She was living in the moment.

“This is where Marie Antoinette had her apartments,” Briggs said at one point. “Obviously highly modified since the Revolution, but some original elements remain.”

Elizabeth moved through the space like she was in a dream, touching nothing but clearly wanting to touch everything. When we reached the Galerie des Batailles—where tonight’s show would take place—she actually stopped breathing for a second.

The room was massive, lined with paintings depicting French military victories. The ceiling soared overhead. Our team had already begun setting up the runway down the center, but even with modern equipment intruding, the space was breathtaking.

“This is where I’m going to watch a fashion show tonight,” Elizabeth said faintly. “In Versailles. This is my actual life.”

“Getting used to it?” I asked, coming up behind her.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.” She turned to face me. “How insane your world is. How much access you have to things normal people only see in guidebooks.”

Sebastian appeared, looking slightly more human after whatever combination of caffeine and aspirin he had consumed.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt the moment, but Elizabeth, Annika’s looking for you. Something about fabric you’ve been waiting on?”

“Oh! Right, I need to start on the dresses.” Elizabeth checked her phone. “We only have two days to make three dresses. I should⁠—”

“Go,” I said. “I need to review technical specs with Briggs anyway. Boring CEO stuff.”

“Take pictures,” she instructed. “Of everything. I want to remember every detail.”

“I’m not taking pictures.”

“Please?” She deployed those green eyes, and I was utterly defenseless against them. “Just a few?”

“Fine. A few.”

“And some with you in them. Selfies.”

I groaned. “Elizabeth⁠—”

“Please? I want to remember you here, in Versailles, before tonight when everything gets crazy again.”

There was something in her voice, almost desperation, that made me agree despite my general policy of avoiding selfies.

“Okay. But you’re doing the actual photo-taking. I refuse to hold the phone.”

What followed was fifteen minutes of Elizabeth dragging me around various rooms, making me pose in increasingly ridiculous locations while she snapped photos. In front of an enormous painting of Napoleon. Next to a bust of Louis XIV. Standing in a doorway with gilded molding that was just a little ostentatious.

“One more,” she kept saying. “Just one more.”

But I didn’t mind. Not really. Because she was happy and making her happy had become my favorite thing to do.

We ended up in a small anteroom off the main galleries, less ornate than the other spaces but still beautiful in that particular French way. Elizabeth pulled me close for a final photo, and instead of the usual posed smile, she kissed my cheek just as she hit the button.

“Perfect,” she said, showing me the result.

In the photo, I was caught mid-laugh, her lips against my cheek, both of us looking ridiculously happy. Like people in love, not people pretending.

“Send that to me,” I said.

“Really? The great Adrian Blackwell wants a selfie?”

“That specific selfie, yes.” I pulled her closer. “Because you look beautiful in it. And happy. And I want to remember this.”