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The flight is short.

Less than two hours, and I'm sure he'll work for most of it.

I watch the French countryside unroll below us. Patchwork of green and gold, rivers catching the fading light, and try to remember that tonight is about business. Pierre's football club that Everett has been trying to buy for years. Now I get to play a part in making that happen for him.

After we land and exit the jet to a waiting town car, I try not to think too hard about the way Everett's hand rests on my lower back as he helps me into the car. I try not to blush and bite my lip when I catch his eyes tracking the length of me in this dress and then looking away as if he's worried that if he doesn't, he might do something to me in the back of the car that might make us late for dinner.

Focus, Aria. Besides, Everett is too laser-focused and driven to let one little wife in the back of the town car distract him tonight.

Paris greets us with traffic and golden evening light and effortless grandeur that makes every other city feel like it’s trying too hard. The restaurant is tucked behind an unmarked door on a narrow street in the 8th Arrondissement—the kind of place that doesn't need a sign because the people who eat here already know where it is.

Pierre and Margaux are already seated when we arrive.

Pierre stands immediately when he sees us. His silver hair perfectly brushed back into place, a suit perfectly tailored, just like Everett.

"Everett." He clasps Everett's hand with both of his, then turns to me. "And the beautiful bride. Aria, you are even lovelier than I remember."

"Careful," Margaux says from behind him, rising with a warm smile. "Your wife is right here."

She kisses both my cheeks in greeting, her perfume something rich and floral. I don't know the fragrance. "Ignore him. He flirts with everyone. It's genetic."

"It's French," Pierre corrects.

"It's annoying," Margaux says, but the tone is teasing.

I like her all over again and it's nice to feel back into a place where Everett and I both feel represented in the same social circle. Just like at La Maison Aurelle.

Dinner unfolds in courses so small and beautiful I feel guilty eating them. Pierre dominates the conversation with charm and strategy. He asks about Kauffman Holdings' vision, about the club, about what Everett sees for the future of sports ownership in Europe. He's testing both Everett's knowledge and his intentions with the team. It's also obvious that Pierre likes being courted and I can see in the way that Everett answers each question, that he understands this too.

Everett handles it like a pro... like he was born for this role. And maybe he was.

Margaux and I talk in the spaces between—about Cannes, about art, about the light on the Riviera this time of year. She asks about the honeymoon with a knowing smile that makes my cheeks warm.

"You look happy," she says simply. "Both of you."

"We are," I say.

It's not a lie, but it's not the entire truth either.

And then I shift a glance at him, to find Everett watching me, waiting to hear my answer as if he was just as curious for my answer as she was.

Halfway through the main course, Pierre lifts his wine glass.

"A toast," he says. "To new partnerships. To beautiful women who make their husbands look far more interesting than they deserve." A pointed look at Everett. "And to birthdays."

He clinks his glass against Everett's.

"Joyeux anniversaire, mon ami."

The world tilts.

Birthday. It's his birthday. Not that he told me exactly but with the trust deadline for him to be married and everything, I should have known it was today.

I keep my face still through sheer force of will.

My eyes cut to Everett, who accepts the toast with a small nod and absolutely no indication that he cares one way or the other if his wife remembered it or not.

Still Pierre knew... and I didn't even wish him a happy birthday this morning. The very bare minimum I could have done.