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The car stops.

I turn to Everett.

He's already watching me.

"Pierre has a friend on the board," he says quietly. "I asked."

My mouth gapes open for a moment.

"This is the deal you made..." I say, because it's not a question.

He bartered for something with Pierre to get me this. He gave up something so I could have this tonight.

"It's closed," he continues. "The event ended two hours ago. But the pieces are still up. And they'll stay for us as long as we want."

I stare at him.

At this man who didn't tell me it was his birthday but arranged a private museum showing because I mentioned once, in passing, to someone else, that I wanted to go.

Everett Kauffman: Billionaire heir, savage business negotiator... the same man who has been working on this deal for five years gave up something in the negotiations in order to give me one night.

"Everett."

"You don't have to say anything or thank me."

"Please don't do that," I say, and my voice comes out shaky in a way I don't bother hiding. "Don't minimize what you did for me."

He goes quiet.

I lean across the seat and press my mouth to his cheek. Soft and slow. Feeling the warmth of his skin and the slight roughness at his jaw and the way he holds perfectly still like he doesn't trust himself to move.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Then I pull back, open the car door, and step out into the Paris night before I say anything else I’m not ready to take back. Everett is there quickly, a hand out to help me up the stairs of the museum.

The museum is silent when we walk in.

It's not an empty-silent. It's a sacred-silent. The kind of quiet that only happens in spaces built to hold beautiful things after all the people have gone home.

Our footsteps echo on marble floors. The lighting is low which makes everything feel intimate and private and slightly unreal. A guard trails us at a distance. One attendant offered to walk us through but Everett declined with a nod.

Just us.

In a museum.

In Paris.

At midnight.

If I ever wanted to know what Cinderella felt like, it was probably something like this.

I stop in front of the first piece and forget how to breathe.

It's a Cézanne.

It's not a print or reproduction like I've seen. This is the actual painting, right there, close enough to touch if I were insane enough to try. The brushwork is visible and gorgeous. The texture is alive as if it was just set days ago, not years. Colors I've studied in books for years glowing under the soft lights in ways no photograph has ever captured.

I press my fingers to my mouth.