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"I worked for you for six months. I know a thing or two about your tells." She folds another layer of tissue over the painting. "And you’re easy to read when you don’t think anyone’s watching."

The room goes quiet after that, but it’s the kind of quiet I’ve gotten used to with her. The kind of quiet that doesn’t mean space is building between us. More like the opposite.

She packs the second canvas next. This one she pauses over longer.

Her fingers linger on the frame before she slides it into the portfolio case, then lets out a quiet sigh.

"Is something wrong?" I ask.

She exhales slowly. "No. I’m just trying to figure out how this place managed to feel real so fast."

She’s right. I feel it too.

The villa should still feel staged for a fake married honeymoon. A beautiful lie with expensive towels and room service.

Instead, it became the first place in years that felt anything close to honest with myself and what I want.

"That’s because it was never really about the villa," I say.

Her eyes lift to mine.

"No?"

"No."

She studies me for a second. "You know, there are moments when you accidentally say something that sounds almost romantic."

"I try not to make a habit of it."

"Of course not. That would be terrible for your brand."

"You have no idea. My competitors would eat me alive."

That gets a quiet laugh out of her, but I can still feel the thought moving underneath it.

I feel it too.

Because France was easy in all the ways that mattered. No boardrooms. No penthouse that made my wife feel like she had to dim herself to fit inside it. No trust board breathing down our necks looking for us to slip. No six a.m. calls about media optics and acquisition schedules and whether one of our divisions is on fire again.

Seattle will be the real test. Not a test about whether I want her. That I decided a long time ago. Now it’s whether I know how to build a life that doesn’t make her miserable for choosing me back.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Doug.

I pick it up and glance at the screen.

On schedule, sir. West wing crews finishing final electrical and paint touchups tonight.

It’s one in the morning in Seattle, but that’s why Colston’s construction division is the best in the business. They stay on a project until it’s done. If anyone could make a miracle happen on short notice, it’s them.

Aria is bent over zipping the portfolio case. She doesn’t notice that I’m texting a project manager about something I’m having done at the house for her.

I type back one-handed.

Ready by tomorrow morning?

The three dots appear almost immediately.