Page 98

I should ask what's in the bag. I want to ask what she's painting. Where she's going. Why she looks like this place is waking her back up one breath at a time.

My phone buzzes again.

A text from Sienna.

Pierre's assistant confirmed. Three days. Paris. Dinner for four.

Aria's eyes flick to the screen before I can turn it over.

I look up.

"We have dinner reservations with Pierre and his wife."

She blinks. "Oh. That'll be fun. They're coming here?"

"No." I take a sip of the coffee she doctored for me and set the cup down. "We'll fly to Paris for dinner."

Her brows lift. "Right. We'll just fly to Paris for dinner like that's a completely normal sentence."

The corner of my mouth threatens to move. "It's not a big thing."

"It feels at least a little like a big thing."

"Not unless I land the deal," I say. "Then it is."

She shifts the satchel higher on her shoulder, and studies me for a moment.

"Don't worry, Everett," she says. "I'll play the doting wife."

My gaze catches on her mouth for half a second too long.

"Try not to look too thrilled about it," I say.

That smile touches her mouth again—small, bright, entirely too effective.

"No promises."

I watch her go.

Only when she disappears down the path do I look back at the screen.

Three days from now—my birthday.

The thought lands with all the emotional weight of an invoice.

Birthdays were never really mine. They were markers for my mother. Eighteen. College graduation. Milestones that came with payouts, check-ins, future leverage. Every birthday was less a celebration and more a countdown to whatever she stood to gain once I hit the next mark.

So no, I've never cared much about birthdays.

I lock the phone and set it face down on the counter.

Then I pick up my coffee and walk into the study, stopping just inside the glass doors to look out at the now-empty terrace.

From in here, I can see everything.

The kitchen.

The dining area.