Chapter 17 Chapter 17
Lily
I wake up in Sebastian’s arms, the soft morning light slipping through the sheer curtains of our Paris hotel suite. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath my cheek, and for a fleeting moment, I allow myself to enjoy the warmth of being held. Then his eyes flutter open, and we both glance toward the blood stain on the white sheets. It lingers between us like a silent memory—proof of last night, of what I gave him. Of what I can never take back.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me, his expression unreadable, but his arms remain around me. I turn away, not sure what I’m feeling—vulnerability, confusion, maybe even a strange comfort. I’ve never let anyone touch me like that before. I’ve guarded myself for so long, and yet… I let Sebastian have me.
Later, I get dressed in a crisp white pair of tailored shorts and a black silk shirt tucked neatly at the waist. My white sneakers are spotless, and I slide on my sunglasses to shield my eyes from the mid-morning sun—and maybe a bit from the man beside me too. I’m still sore. My body aches in ways I didn’t expect, and I’m trying hard not to let it show.
We have breakfast upstairs, in the comfort of our suite. I didn’t feel like facing strangers downstairs. Sebastian had ordered for both of us: fresh croissants, fruit, coffee, and a soft omelet with herbs. We barely talked. The silence between us wasn’t cold—just heavy.
Now, we’re heading to the Eiffel Tower. Sebastian’s dressed casually today: a fitted navy-blue polo shirt, white pants, and matching shoes. He still looks devastatingly good, though I can’t help but think he wears black better—it suits his darker moods.
“You look pretty,” he says, giving me a half-smile as we get ready to leave.
“Thanks.” I glance at him, then away.
“You good?” he asks, almost out of the blue.
I chuckle softly. “Still very sore from last night.”
He steps closer, his voice lowering with concern. “Will you be able to go?”
I nod, brushing a stray hair behind my ear. “Yeah. I can manage.”
“You sure, angel?”
“I’m sure.”
He studies me for a second longer, then pulls out his phone. “I’ll call the driver to drop us.”
I watch him as he speaks briefly in French, then hangs up. “Let’s wait in the lobby. He’s already on his way.”
We take the elevator down. Sebastian places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me out through the grand hallway. The car is waiting for us outside. It's sleek, black, with tinted windows—a clear sign it belongs to someone powerful. As I climb in, he leans over and whispers, “Driver’s one of the Godfather’s men. You’re safe.”
The drive is short. The Eiffel Tower looms ahead, iconic and majestic against the bright sky. Tourists are everywhere—snapping photos, laughing, wandering aimlessly in awe. We walk through the gardens, the gravel crunching beneath our shoes. The energy is light here, but my mind is still heavy.
I pause and take a few photos with the tower in the background, then send one to Bella. She replies almost instantly: “How’s your honeymoon going?”
I type: “Good. In Paris. Eiffel Tower now.” I don’t say more.
Sebastian leads us to a beautiful glass-panelled restaurant nearby with views of the Tower from every seat. We sit on the terrace under a white parasol, and the waiter arrives with menus in elegant leather folders. I order duck confit with potato gratin and a glass of rosé. Sebastian chooses grilled sea bass and a glass of sparkling water.
“You didn’t order wine?” I tease.
“I’m watching you. One of us has to stay sober.” He smirks.
I roll my eyes playfully and take a slow sip of mine.
Our food arrives—beautifully plated and fragrant. My duck confit glistens beside a neat tower of potato gratin, with caramelized shallots and a drizzle of dark, glossy sauce. Sebastian’s grilled sea bass is served over a bed of buttered asparagus with a lemon herb vinaigrette.
“Looks delicious,” I murmur, picking up my fork.
He nods. “Paris never disappoints with food.”
We eat in a moment of calm silence, enjoying the flavors, until he clears his throat.
“The Godfather called earlier,” Sebastian says casually as he cuts into his fish.
I blink and look up at him. “Oh?”
“He asked how our honeymoon is going,” he continues, setting down his fork and reaching for his glass of sparkling water. “I told him it’s good… that you’re happy.”
I pause, surprised by the detail. “You talk to him often?”
“Almost daily,” he admits. “He also said he wants to meet you once we’re back in New York.”
My brows lift slightly. “He’s really close to you, isn’t he?”
Sebastian pauses at that. He gently sets down his fork and takes a slow sip of his water, his eyes not meeting mine for a second. Then he looks up.
“Yeah. He’s extremely close to me. There’s… a lot behind that story.”
There’s a weight in his tone that tells me not to press. So I nod. “Okay.”
We finish our meal while chatting about lighter things—architecture, places I want to see in Paris, the overly romantic people at nearby tables. After a while, he calls for the bill and pays without hesitation, tossing a few Euros for the waiter’s excellent service.
Outside, the air smells of pastries and distant perfume. The streets are lively yet elegant, every corner of Paris pulsing with effortless charm. As we walk, my sore muscles from last night’s intimacy remind me of how new all this is between us—how quickly everything has changed.
“You okay to keep walking?” Sebastian asks, his hand brushing lightly against my back.
“Yes,” I smile. “I can manage.”
We stroll through narrow streets filled with quaint boutiques and vintage stores. I slow down near a florist’s stall, captivated by a spread of pink, purple, and peach blooms. The fragrance of fresh petals fills the air, soft and sweet.
“You want flowers?” Sebastian asks, eyes on me, analyzing the way I look at them.
“Of course,” I reply with a half-smile.
We walk up to the florist. I admire a bunch of rare pink roses—each bloom open and delicate, almost otherworldly in their color.
“These,” Sebastian says, pointing to the pink ones. “Add a ribbon, please. Her choice.”
I choose a soft cream ribbon with gold edges, and the florist ties it delicately around the stems. Sebastian hands me the bouquet, and instead of thanking him with words, I lean in and press a playful kiss on his lips.
“You’re the first guy to buy me flowers,” I say softly.
He blinks, slightly caught off guard. “And you’re the first woman I’ve ever bought flowers for.”
I laugh. “Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t do the flowers and candies thing, Lily.”
We walk again, my fingers playing with the soft petals. I feel his hand occasionally brush mine, and for the first time in days, it feels like we’re just two people in a city meant for lovers.
Until a familiar voice cuts through the dreamy quiet.
“Seb.”
We both turn around. Giana stands a few feet away, elegant as ever. She’s wearing flowing, high-waisted cream pants, a matching top tucked in neatly, and a printed scarf draped around her neck. Her sunglasses are pushed up into her hair.
She approaches with that same confident grace she always carries and kisses Sebastian on both cheeks.
“Hi, Lily,” she says, smiling sweetly at me. Her eyes drop to the bouquet in my hands. “You never got me flowers before,” she says to Sebastian with a pointed smirk.
Sebastian’s jaw tightens. His voice is cool, detached. “Flowers are offered to special people only, Giana.”
Her smile falters for just a moment, but she recovers. “Okay,” she says with a shrug. Then she looks between us. “I wanted to have dinner with you both. Just to catch up.”
Sebastian opens his mouth to decline, but I cut in quickly.
“Yes, we can have dinner together.” My smile is tight, forced, but determined.
He turns to me, brows furrowed. “Lily—”
I just smile again.
“Tonight?” Giana asks, hopeful.
“Yeah, sounds great,” I reply, even though my insides twist a little.
“Okay. I’ll send Sebastian the location,” she says, then glances at him once more before walking away, her heels clicking against the pavement.
We stand there for a moment, the silence between us now heavy again.
“Why did you say yes?” Sebastian finally asks. He doesn’t sound angry—just confused.
I shrug lightly. “I want to know your ex.”
“But I already told you everything about her,” he insists, his voice more guarded now.
“I feel like you didn’t tell me the entire thing, hubby,” I reply coolly.
He stares at me, his lips parting slightly at my tone. I know I’ve hit a nerve. But I also know that if I’m going to share a life with this man—one as complicated as his—then I deserve the truth. All of it.
And tonight, maybe I’ll start getting the answers I’ve been waiting for.