Chapter 19 Chapter 19
Lily
The sun is dipping low behind the Paris skyline when Sebastian rests his hand on mine in the car. His fingers lace with mine gently, his thumb stroking the back of my hand as the car weaves through the cobblestone streets.
“She sent the location to this hotel restaurant,” he says quietly.
I nod, my heart still humming with the memory of the picture she’d sent earlier.
The driver pulls up in front of a grand hotel with gilded balconies and glowing lanterns. The air outside is tinged with the scent of summer roses and something faintly smoky from the kitchens. Sebastian helps me out of the car, his hand firm and warm on the small of my back.
As we step inside, I pause for a breath. The restaurant is set just beside an open terrace that overlooks a pool shimmering in blue light. The marble floors gleam beneath our feet and soft music floats in the background — an elegant blend of French jazz and something more sultry.
Giana is already seated at a round table set for three near the tall windows. She spots us and waves with a subtle, practiced smile. She’s dressed in a silky cream satin gown, her neckline low, and her golden hair tucked behind one shoulder like she knew exactly what she was doing. But what pleases me most is that Sebastian doesn't spare her more than a passing glance. His eyes stay on me.
We walk over, and I greet her with a polite nod.
“Bonsoir,” Sebastian says in his deep voice.
I sit beside him — not across. A deliberate choice. I rest my hand on his thigh, and he places his hand over mine instinctively, grounding me.
The waiter brings the menu, and we order. I choose coq au vin and gratin chouchou, wanting something traditionally French but comforting. Sebastian orders a plat principaux — a steak with peppercorn sauce and fine vegetables. I opt for a smooth red wine, while he orders whiskey, neat.
Giana folds her arms on the table, her eyes flicking between us. “So,” she begins, twirling a strand of her hair, “how long have you two been dating?”
Before Sebastian can answer, I jump in smoothly with a practiced smile.
“He came to my university a few months ago to give a speech. That’s where we met. It was... unexpected,” I say, squeezing his thigh under the table. “But we started dating not long after. Then the wedding happened.”
Sebastian glances at me, amused, but doesn’t contradict my story. Instead, he brushes his thumb over my knuckles again — silent agreement. I shoot him a small let me handle this look. He understands.
“Oh, how sweet,” Giana replies with a hollow smile. Her eyes drift lazily over to Sebastian, and then she leans back, her voice turning more flirtatious. “You know, I used to date Sebastian before,” she says like she’s reciting a cherished secret. “And God, this man is good in bed.”
A jealous spark ignites in my chest, but I keep my expression unreadable.
“He knows everything,” she adds, biting her lower lip slightly.
I return her gaze, my tone light but loaded.
“Well, that’s a good thing,” I murmur, lifting my glass of wine to my lips.
The waiter arrives with our food, saving me from having to say more. The rich scent of braised chicken in red wine and creamy chouchou fills the air. My dish is a comforting contrast to the tension at the table.
Sebastian, without even acknowledging Giana’s provocation, turns toward me as he slices into his steak.
“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice tender, eyes only on me.
I smile, “It’s perfect.”
Giana launches into a monologue about her modeling career — a shoot in Milan, a campaign for a French perfume brand, something about a Vogue spread. She’s animated, obviously trying to remind Sebastian of her past glory, her relevance in his life. She even laughs at memories only they might share, but he doesn’t laugh back.
Instead, he pours more wine into my glass and brushes a stray strand of hair from my cheek. His attention is clear — unwavering.
Giana catches the moment. Her smile falters slightly.
“Sebastian?” she says, her tone almost petulant.
“Hm?” he doesn’t even look at her. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
The words hang in the air like a mic drop, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.
We continue eating while chatting about the city, art, even the Eiffel Tower visit earlier. The only person trying too hard is Giana — and the only person not playing along is Sebastian.
And I know now — that photo, her words — they meant nothing to him.
Sebastian excuses himself from the table with a quiet, “I’ll be right back,” setting his napkin beside his plate. I watch him disappear down the softly lit corridor that leads toward the restrooms and the open-air garden beyond. A minute hasn’t even passed when Giana rises too.
“I should freshen up,” she says lightly—too lightly—and glides away, her satin dress whispering against her legs.
Holy hell. What is she doing?Heat coils in my stomach. I try to sip my wine, but it tastes suddenly metallic. Seconds stretch. The air tightens around me until I can’t sit still anymore.
I stand.
My heart is pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat as I step off the terrace walkway and follow the same path—past a row of potted lavender and low lanterns casting honeyed pools of light. The corridor opens into a small courtyard—a pocket garden with a manicured patch of grass, climbing ivy, and a stone fountain murmuring softly.
I stop dead.
Giana is pressed far too close to Sebastian, her body tilted into his. Her hand curls around his wrist, guiding his hand upward—slipping it inside the low front of her dress, over her chest. My stomach drops, cold and sharp.
Before I can even breathe, she lifts herself onto her toes and forces her mouth onto his—bold, deliberate, desperate.
Sebastian jerks back after a heartbeat, his jaw tightening, eyes flashing. “Enough,” he snaps, shoving her away. She stumbles, heel catching in the grass, nearly falling before she steadies herself with a sharp intake of breath.
He looks up—and his gaze collides with mine.
For one suspended second we just stare at each other: him, breathing hard, annoyance and something like regret flickering across his face; me, frozen in place, every insecurity roaring awake.
I turn before he can speak.
The lemon-and-lavender scent of the courtyard follows me as I retrace my steps, forcing my legs to move steadily even though my pulse is ragged. I return to the table and reclaim my seat, placing my hands carefully in my lap so he won’t see them tremble.
The untouched wine glows ruby in the glass. I stare into it like it might give me answers.
What did I just witness? And what—exactly—is he going to say when he comes back?