Chapter 33 We Can Spend All the Time You Need Together
Andrew threw a quick, victorious jab into the air, fist pumping once. “Alright. Alright.” He nodded, excitement flashing in his eyes. “The food you ordered has been delivered. Join us in the dining area when you’re done.”
“Alright,” she answered, already pulling a cream cashmere sweater from its hanger.
He gave her one last lingering look— eyes dragging down the length of her towel— then turned and left, door closing softly behind him.
Minutes later the dining area glowed under a modern crystal chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a view of Paris rooftops turning gold in the climbing sun. The long glass table was set simply but elegantly: white plates, silver cutlery, linen napkins. Steam rose from grilled chicken, mashed potatoes flecked with chives, bright steamed broccoli and carrots. A bottle of Merlot stood open, three glasses poured.
Pete sat cross-legged on his chair, fork already busy. Andrew took the head of the table, long legs stretched out. Amelia arrived last— cream sweater tucked into high-waisted black trousers, hair still damp but brushed smooth, bare feet silent on the oak.
She slid into the seat beside Andrew.
He glanced at her, smiled, then turned his plate toward her. “I’d like another piece of chicken meat, babe.”
Amelia picked up the serving fork without hesitation, sliced a thick, juicy portion from the platter, placed it carefully on his plate, added a spoonful of mashed potatoes for good measure, then passed it back.
Pete watched the entire exchange— cheeks puffed with food he was still chewing. He swallowed hard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If you call her babe,” he said, voice small but clear, “does that mean she’s my mom now?”
Andrew froze mid-bite. Fork hovered. His eyes lifted slowly to Amelia’s. She met his gaze— steady, soft, waiting.
Seconds stretched. Then Andrew’s shoulders eased. A slow, certain smile curved his lips. He set the fork down gently.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, calm, confident. “That actually means so.”
Amelia’s smile bloomed— quiet, radiant. She reached under the table, found Andrew’s hand, squeezed once.
Pete blinked twice. “Okay.”
He picked up his fork again and resumed eating, small legs swinging under the chair.
Andrew and Amelia kept their eyes locked across the table. Every few bites she mouthed “thank you,” lips barely moving, smile never fading. He answered with the smallest nod each time, thumb brushing the back of her hand under the linen cloth.
Sunlight strengthened through the windows. Paris hummed below. Breakfast continued in warm, easy silence broken only by the soft clink of cutlery and Pete’s contented humming between mouthfuls.
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'THREE DAYS LATER— MAGGIE’S POV BACK IN THE STATES'
The grand living room of the multimillion-dollar mansion breathed old money and new silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the dense, snow-dusted woods of Brooklyn beyond, but inside the light was warm, golden, spilling from a massive crystal chandelier that hung like frozen rain above the seating area. The plush sectional sofa— deep charcoal velvet— cradled Maggie’s rigid frame. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, knuckles white, nails digging half-moons into the soft cashmere of her sweater. Her chest rose and fell in short, sharp bursts. On the low tempered-glass coffee table in front of her, her phone lay face-up, screen dark, reflecting the chandelier’s glitter like scattered stars.
She stared at it for three full breaths. Then her jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped under her skin.
“I’m not taking this anymore,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
Her right hand shot forward, fingers closing around the phone’s cool edge. She snatched it up, thumb already swiping to contacts. Andrew’s name— saved with Love with love and kiss emojis beside it— glowed at the top of the recent calls list. She tapped it once. The screen bloomed blue. It rang once.
The call connected on the first ring.
“Hey,” Andrew’s deep, easy voice rolled through the speaker like distant thunder wrapped in velvet.
“Hey?!” Maggie’s voice cracked like a whip. “Is that all you have to say?”
A small pause.
“What do you want me to say?”
“What do I want you to say?!” Her free hand flew up, palm open, as though she could slap the air itself. “Am I a joke to you? Why would you leave me here alone— stranded— in this mansion to fend for myself? This is not right.”
“Stranded?” His tone stayed level, almost amused. “Thought I told you where I kept that stack of cash. Top drawer in the master bedroom. Our bedroom.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed to slits. Her lips peeled back from her teeth. “I’m not talking about money and you know it. I need your presence here. With me.”
“Ohhh. That.”
“Yes. That.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees now, phone pressed so hard to her ear the cartilage ached. “Where the hell are you even?”
“Don’t speak to me like that.”
Her laugh was short, bitter, humorless. “I have every right to speak to you however I please. Now answer me.”
Another beat of silence stretched thin and taut.
“Nah. Nuh-uh.” Andrew’s voice hardened just enough to cut. “I know you’re angry. But that doesn’t give you a pass to disrespect me. I won’t take it.”
The line went dead quiet. Maggie’s breathing filled the space— harsh, uneven. Her free hand raked through her dark hair, tugging at the roots until strands stood on end. She counted to five in her head, forcing the next words out slower.
Andrew spoke first, softer now. “I’m in Paris for a business trip. I already told you.”
Her shoulders dropped a fraction. “When will you be back?”
“I’ll be back tonight. Plane touches down in New York at seven. I’ll come straight home.” A pause, then quieter: “So we can spend all the time you need together.”