Chapter 34 You Don’t Look Bad Yourself
Maggie exhaled through her nose, long and shaky. The fight leaked out of her posture like air from a punctured tire. She slumped back against the velvet cushions, phone still glued to her ear.
“Alright,” she said, voice smaller. “I’m sorry I spoke to you rudely earlier.”
“It’s fine.” His tone warmed again, the deep rumble gentling. “You’re angry. You have every right to be. I apologize.”
She closed her eyes. A single tear escaped, slid hot down her cheek, dripped onto the collar of her sweater. “I just want us to be together.”
“I know.”
The words hung there— simple, heavy, final.
Then the line clicked dead.
Maggie lowered the phone slowly. The screen went black again. She stared at her reflection in the tempered glass table: red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted on an unfinished breath. Outside, wind moved through the pines, whispering secrets against the windows. Inside, the mansion settled back into its vast, expensive quiet.
She set the phone down exactly where it had been. Folded her arms again. And waited.
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'THAT SAME DAY. PARIS'
The living room of the Airbnb apartment glowed under the soft 9 a.m. sun that poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the pale oak parquet into warm honey. Four large suitcases stood in a neat row near the door like obedient soldiers— black hard-shell, silver zippers glinting, tags already looped and ready. A smaller carry-on backpack rested on top, its strap coiled like a sleeping snake. Andrew stood dead center in the open space, hands on hips, navy polo shirt tucked neatly into dark jeans, shoulders squared inside the quiet luxury of the place.
He exhaled once, slow and satisfied. “Everything is set,” he whispered to the empty air.
His gaze lifted from the luggage, sweeping toward the hallway that led deeper into the apartment.
“We should be ready by now, guys!” His voice carried easily, deep and calm but edged with the faintest urgency. “We’ll miss the flight if we delay too much.”
From somewhere down the corridor, Amelia’s voice floated back— light, unhurried. “I’ll be out in a minute!”
Andrew’s mouth quirked. “Alright. Let’s just be fast.”
A sudden burst of small feet slapped the parquet. Pete exploded into the living room, blue T-shirt the exact shade as Andrew’s, navy polo shirt, pristine white sneakers squeaking once as he skidded to a stop in front of his father. In his right hand he clutched a black plastic Darth Vader action figure, thumb already working the button that made the tiny red lightsaber glow.
“I’m done, Dad!” Pete bounced once— sharp, joyful— knees flexing, sneakers lifting off the floor. His grin was enormous, eyes shining, waiting for praise like it was oxygen.
Andrew didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed trained on the hallway, expectant.
Pete bounced again, lighter this time. Then again. He reached up and tapped Andrew’s thigh—tap-tap-tap-tap—small palm flat, insistent, rhythmic. “Dad. Dad. Dad.”
Standing at six-foot-seven, Andrew finally tilted his head down. The height difference made Pete look like a determined satellite orbiting a tower. Andrew’s expression softened instantly— corners of his eyes crinkling, mouth curving into a slow, fond smile.
“I hear you,” he said, voice low and warm. One large hand dropped to rest briefly on Pete’s dark curls, ruffling once.
Pete beamed brighter, satisfied, and resumed bouncing in place, Darth Vader’s lightsaber flashing red in time with his rhythm.
Three minutes ticked by in soft silence broken only by the distant hum of Paris traffic far below. Then heels clicked—slow, deliberate, confident— against the hallway floor.
Amelia appeared.
The wine-red gown clung to her five-foot-three frame like liquid poured over curves— sleeveless, fitted through the bodice, flaring gently at the hip, hem brushing just above her knees. Gold sandals caught the light with every step. Her ash-blonde hair fell in soft waves, makeup flawless: smoky eyes, flushed cheeks, lips the same deep burgundy as the dress. She moved with deliberate grace, hips swaying just enough to make the fabric whisper against her thighs.
She stopped a few feet away, hands on hips, chin lifted.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said, voice smooth, a little breathless. “Was doing my finishing touches on my makeup.” She paused, eyes locking on Andrew’s. “I always want to make sure I look good for you.”
Andrew’s gaze started at her face— slow— then traveled down: shoulders, breasts, waist, hips, legs, gold sandals. Then back up again, lingering. His throat moved once. Pupils dilated slightly. A hungry smile spread across his face, slow and predatory.
“No worries,” he said, voice dropping half an octave. “It’s for a good cause. You look stunning. I love it.”
“Awwn. Thank you.” Amelia’s smile turned playful. “I know you would. That’s why I took my time while dressing up.” She pivoted slowly— full 360— arms lifting slightly so the dress flared just enough to show the elegant line of her back, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips. When she faced him again her eyes sparkled. “You don’t look bad yourself.”