Chapter 2
1102 Words
Juliette's hands were shaking on the steering wheel.
The Lamborghini tore through the Paris streets, the engine roaring as she pushed it harder than she should and she didn't care.
The speed felt good, necessary even, like if she drove fast enough, she could outrun the panic clawing up her throat.
Her phone lit up on the passenger seat.
Camille: Hey b***h, what's up with mamma? Another marriage talk?
She glanced at it without replying. Her thumbs hovered over the screen for a second before she tossed the phone back down.
How was she supposed to explain this?
“Hey Cam, my family's bankrupt, my brother's going to prison, and I'm about to throw myself at the mercy of the man whose life I ruined five years ago.”
Yeah. That conversation could wait.
Her mind wouldn't shut up. Questions fired at her one after another, relentless.
Will he remember you?
The rumors said no. Said the accident had stolen his memory, that he'd woken up in that hospital bed with no idea who he'd been before.
But what if the rumors were wrong?
What if he remembers everything?
Her stomach twisted. She pressed harder on the gas.
She'd caused that accident. Not directly, but close enough. The very day she'd ended things, after she'd told him he was too poor, too nothing, not enough for someone like her, he'd been in that crash.
The accident that nearly cost him his life.
And she'd never visited. Never called. She h ad convinced herself it was better that way.
“Coward.”
The word tasted bitter in her mouth.
The GPS announced her exit in a cold, mechanical voice. She jerked the wheel, taking the turn too sharp. The tires squealed. Her heart hammered thunderously against her ribs.
She should turn around. This was insane. Walking into Théodore Roosevelt's territory after what she'd done? After five years of silence?
But then she thought of Tristan. Twelve years in prison. And her parents' faces…hollow, desperate, terrified.
She couldn't turn around.
She wouldn't. She couldn't afford to go broke.
Even if it meant facing him. Even if it meant begging.
Even if it means more.
Her mind went there before she could stop it.
What if he wanted s*x?
“No,” she said out loud, her voice sharp in the enclosed space. “No, no, no.”
But the thought wouldn't leave. Théodore had always been obsessed with her body. The way he'd touched her, looked at her, worshipped her like she was something holy and profane at the same time. And she'd been just as bad. His hands, his mouth, the way he'd made her…
“f**k. Snap out of it, Juliette.”
She slammed her palm against the steering wheel. Focused on the road. Breathing in through her nose and breathing out through her mouth.
Focusing on anything but the memory of his skin against hers.
The TR Wines building appeared ahead, rising above the Parisian skyline like a fortress. Glass and steel and money. So much money it made her family's wealth look quaint.
TR Wines is the biggest wine company in the whole of Paris with twelve branches across the world. Contracts with governments, with royalty. A net worth that put him in rooms with people who shaped continents.
And five years ago, he'd had nothing.
She pulled into the parking garage, her Lamborghini sliding into a spot near the entrance. She cut the engine and sat there in the sudden silence, her chest tight.
“You can do this..” she said to herself.
She grabbed her bag. Checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her makeup was still perfect, red lips, sharp eyeliner, the armor she wore whenever she needed to be bulletproof. She looked good, expensive and untouchable.
She looked like a liar.
Juliette pushed open the door and stepped out.
The lobby was massive. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Abstract art on the walls that probably cost more than most people's houses. Everything screamed exclusivity, power, control.
She walked to the reception desk, her heels clicking against the marble. The receptionist looked up…young, blonde, beautiful in that corporate way that made Juliette wonder if there was a factory somewhere churning out identical assistants.
“Good afternoon,” Juliette said, forcing a smile she didn't feel. “I'd like to see Mr. Roosevelt.”
The receptionist's expression didn't change. Professional. Pleasant. Utterly unmoved. She reached under the desk and pulled out a form, sliding it across the marble surface.
“You'll need to fill this out,” she said. “Meeting requests are processed within thirty business days.”
Juliette stared at the form. At the tiny boxes asking for her name, her company, her reason for requesting an appointment.
Thirty days.
Tristan doesn't have thirty days.
“Is there any way to expedite this?” Juliette asked, keeping her voice even. “It's urgent.”
The receptionist's smile was sympathetic but firm. “I'm afraid not. Mr. Roosevelt has very strict policies regarding unscheduled meetings.”
Of course he did. Théodore had always been particular. Controlling. And now that he had power? Now that people lined up to see him, to beg for his time, his money, his favor?
He was probably unbearable.
Juliette picked up the form. Stared at it like it might spontaneously combust.
This was stupid. She was stupid. What had she been thinking? That she could just walk in here and he'd drop everything to help her? The woman who'd gutted him and walked away?
She turned to leave.
The main entrance doors opened and Théodore Roosevelt walked in.
Juliette's breath stopped.
He was taller than she remembered. Broader. The boy who'd been all lean muscle and hungry eyes had filled out into something else entirely. The custom Armani suit fit him like it had been sewn onto his body, charcoal gray, crisp white shirt, no tie. His dark hair was shorter now, styled back in a way that made his face look harder, sharper.
Six bodyguards flanked him. Three on each side. Moving in perfect synchronization.
He looked like a king.
And he looked nothing like the man she'd left bleeding on the street.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her hands went cold.
Move. Say something. Do something.
But her body wouldn't cooperate. She just stood there, frozen, as he crossed the lobby with long, deliberate strides. He didn't glance sideways. He didn't look at anyone. His focus was straight ahead, his expression carved from stone.
Then her legs decided to work. Juliette stepped forward.
“Théodore.”
- Writer
