Oliver and I are sitting side by side in the golden late afternoon sun on our balcony, gazing out over Paris. The Eiffel Tower rises up in the near distance, shining in the gilded light as I take another sip of my lavender tea.
As he so often does, Oliver reaches out and finds my hand, squeezing it gently in his own.
It’s incredible to think that almost nine months have passed since we fled that awful island along with the bridesmaids. Instead of escaping on jet skis as planned, we ended up taking a speedboat in the boat shed, reaching the larger island of Mauritius in under an hour. From there, Oliver arranged for us to be flown via helicopter and then private jet to a safe house in New York, where we worked with his lawyers on a plan of action. Shortly after this, we reported everythi
