Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Three: The Art of Distraction
The hotel suite was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, the Parisian night pressing against the windows like a velvet curtain. Somewhere below, the city hummed—distant traffic, murmured conversations, the occasional trill of a bicycle bell. But up here, in the cocoon of silk sheets and shadowed walls, there was only him.
And me.
I kissed him.
Not gently. Not tentatively. I kissed him like I was trying to prove something.My lips moved from his mouth to his jaw, trailing down the sharp line of his throat, lingering over the pulse that beat there like a trapped bird.
His breath hitched.
"Angel."
I ignored him. My teeth grazed his skin—soft at first, then harder, marking. A deep bruise bloomed beneath my lips, purple and red, a flower unfurling in the dark.
"Angel." His voice was strained. "I'm on the phone."
I glanced at the device pressed to his ear.
I grinned.
"I learned from reels," I whispered against his neck.
His hand tightened on my waist—a warning, maybe, or a plea.
"Tete." I pressed another kiss to his jaw, his ear, the sensitive spot just below his earlobe. "We're on our honeymoon. Stop thinking about business."
He didn't answer. But I felt the shift in his body—the tension coiling, the breath he held, the way his fingers dug into my hip like he was trying to anchor himself.
"Tete."
"Angel. Stop."
"Make me."
His eyes met mine.
Dark. Burning.
He threw the phone.
It landed somewhere on the carpet—I heard the thud, the clatter, the distant voice still droning before the screen went dark. And then his hands were on me, gripping my waist, flipping me onto my back in one fluid motion.
He hovered over me, his weight braced on his forearms, his face inches from mine. His hair fell across his forehead, dark and disheveled, and his breath was warm on my lips.
"Naughty little woman," he growled.
I grinned.
"Tete."
"What?"
"I want to see the Eiffel Tower."
He blinked. "Tomorrow, Angel. There's too much crowd today."
"I don't care." I pushed at his chest, squirming beneath him. "I wanna go. Go. Go."
"Angel—"
"Go, go, go, go, go—"
He caught my wrists, pinning them above my head. His grip was firm, but not painful—a restraint, not a cage.
"Tomorrow," he said again, his voice low, patient.
"Now."
"Angel."
"Now, now, now, now, now—"
He kissed me.
Hard.
It wasn't gentle—wasn't soft or sweet or patient. It was a claiming, a silencing, a reminder that he was still here, still in control, still the man who had carried me out of a jungle with bullets flying and never let go.
When he pulled back, we were both gasping.
"Tomorrow," he said.
I pouted.
It was childish. I knew it was childish. But I couldn't help it. The pout was my only weapon, and I wielded it like a sword.
"Tete."
"Angel."
"You're mean."
"I'm patient."
"You're working."
"I'm multitasking."
"Multitasking is a myth."
He sighed, dropping his forehead to mine. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Love me," I said. "Cherish me. Take me to see the Eiffel Tower."
"Tomorrow."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
---
The afternoon stretched on, golden and lazy.
He tried to work.
I didn't let him.
I followed him around the suite like a shadow, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet, his shirt falling past my thighs. Every time he reached for his laptop, I draped myself over his back, my chin on his shoulder, my lips brushing his ear.
"Tete."
"Angel."
"What are you doing?"
"Working."
"You're always working."
"I'm a businessman."
"You're a husband first."
He set down his pen, turning to face me. His eyes were tired—patient, but tired.
"What do you want?"
"You." I climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs, my hands on his shoulders. "I want you."
"You have me."
"I want all of you." I pressed a kiss to his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "Not the businessman. Not the boss. Just you."
His hands settled on my hips, steadying me. "Angel—"
"We're on our honeymoon."
"I know."
"Then act like it."
He was quiet for a moment. His thumb traced small circles on my hip, a soothing rhythm that made my eyelids heavy.
"You're very demanding," he said.
"I'm your wife. It's my job."
"Your job is to be demanding?"
"Among other things."
"Other things?"
I kissed him.
Soft at first, then deeper, my fingers tangling in his hair. He made a sound—low, surprised—and his hands slid from my hips to my back, pulling me closer.
"Tete," I whispered against his lips.
"Angel."
"I love you."
His breath caught.
"I love you even when you're working," I continued. "Even when you're ignoring me. Even when you're staring at your laptop like it's the most interesting thing in the world."
"It's not."
"I know." I pressed my forehead to his. "I'm the most interesting thing in the world."
"You're certainly the most distracting." His hands slid lower, cupping my thighs. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Love me," I said again. "Cherish me. Take me to see the Mona Lisa."
"Tomorrow."
"You said that about the Eiffel Tower."
"We'll do both tomorrow."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
---
He tried to ignore me.
I could see it—the way his jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard but not quite typing. He was a man at war with himself, torn between duty and desire, between the empire he'd built and the woman who refused to be ignored.
I wandered past him.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Each time, I brushed against his shoulder, his arm, his back. Each time, I let my fingers trail over the fabric of his shirt, light as a whisper. Each time, I felt the tension in his body ratchet up another notch.
"Tete?"
He didn't look up.
"Are you ignoring me?"
Still nothing.
"Are you ignoring your innocent little wife?"
His jaw twitched.
"How can you?" I let my voice wobble, my lower lip pushing out. "I'm so sad. So neglected. So—"
"Angel."
"Yes?"
"You're not innocent."
"I'm very innocent."
"You're a menace."
"A cute menace."
"The cutest." He finally looked up, his eyes dark and exasperated and achingly fond. "What do you want?"
"You." I draped myself over his back, my arms around his neck. "I want you to stop working and start honeymooning."
"I am honeymooning."
"You're working."
"I'm multitasking."
"Multitasking is—"
"A myth. I know. You've told me." He reached up, his hand covering mine on his chest. "Angel, I have calls. Meetings. People who need—"
"People who need you can wait." I pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'm your wife. I need you now."
He sighed.
It was a heavy sigh, the sigh of a man who had spent his whole life carrying the world on his shoulders and was only now beginning to feel the weight.
"Fine," he said.
"Fine?"
"Fine. I'll stop working."
"Really?"
"Really."
I bounced off him, clapping my hands. "Yay!"
"But—"
I stopped bouncing. "But?"
"But you have to stop pouting."
"I don't pout."
"You're pouting right now."
"I'm celebrating."
"You're pouting and celebrating. It's a very confusing expression."
I stuck out my tongue.
He laughed—soft and surprised, the sound filling the room like sunlight.
"Come here," he said.
"No."
"Angel."
"You'll just try to work again."
"Not if you're sitting in my lap."
I considered this. It was a trap, probably. But it was a very tempting trap.
"Fine." I climbed onto his lap, settling against his chest, my legs draped over the arm of the chair. "But if you even look at your laptop, I'll—"
"You'll what?"
"I'll bite you."
"You do that anyway."
"I'll bite you harder."
"Promises, promises."
I glared at him. It didn't work. His lips twitched, fighting a smile.
"You're impossible," I said.
"You're my wife."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He kissed my forehead.
And for a moment—just a moment—the world outside the suite ceased to exist. There was only him. Only me. Only the soft glow of the lamp and the distant hum of Paris and the quiet, steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
---
I tried to pull away.
"Fine," I said, pushing at his chest, "I'll go outside alone. You keep working. Marry your work."
His arm tightened around me.
"Let me go. I'll go outside alone." I squirmed, but he didn't budge. "You don't love me at all. Who works all day on their honeymoon?"
"Angel—"
"I'm going out." I reached for the door, but he caught my wrist, pulling me back onto his lap. "I'll make friends. I'll find an attractive man to guide me through Paris."
His jaw tightened.
"I'll find a very handsome, very attentive partner. Someone who isn't married to his work."
"Angel."
"Someone who doesn't ignore me."
"Angel."
"Someone who—"
He kissed me.
Hard.
It wasn't gentle—wasn't soft or sweet or patient. It was a warning, a reminder, a promise. When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"Stop talking," he said, "or I'll find a way to shut your mouth."
"You just scolded me." I pressed my hand to my chest, my eyes wide with mock offense. "Harshly."
"Angel—"
"On our honeymoon."
"Angel."
"You're so mean."
"I'm patient."
"You're a workaholic."
"I'm a businessman."
"You're a bad husband."
His expression flickered. Something—pain, maybe, or guilt—flashed across his face before he smoothed it away. But I saw it. I always saw it.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
I blinked. "What?"
"I'm sorry." He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. "I've been distracted. I've been—" He paused, searching for the word. "—absent. Even when I'm here, I'm not really here."
"Tete—"
"I promised you a honeymoon. I promised you Paris. I promised you croissants and cobblestones and the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the dark." He pressed his forehead to mine. "And instead, I've been staring at a screen, answering messages, pretending the world outside this room doesn't exist."
"It does exist."
"I know." His breath was warm on my lips. "But it shouldn't. Not right now. Not when I have you in my arms."
"Tete."
"I'm sorry, Angel." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry I've been a bad husband. I'm sorry I've been absent. I'm sorry I made you feel like you're not the most important thing in my life."
"You are the most important thing."
"I know." He kissed my forehead. "But I haven't been acting like it."
I was quiet for a moment.
"Fine," I said.
"Fine?"
"Fine. We won't go anywhere." I pushed off his lap, crossing to the bed. "I'm going to sleep."
"Angel—"
"I'm tired." I climbed under the covers, pulling them up to my chin. "You can go back to work. I'll just lie here. Alone. Abandoned. On my honeymoon."
He stared at me.
"You're pouting again."
"I'm not pouting. I'm mourning."
"Mourning?"
"The loss of my romantic Parisian adventure." I sniffled dramatically. "It was going to be beautiful. Croissants. Cobblestones. The Eiffel Tower sparkling in the dark."
"Angel."
"But no. Work is more important. Spreadsheets are more important. Emails are more important."
"Angel."
"Go." I waved my hand dismissively. "Go be a businessman. I'll just lie here. Alone."
He didn't move.
I closed my eyes.
The bed dipped.
I felt him lie down beside me, felt his arm slide around my waist, felt his chest press against my back. His lips brushed my ear, soft and warm.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Shh. I'm sleeping."
"You're not sleeping."
"I'm trying to sleep."
"You're pouting."
"I'm mourning."
"Angel."
"Shh."
He pulled me closer, his face burying in my hair.
"I love you," he said.
"Shh."
"I love you, and I'm sorry, and tomorrow—"
"Tomorrow you'll be working."
"Tomorrow," he said, "I'll take you to see the Eiffel Tower."
"You said that yesterday."
"Today. Tomorrow. Every day." His arm tightened around me. "I'll take you every day until you believe me."
"Believe what?"
"That you're more important than work. That you're more important than anything."
I was quiet for a long moment.
Then I turned in his arms, facing him, my hand pressing to his chest.
"Prove it," I said.
"How?"
"Take me to see the Eiffel Tower. Now."
"Angel, it's late—"
"The Eiffel Tower is beautiful at night."
"The crowds—"
"I don't care about crowds."
"Your shoulder—"
"My shoulder is fine."
He sighed. It was a long sigh, heavy and resigned.
"Fine."
I sat up. "Fine?"
"Fine. We'll go."
"Really?"
"Really."
I launched myself at him, my arms wrapping around his neck, my legs around his waist. He caught me easily, his hands sliding up my back, his laugh rumbling against my chest.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you—"
"You're welcome, you're welcome, you're welcome—"
"I love you."
"I know." He kissed my cheek. "Now get dressed."
"In your shirt?"
"In something warmer. It's cold outside."
"I don't have anything warmer."
"Then we'll buy you a coat."
"On the way to the Eiffel Tower?"
"On the way to the Eiffel Tower."
I grinned.
And for the first time since we'd arrived in Paris, I felt something that might have been joy.
---
The Eiffel Tower sparkled.
We stood on the Trocadéro esplanade, the city spread out below us like a blanket of stars. The tower was close—close enough that I could see the lattice of iron, the warm glow of the lights, the tiny figures moving on the observation decks.
"It's beautiful," I breathed.
"It's just lights."
"It's not just lights." I turned to face him, my hands on his chest, my eyes on his. "It's hope. It's magic. It's the promise that something beautiful can exist in a world full of darkness."
"Angel—"
"I want to remember this." My voice cracked. "I want to remember standing here, with you, watching the lights. I want to remember the way your hand feels in mine. The way your voice sounds when you say my name. The way you look at me like I'm the only person in the world."
"You are."
"I know." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "That's what scares me."
"Don't be scared."
"I can't help it."
"Then be scared with me." He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around me, his face burying in my hair. "Be scared, and be brave, and be mine. That's all I ask."
I closed my eyes.
The tower sparkled.
And I held on.