Chapter 3 - Arrival in the City of Light
The flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport felt like it lasted ten years.
When Nathaniel and Harper finally cleared customs and took a taxi through the misty, rain-slicked streets of Paris toward the Hotel George V, the romance of the trip had completely evaporated. Harper was complaining about her swollen ankles and the fact that their luggage had been delayed at O’Hare, while Nathaniel sat in silence, his mind looping endlessly over the image of the woman on the tarmac.
Vivian.
Not a poor orphan from Racine. Not a quiet translator.
When they walked into the opulent lobby of the George V—with its towering floral arrangements, gleaming marble floors, and tuxedoed concierges—Nathaniel tried to force a smile. He dropped his platinum-plated corporate credit card onto the mahogany check-in desk.
"Brooks," he said, puffing out his chest. "Reservation for two in the Imperial Suite."
The desk clerk, a pristine Frenchman with silver hair and an impeccable suit, typed into his terminal. His fingers moved with crisp efficiency. Then they stopped.
The clerk’s eyebrows ticked upward slightly. He looked at Nathaniel, then down at the credit card, then back at Nathaniel with a polite, razor-thin smile.
"Monsieur Brooks," the clerk said smoothly, his English accented and chillingly polite. "I am afraid there is a complication with your reservation."
Nathaniel frowned, feeling a familiar spike of irritation. "A complication? I booked this three weeks ago. It’s fully prepaid through our corporate account at Apex Logistics."
"Ah," the clerk murmured, tapping the screen. "That would explain it, monsieur. Our system received a high-priority wire recall from Apex Logistics approximately two hours ago. Furthermore, the master corporate guarantee backing your credit profile has been... revoked by the primary asset holder."
Harper stepped up beside Nathaniel, her face twisting in instant annoyance. "Revoked? What are you talking about? We are staying in the Imperial Suite! Do you know who he is? He’s a vice president at Apex!"
The clerk didn't blink. He looked at Harper with the detached patience of a zookeeper dealing with an aggressive primate.
"Madame, the Imperial Suite is currently occupied," the clerk said softly. "In fact, the entire fourth and fifth floors of the hotel have been placed under sovereign reservation for the personal entourage of Her Royal Highness, Princess Vivian of Valois-Orléans."
The lobby seemed to spin.
Princess.
The word echoed in Nathaniel’s ears like a gunshot.
"Princess...?" Nathaniel whispered, his voice catching in his throat. "There... there must be some mistake. Vivian is... my wife. My ex-wife! We live in a split-level on Elm Street in Chicago!"
Several nearby guests turned to look at the American shouting about his ex-wife in the middle of a five-star Parisian lobby.
The clerk’s smile vanished entirely, replaced by a look of profound, aristocratic disdain.
"I assure you, Monsieur Brooks, there is no mistake," the clerk said, picking up Nathaniel’s corporate card and sliding it back across the counter. "And I must ask you to lower your voice. You are disturbing the peace of the establishment. Your card has been declined. You have no active reservations here. Security will escort you to the exit if you persist."
"Declined?!" Harper shrieked, her face turning crimson. "What do you mean declined?! Nathaniel, fix this right now! Why is he talking to you like that?!"
Nathaniel didn't answer. He couldn't.
Because across the lobby, near the private elevator banks flanked by two men in dark wool overcoats and discreet earpieces, the elevator doors slid open.
A woman stepped out.
She was wearing a long, midnight-blue cashmere dress that swept the marble floor. A simple diamond pendant rested against her collarbone—the only jewelry she wore, and yet it seemed to draw every beam of light in the grand room. Her hair was pulled back into a sophisticated knot, and her chin was held at an angle of absolute, unquestionable sovereignty.
May you like
Vivian.
She didn't look like a woman who had just flown across the Atlantic while eight months pregnant. She looked like a queen inspecting her lower estates.
