Chapter 32

[ 1,044 words ]

Julian’s POV

I stared at her. For a moment, the “Machine” silenced itself. I felt a surge of something that felt dangerously like empathy, but I knew her well enough now to know she’d despise pity. I merely nodded, acknowledging the coldness of the world she had survived.

“Well,” I said, my voice returning to its usual steady clip. “Here is the man you were supposed to marry. Don’t you have some regrets p>

She looked at me, a playful, wicked glint entering her eyes. “No. But you know what’s funny p>

“Tell me p>

“You look like my son,” she said, leaning in. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the father p>

A laugh broke out of me, genuine and sharp. It was the most absurd thing I’d heard all year. “Is that so p>

“But my son looks like his father,” she said, shaking her head as if dismissing the thought. “He doesn’t look like me p>

I chuckled, the irony of the situation swirling in my head like the wine in my glass. I thought of Gail’s warnings about the ’Windsor traits p>

“Well,” I said, raising my glass to her. “Here I am, planning to celebrate the fact that Katia’s son looks like me p>

We both laughed, the sound carrying out over the French coast. For a moment, the contracts, the paper wife, and the search for the girl from Vegas didn’t matter.

The check was paid before she could even reach for her purse. I didn’t do it out of a sense of archaic chivalry; I did it because, in my world, the one who pays controls the pace. Information is currency, but timing is power, and I wasn’t ready for this night to end. Not yet. I had spent my life moving from one objective to the next, but for the first time in years, the “machine” was idling.

As we stepped out of the restaurant and into the cool, salt-heavy air of the French Riviera, the town of Antibes was glowing like a string of amber pearls against the velvet throat of the Mediterranean. The tourists were thinning out, leaving the cobblestone streets to the ghosts of old poets and the quiet hum of high-end security details.

“I heard that a boat sailing at night is much nicer,” I said, glancing toward the marina where the superyachts bobbed like sleeping giants. “The water is calmer. The stars don’t have to compete with the city lights or the noise of people trying too hard to be seen p>

Katia looked at me, her eyes reflecting the silver moonlight with a clarity that made my pulse skip a beat. “Is that a request or a command, Mr. Windsor? Because I’ve found that with you, the line is often blurred p>

“An observation,” I replied, though the lie was thin. I had already sent a single-word text to Marcus. By the time we reached the dock, a vintage Riva Aquarama was already prepped, its mahogany hull gleaming like a polished gemstone under the dock lights.

She didn’t argue. That was the thing about Katia; she didn’t play the coy, fluttering games Delia utilized like a blunt instrument. If she wanted to go, she went. If she wanted to stay, she stayed. She moved with the confidence of a woman who owned her own air.

The next few hours were a blur of adrenaline and uncharacteristic spontaneity. We didn’t talk about the Windsor Empire Group or the specific deliverables of the AI logistics contract. We didn’t talk about the Kensingtons or the wreckage they called a family. For the first time in six years, I wasn’t a CEO, a “paper husband,” or a strategic asset. I was simply a man on the Mediterranean.

I took the helm, the Riva slicing through the black glass of the sea. I pushed the engine, feeling the raw vibration of the motor through the soles of my shoes, the salt spray hitting my face like a wake-up call. Katia sat at the stern, her head tilted back, her laughter lost to the roar of the wind. She looked utterly untethered. It was a sight that should have irritated me. I preferred things under my control, but instead, it fascinated me.

After an hour on the water, we docked at a smaller, quieter pier and wandered through a late-night flower market in a nearby square. Most of the vendors were closing up, the scent of crushed lavender, jasmine, and lilies thick and heavy in the cooling air. On a whim, I stopped at a stall where a man was packing away deep, blood-red roses. I bought a single dark Baccara rose, so red it was almost black, and handed it to her. I didn’t say any word to her.

She didn’t thank me with a staged smile. She simply took it, ran a finger over the velvet petals, and tucked it behind her ear. The dark bloom was stark against her skin, a mark of the night we were stealing.

By midnight, the air had grown heavy with the promise of a storm that would never break. We found ourselves in a small, hole-in-the-wall jazz club tucked beneath a limestone archway. The air inside was blue with smoke, and the piano was slightly out of tune, but the music was soulful, raw, and real. We sat in a dark corner, drinking vintage Bordeaux that tasted of earth and ancient fruit, until the edges of the world began to soften into a hazy, golden blur.

The wine was heavy, and the atmosphere was intoxicating. Katia was leaning over the small wooden table, her face illuminated by a single, guttering candle that cast long, dancing shadows across her sharp features. She was telling me a story about a botched landing she’d had during a sudden crosswind in Singapore—technical, precise, and daring. I found myself not listening to the flight specs but watching the way her lips moved, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke of the sky, and the way her hands moved as she described the controls.

She reached across the table to emphasize a point about the thrust-to-weight ratio, her hand landing firmly over mine. Her skin was warm, a searing contrast to the cool condensation on my wine glass.

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