Page 111 of The Marriage Clause

There it is.

The pressure, slipped in like an ordinary update.

I set the cup down a little harder than necessary. "Fine. Send it."

"Of course." Then, almost as an afterthought, "You're still on for dinner with Pierre and his wife tomorrow evening. Seven-thirty. Paris. Sienna confirmed museum access may be possible depending on his connections."

That gets my attention in a different direction.

Aria's face flickers through my head instantly. The museum. The look she tried to hide when Gabriel mentioned the opening.

"Let me know if Pierre replies before then."

"I will."

The line ends there.

Efficient. Clean. Precisely how my mornings are supposed to begin.

Instead of feeling productive, I stand in the middle of the kitchen with coffee in one hand and the uncomfortable certainty that my entire life now feels like it's being watched from too many angles at once.

I’m rinsing the cup when the phone buzzes again.

Not Jeremy.

Not Everly.

Genevieve Holiday.

My jaw tightens before I’ve read a word.

Your wife has been photographed several times this week in Cannes. In each instance, she appears to be alone. I understand that work follows you everywhere, Everett—believe me, I watched your father operate the same way for thirty years. But a woman alone on her honeymoon is not a good look for a married couple. The board notices these things. I’m sure you understand.

I read it twice.

The tone is pure Genevieve. She isn’t threatening—she’s informing. The way a referee informs you that your foot was over the line. No malice. Just the rules.

The board notices these things.

I lock the phone and slide it into my pocket.

Then I look toward the terrace, toward the path that leads down to the road, toward town, toward wherever Aria is right now with her satchel and her paints and her habit of being visible in all the places she thinks no one notices her. But she’d be wrong… everyone notices her. Every man with at least two brain cells, and every woman smart enough to be jealous.

I grab my jacket.

The trustees.

Jeremy.

The board.

And Aria, who has not once mentioned the pool conversation in three days, which somehow makes it worse.

I tell myself I'm going into town because I need air.

Because I need to get away from the villa for an hour before I start answering emails like a man whose patience has worn through.

I am not going out to find her. Or at least that’s the lie I tell myself. A lie that gets me almost all the way to the promenade.