I rubbed my ear, sank into the nearest chair, and braced myself for a long, punishing lecture.
Yvaine didn’t disappoint.
‘You ran off to Paris days after getting engaged. You’ve barely lifted a finger for the wedding. Then you spotted so mystery woman in a red dress and imdiately decided Ashton must be in love with her and the whole thing’s off. You didn’t even ask him. It’s like you’ve been waiting for sothing to go wrong, and she just gave you the perfect excuse. Whether anything’s going on or not, you don’t care. You just want out, and now you’ve got a reason.’
I made a few non-committal noises to prove I was still on the line. If I didn’t, she might actually book an air taxi and fly to Paris to deliver her bollocking in person.
But really, she wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t already clocked—just buried under a few layers of self-delusion.
She’d lose her mind if I told her the full plan. That I was thinking of relocating Mira Joie to Paris, which would only prove her theory that I’d been halfway out the door long before Red Dress ever showed up.
I put her on speaker and let the rant wash over .
By the ti she paused for breath, I’d finished a coffee, brushed my teeth, checked my email, changed into pyjamas, and crawled into bed.
‘You’re not planning to break up with Ashton over the phone, are you?’ Her tone turned sharp.
I was considering it. ‘No.’
‘Liar.’
‘Fine, you caught .’
‘I pity Ashton, I really do. Poor guy.’
‘I thought you were my friend. Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?’
‘I’m on the side of right, and you’re in the wrong here. Completely wrong, Mira honey.’
Goosebumps prickled my arms. She only called ‘honey’ when she was absolutely livid.
‘You were supportive when I broke up with Rhys,’ I said, a bit sulkily.
‘Because he was a walking red flag and he laid hands on you. What’s Ashton done? You’re breaking up with him because you think—and I stress “think”—he might have feelings for another woman. You’ve got no proof.’
‘There’s the photo,’ I said.
‘Of a hug. Not a snog. Not a grope in the middle of the Champs-Élysées. That wouldn’t hold up in court.’
‘I’m not taking him to court.’
‘Don’t change the subject, Mirabelle Vance. You’re a coward when it cos to relationships. Always have been. Rhys burned you once, and now you’re convinced no good man could possibly love you. You were fine when it was fake. Even fine when you were just dating. But the second he puts a ring on your finger, you get cold feet and leg it.’
‘Thank you, Dr Freud,’ I muttered, rubbing my temples. ‘Now that you’ve diagnosed , got a prescription to go with it?’
‘Nope. Don’t pin this on . It’s your ss, and you’ve got to figure it out. Break up with him, stay with him, hire a dozen male strippers to help you cope, or hire a private eye to tail him. Your call. But it’s got to be YOUR call.’
‘Thanks. Incredibly helpful, as always.’
‘I am helpful. I know you better than anyone, and I know when you’re about to blow up your own life just because you’re scared it might actually work out. If you love Ashton, talk to him. Ask him about Red Dress, tell him what’s eating you, and maybe act like you care about your own bloody wedding. And if you don’t...’
‘What if I don’t?’ I clutched the pillow tighter.
‘Then you need to tell him. Be honest. Give the ring back, apologise, and move on.’
‘Easier said than done,’ I mumbled.
‘You asked for advice, I gave it. Now you’re sulking.’ I could practically hear her eyes rolling. ‘Honestly, if you weren’t my best friend, I’d slap you.’
‘Thanks, Yvie. I’ll think about it.’
‘You’d better. I’ve already picked out my maid of honour dress, and you’re paying the deposit.’
I hung up, tossed my phone onto the nightstand, and groaned into the pillow.
When it rang again, I assud it was Round Two from Yvaine.
But the number was unfamiliar.
I declined it.
It rang again.
I declined it again. Probably so pushy telemarketer.
But it kept ringing.
‘Hello?’ I snapped. If Parisian telemarketers were this relentless, I’d blacklist the entire country.
‘Mada Mirabelle Vance?’ The man’s French accent was strong, though he spoke English.
I didn’t confirm. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘This is Inspector Alexandre Silva, from the Brigade financière. I’d like to speak with you regarding the company Valmont & Cie, specifically Monsieur Fabrizio Marchetti.’
I sat up. ‘You’re a police officer?’
‘Yes.’ He gave his full na, rank, and departnt. ‘You’re welco to call our office to verify.’
‘I will,’ I said, though I was already starting to believe him. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I’d prefer to discuss it in person. And I must ask that you not ntion our conversation to Monsieur Marchetti.’
‘You’re investigating him? What for?’
‘I’d rather not say over the phone.’
‘Well, if you expect to et, I need to know if I’m a witness or a suspect. I don’t have to et you.’
A pause. Then: ‘I can et you at the café opposite your hotel. Public place. Thirty minutes?’
I checked the ti. 8:45 p.m.
‘It’s a bit late.’
‘I know. Apologies for the hour.’ His tone turned faintly reproachful. ‘But you and Monsieur Marchetti are nearly inseparable, dining together every day. It’s been difficult to find a mont when you’re alone.’
I didn’t like his tone, but what I liked even less was what he’d just implied. They’d been watching us. Or rather, watching Fabrizio.
Heart sinking, I got dressed, slipped my mace spray into my bag, and headed downstairs.
Le Cygne Noir, the café across the street, was well lit, a few diners still lingering over espresso and crè brûlée.
A man in a brown jacket sat at a corner table, facing the door. Light brown hair, dark eyes, brown brogues. He might’ve been attractive if he hadn’t dressed like he’d lost a bet with the colour beige.
He stood as I approached.
‘Mada Vance, thank you for coming.’
I ignored the hand he offered.
‘Let’s skip the small talk. What do you want?’
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