Her blush deepens.
After going through the plan a couple times, exhaustion wins and Mya leans back, shoulders softening.
“Rest,” I murmur, tugging a blanket over her lap. “We’ve got hours to Paris.”
She hesitates, then lets her head fall against my shoulder. I shift, adjusting to make her more comfortable, my fingers brushing her arm. Not for the staff. Not for show. For her.
Forme.
Paris greetsus with soft gray skies and the faint shimmer of rain on cobblestones. Even after all the years of business trips here, the city still carries that air of romance and mystery and ‘je ne sais quoi.’ Exactly the kind of place where lies can masquerade as truth.
The car winds through narrow streets, until we pull up to the hotel I chose—one with suites that look straight out at the Eiffel Tower. The staff is already lined up at the entrance, ready to usher us inside.
I step out first, adjusting my jacket, then offer a hand to Mya. She takes it, reluctantly at first, but doesn’t let go.
Griffin emerges from the car behind us, looking as sour as he did when we left. Tiana follows, phone already in hand as she takes pictures. His glare follows her every move.
Inside the lobby, I pause, issuing orders before either of them can complain. “Mya. Tiana. I’m sending you both shopping.”
Tiana’s brows arch above her sunglasses. “Shopping?”
“For dresses.” My gaze cuts to Mya, holding hers steady. “You’ll need something for tomorrow.”
Her lips part, caught between shock and protest, but she doesn’t get a word out before Tiana clasps her arm with sudden enthusiasm. “Wedding dressesin Paris? Don’t mind if I do.”
“You’ll have a driver. Charge whatever you need to my card,” I say, giving them my black Amex card.
Mya swallows, eyes widening, and I know she must be overwhelmed. Paris. Wedding dress shopping. The façade is becoming more real by the minute.
Tiana throws a quick, smug smile over her shoulder as she pulls Mya along, and the car door shuts with a snap.
By the time Griffin and I step into the penthouse suite, he looks one comment away from combusting.
I toss my jacket onto a chair, and take in the sweep of the room—the velvet furniture, the champagne chilling on ice, the glass wall framing the Eiffel Tower like a painting. Paris knows how to dress for the part.
Griffin doesn’t move, just prowls to the window, jaw tight.
“So, you want to tell me what your problem is?”
He snorts. “Take a look around. You dragged me across the ocean to play witness to your fake wedding, Worth. That’s problem enough.”
I study him a long beat. “No. This is about Tiana.”
His shoulders stiffen. “I don’t know what?—”
“Don’t waste my time. You’ve been seething since we boarded the jet—hell, before we even left the house. So what is it with her?”
Griffin exhales hard, raking a hand through his hair. “You really want to know?”
“Wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
He turns, pacing for a few moments before blurting out, “I knew who she was before I even met her.”
I blink. “How?”
“Instagram.”
Confusion knots in my chest. “Instagram? Youhatesocial media.”