Page 149 of Charming Deception

After glimpsing his first explosive text about it—I can’t believe you’d betray me like this—I stopped looking at them, instead swiping them away, unread.

The idea that I’ve “betrayed” him is his delusion, not mine.

And after checking out the first online post or two about the engagement, I stopped looking at those, too.

That version of Jameson and Megan is just a story.

I should know, since I write fiction.

When we arrive at the elegant restaurant, one entire side has been booked out for Jameson’s meeting/party with his French connections. There are about a dozen people in the room mingling over drinks, and the crowd gradually doubles as we make our way around.

When I’m introduced to a sophisticated, middle-aged Frenchman named Jean-Charles, Jameson casually mentions that the man is a fellow billionaire, that he and his family own a number of French hotels, including the one we’re staying at while in Paris, and that he’s codeveloping a resort with the Vances on the Côte d’Azur.

He also mentions, belatedly, that Jean-Charles is his stepfather.

I can’t put my finger on what it is that bothers me about this abrupt introduction, exactly, but it throws me a little off-kilter that Jameson didn’t tell me beforehand that we were visiting his stepfather in Paris.

I feel put on the spot.

Or maybe it’s Jean-Charles who’s being put on the spot?

Because he seems equally surprised to be meeting me, when Jameson tells him “This is my fiancée, Megan.”

Being a gentleman, though, he recovers quickly.

“Congratulations,” Jean-Charles says warmly. “I heard the happy news.”

Which means that Jameson didn’t reach out to tell him himself? I have no idea how to navigate this situation, since Jameson never even told me he has a stepfather. I’m not even sure if this man is currently married to his mother or what.

I really should’ve researched his family a little more. Or at least asked.

But how could I know Jameson would spring a situation like this on me?

Luckily, Jean-Charles seems very pleased to meet me. While we’re engaged in conversation with the charismatic Frenchman, Jameson eventually touches me on the back, excuses himself, and goes to speak with a trio of very attractive women.

To say it’s distracting would be a gross understatement.

Soon enough, I excuse myself from the conversation with Jean-Charles and several of his business associates, and head for the ladies’ room to get a breather.

As I dab cool water on my throat and take a breath, my heart pounds viciously. I’m insanely bothered, just seeing my fiancé talk to those beautiful French women.

I feel it in the pit of my stomach, the discomfort of that no-sex barrier he’s put up between us.

He’s working, I tell myself. I can’t expect him to hold my hand all night. And they’re just talking.

But I can’t help wondering if he would actually have sex with someone else, and not talk to me about it beforehand like he said he would.

Troy did.

And I didn’t know.

We lived in a tiny town where everyone knew everyone, and I didn’t know. Not until I walked in on it and saw it for myself. Even then, for several dark hours afterward, it was hard to believe.

I didn’t want to believe it.

Would I see it now if it was happening right under my nose?

Jameson is in and out of the house for “meetings” all the time while I’m writing. How would I even know what he’s really doing? Nicole hasn’t exactly sent me any Google alerts about him being spotted with another woman, but why would he be?

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