Page 10 of His Collateral Wife

"Got it."

"Is there anything else, mademoiselle?"

I start to shake my head when I remember he can't see me. "N-No. Thank you."

A full minute passes before I realize my husband's right-hand man has no plans of answering.

Ten more minutes go by, and I'm still bothered by this.

"We are here, mademoiselle."

We've landed on what seems like a long-forgotten hangar built in the middle of the Caribbean, and as soon as I'm off the chopper, my husband's men get back into formation like synchronized swimmers, only this time they're in Kevlar and camouflage instead of swimcaps and swimsuits.

They form a human shield around me as we walk from Point A and Point B, and all of them are still on high alert even when we've already boarded what I can only assume is my husband's private jet.

It's only when we've taken off and the pilot tells us we can unfasten our seatbelts that the men finally relax.

One of them looks at me, and I can practically feel him grinning even if I don't actually see anything past his balaclava.

"We're going home, mademoiselle."

All I can do is nod.

Home.

The island has always been my prison, but a home is something I've never had.

Until now.

We'll always have

Paris.

I can't stop turning my head this way and that while his men take care of whatever it needs taking care of.

How is it possible for someone as notorious as Dauphin Tueur to live in the City of Lights? I know he also goes by his other name, but still.

How?

It absolutely boggles the mind, but even my shock isn't enough to keep me from gawking and gaping as we're finally cleared to disembark, and my feet touch Parisian soil for the first time ever.

Is this really happening, God?

The idea of ever seeing Paris in person was one of those impossible things I didn't even bother including in my bucket list. And yet here I am now, being escorted to a limousine, and oh, oh, oh!

I finally remember I have my own phone, and you bet I start acting like a tourist on her first trip abroad.

One day at a time, right?

I take as many photos as I can even if all I can see are French street signs and highways. I'm still snap, snap, snapping away when an hour passes, and landmarks I've only dreamed of finally start popping up.

How can this be real, God?

I don't even know what to feel as I take a selfie with the Eiffel Tower in my background.

Is everything this good because it can only last for days?

Just like how people on Death Row get to eat whatever they want for their last meal, could Paris be my version of the Last Supper?

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