Page 31 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

But then, he’s been uncomfortable with this whole thing all along, ever since Francine appeared at Ventoux asking for the divorce.

I’d texted Aaron after she left, and he came directly across to the restaurant. Aaron had been worried she’d appear someday, he’d been warning me that we needed to prepare a robust legal offensive for her return. There were times over the years that he’d suggested we become proactive about it, by which he meant digging up some dirt on Francine, working up some kind of shady leverage to force her to agree to a no-strings divorce. Or locating her and paying her off. He wanted to hire somebody to locate her.

I always strictly forbade it. I knew she was in the New York dance world and that I could find her if I wanted to. But why would I want to?

True, I was pretty heavily focused on the idea of her turning up that first year out from Vegas. The year the minature robotics stuff really blew up for us. The year of money falling from the sky. I really thought she’d show, and I’d be ready, but then…nothing. I figured out exactly where she was and went to school on her social media and discovered that she was just…living her life. As if none of it had ever happened. I stopped focusing on her, put more effort into the business, put her out of my mind. If she wanted to pretend it wasn’t real, that was her business.

James always took my side on leaving the Francine thing alone. It’s still shocking that he’s gone. His death was so sudden, it feels unreal, somehow.

I was braced for the Protech gang to say something about him, or ask if I think the driver who ran him down on his bike will ever be caught. I was relieved that they didn’t, but it also feels wrong not to invoke him. The company was half his baby.

I stare at the small bowl of olives, remembering James’s easy smile with a sharp twist of grief. The way he’d clap me on the shoulder.

He was a big, rugged guy who wore man buns and hiking clothes, as out of place in corporate leadership as I was. It was against his better judgment to let the Francine thing hang out there, but we were friends, and we always had each other’s backs, especially against Aaron, whom we trusted less and less as the years wore on.

Aaron got a chunk of shares when James died, but I got more. I make the decisions alone now.

Still, Aaron thought I’d lost my mind, not signing her quickie divorce papers.

“All this time I’ve been pressing you to do something about your Vegas marriage and this is what you decide?” he’d demanded. “To refuse this immense gift that she’s offering you? Do I have to tell you again what she could do to us?”

I’d sat back and crossed my legs, still buzzing from the surprise of her turning up after all these years. “She won’t try to do anything. Francine’s not like that,” I’d assured him.

“What about the people around her? She could get some crafty advice. Maybe her folks out in Podunk North Dakota fall on hard times and press her for a payday.”

“Then you’ll handle it, won’t you?” But I knew it wouldn’t come to that. It’s not in Francine’s nature.

“This is bordering on criminal mismanagement.” He’d said it lightly, presenting it as a joke, but there’s always a hint of threat with Aaron.

But this little gambit with Francine playing my wife has turned out to be a stroke of genius. Especially considering the revelation that the Arcana Protech people were worried about my sense of humor. How did we not know about this potential objection of theirs?

Well, now it’s been addressed.

Business talk has been tabled, with Juliana insisting that this is a social dinner, not a working dinner. They’re talking about Brazilian politics and Brazilian dance. Eventually—and unsurprisingly—the center of gravity moves back to Francine; people want to know about her upcoming ballet tour, which leads to her talking about that Roman theater of hers. She tells them that it’s an archaeological wonder constructed in 16 BC, and that she’s always dreamed of dancing there surrounded by tiers of ancient marble steps and statues. “Now it’s really happening,” she says.

So the tour is going there. One of the reasons it’s so important to her.

Her phone comes out. She’s got pictures, probably the same ones she’d pass around in Vegas. The Beau Cirque people were big on all-company meals and hangout spaces—some shit about dancers, musicians, and us AV people forming a cohesive unit. Even so, I was never included in the circle when phones got passed around. I was usually happy to be free from the obligation to react appropriately with others watching, but I looked it all up online later.

“It looks like a film set of ancient Greece!” Juliana exclaims.

“Right?” Francine looks over at me. “Benny’s probably sick of hearing me describe it.”

“Not at all. It’s going to be amazing. And not only will she dance there but she’ll be one of the main soloists,” I say, demonstrating my knowledge of her life, not that they’d question us being married at this point.

She beams at me, and something strange flows through my chest. I suppose because at one time, this was my naive dream. This whole scenario.

She tells them about the dance, the fast flow of movements, the constant injuries.

“These dancers will dance with broken bones sticking out of their ankles if you let them,” I say.

“Well, that might be a little extreme,” she says, “but we do push through the pain a lot. I have a knee injury that’s threatening right now but I’ve been icing it like a demon.”

She has a knee injury? She was battling a knee problem ten years ago in Vegas.

People make concerned noises and she assures them that it’s nothing. She proceeds to launch into the rest of the fantasy—they stay at a specific hotel that’s a restored 15th-century building. She walks around the Old Town early in the morning all by herself. She stops at a specific piazza coffee shop, orders acafé au lait, and reads the Spanish paper. She has photos of all of it.

She tells our dining companions how, as a little girl in rural North Dakota, she had those pictures on her bedroom wall—that specific town, that specific coffee shop, that specific theater.

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