Page 84 of All's Fair In Love & War

This time, she did smile.

“Then just say that,” she replied.

“I just did.”

She shook her head and rested her hands against my chest. “Alright, but only for today. I still have a lot to do to get my family back on top where we belong.”

“You will be,” I assured her, determined to do whatever it took to make sure my wife received everything she wished for. “Now, wrap this up and meet me at the hangar in an hour. Bring your passport and dress comfortably for the flight.”

“A flight—” she screeched, but before she could go on, I interrupted her mid-sentence.

“Be quiet, and just do what I said, woman. It’ll be worth your while.”

We touched down in Paris right before noon, and within the hour, I had her walking through the luxury fashion district like she owned every cobblestone under her boots.

I had called ahead to ensure everything was perfectly arranged for our visit. We had exclusive, private access to several boutiques, where rows upon rows of clothing awaited us. Eachgarment had been carefully selected and tailored to match her unique style.

Tatum didn’t ask many questions. She went with the flow and let herself be pampered. Attendants brought out racks of Gaultier and Balmain and some Italian shit I’d never heard of but apparently cost as much as an entry-level Benz. Tatum made a performance out of rejecting three-quarters of what they presented, but I saw the glint in her eyes. She loved the attention, the exclusivity, the subtle flex of having the entire fifth arrondissement bending the knee for her.

And still—something was off.

She passed on the champagne twice, barely touched the water she asked for, and kept slipping off to the restroom. The third time she came back, she looked a little pale around the edges and sat down on a velvet bench without saying much. She pressed the heel of her palm to her temples like the light was too much or her head was starting to pound.

“You okay?” I’d asked more than once, but she kept giving me the same answer.

“I’m fine. It’s just the stress,” she said, not even looking up as she waved a hand. “Work is… a lot.”

She sounded irritated, but it couldn’t have been with me. I hadn’t done anything to get on her bad side lately.

“You’ve been saying that all week, and you’re barely eating. You sleep a lot, and now you’re turning down champagne? When did that start? You love champagne, Tatum.”

She sighed and leaned back on the velvet bench, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. Her fingers moved up to press the bridge of her nose, then shifted to her temples. And I didn’t miss the way she kept shifting in her seat, like her body couldn’t settle.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, but her voice was softer this time, less confident.

I sat down beside her, not touching her yet. “You’ve gone to the bathroom three times in less than an hour. You’ve turned down everything they’ve offered, and you’re looking pale.”

“I didn’t come here to be monitored,” she said, eyes still closed.

“I didn’t bring you here to monitor you either,” I said quietly. “I brought you here to take care of you, but I can’t do that if you won’t let me.”

She opened her eyes slowly and glanced over at me. There was a flicker of something there, fatigue, maybe even guilt, but she didn’t speak on it. She just rested her hand on her stomach again, like she forgot she was doing it.

And that was the moment it clicked—really clicked.

I didn’t say anything else. I just leaned back, nodded, and kept watching.

She wasn’t ready to admit what was going on.

But I already knew.

I let it drop for the rest of the day, figuring the last thing she wanted was for me to treat her like a patient. We visited the Louis Vuitton flagship, and she purchased a limited-edition Neverfull that had the in-house stylists practically fan themselves. We ate macarons at Ladurée, sitting outside on the curb like we were broke-ass tourists, even though the car service waited less than ten feet away.

Tatum could command a room with a single look, could cuss out a cartel lieutenant and make him apologize, but she’d still rather sit cross-legged on the sidewalk, licking powdered sugar off her fingers and watching randoms stumble by stoned on sunlight and espresso.

Around dusk, I took her to a spot she’d once mentioned wanting to see. It was an old bookshop on the Seine, stacked so tight it looked ready to collapse under the weight of a hundred years of pages. I’d called ahead to reserve the whole place andhired a translator so we wouldn’t waste time fumbling with shitty Google translations.

Tatum drifted around the labyrinthine stacks, running her fingers along crumbling spines and reading the French titles out loud in a low, syrupy voice. She paused once to pull some ancient, battered noir off the shelf, opened it to a random chapter, and read a couple of lines to me in her best French accent. I told her it was criminally sexy, and she rolled her eyes but didn’t put the book down, so I bought it for her.

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