Paris did not just wake up for the Serials; it preened. By noon, the city was bathed in a pale, golden light that made the limestone facades of the Avenue Montaigne look like they had been dusted with crushed pearls.
Inside the penthouse, the atmosphere was far less luminous. George stood by the door, his jaw set in a hard line, checking his platinum watch for the third time in five minutes. He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit that screamed old money and new power, his posture rigid. He was prepared to play the role of the doting, successful husband for the cameras that undoubtedly waited below. He had the script ready: he would lead her by the elbow, he would smile thinly at the paparazzi, and then, the moment they were behind the tinted glass of the limousine, he would vanish back into his icy silence.
"We are ten minutes behind schedule," George called out, his voice echoing off the marble. "The reservation at L'Avenue is not something I intend to lose because you were busy painting your face."
The door to the master suite swung open.
Dolphine didn't walk out; she emerged. She had chosen a vintage-inspired Dior coat in a shade of crimson so deep it looked like drying blood, cinched tightly at her impossibly small waist. Beneath it, a glimpse of black silk stockings and towering stilettos that made her legs look like they went on for miles. Her hair was swept into a sophisticated, loose chignon, and her lips were painted the exact same shade of lethal red as her coat.
She looked at George, not with the hurt eyes of a rejected bride, but with the appraising gaze of a general looking at a battlefield.
"Punctuality is the virtue of the bored, George," she said, pulling on a pair of leather gloves with a slow, deliberate snap. "And I promise you, no one is going to be looking at their watches when I walk into that room."
"I am," George snapped, though his eyes betrayed him. They traveled down the length of her, snagging on the curve of her throat, before he jerked his gaze back to the wall. "Let's go. And remember the arrangement. We are the 'Happy Serials' until the car door closes. If you embarrass me—"
"Embarrass you?" Dolphine let out a soft, melodic laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a graveyard. She stepped close to him, so close the fur of her collar brushed his lapel. "Darling, I'm the best thing that ever happened to your reputation. You're just the man who was lucky enough to pay for the privilege of standing next to me. Try to look like you're enjoying it. It's what you paid for, isn't it?"
The moment they stepped out of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, the world exploded into a frenzy of white light.
"Dolphine! Over here!"
"George! Give us a smile for Canada!"
"Mrs. Serial! Is it true you're moving to Paris?"
The paparazzi were a wall of noise and clicking shutters. George immediately moved to place a hand on the small of her back—the classic "protective husband" gesture. But Dolphine was faster. She didn't let him lead. She leaned into him, her body molding against his side with a faux-intimacy that was so convincing George felt a jolt of genuine electricity shoot up his spine.
She whispered out of the corner of her mouth, her smile never wavering for the cameras. "You're stiff, George. Relax your arm. You look like you're holding a mannequin, not the woman you spent three years begging to marry."
"I told you not to touch me," George hissed through his teeth, his hand twitching against the silk of her coat.
"I'm not touching you, darling," she cooed, turning her head to press a lingering, fake kiss against his cheek—a move that sent the photographers into a literal riot. "I'm branding you. Everyone is watching. If you pull away now, the headlines tomorrow won't be about our love—they'll be about how George Serial can't even handle his own wife on their honeymoon."
George forced his features into a mask of smug satisfaction, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. The heat of her body was an assault. The scent of her—that damn honey and eucalyptus—was filling his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to push her away, but he was trapped by his own vanity. He had told his mother he won. He had told himself he was the victor. He couldn't afford to look like a man whose wife was a stranger to him.
Lunch at L'Avenue was a choreographed dance of psychological warfare. They were seated at the most prominent table on the terrace, overlooking the street where the world's elite walked by.
George sat across from her, his expression cold and distant the moment the waiter departed. He picked up his menu, using it as a shield. "You're playing a dangerous game, Dolphine. Public displays of affection won't change what happens when we get back to the suite."
Dolphine didn't look at her menu. She looked at him, her chin resting on her gloved hand. "Oh, I know. But the public is so much more fun than you are, George. Look at that table over there." She gestured subtly toward a group of French businessmen who were staring at her with unabashed hunger. "They would give anything to be sitting where you are. They see a goddess. They see a prize. And they see a man who looks like he's bored of her."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a seductive, dangerous register.
"Do you know what happens when the world thinks a woman like me is being ignored by her husband? They start to wonder if he's... capable. They start to wonder if he's lost his edge. Or if he's simply not man enough to handle the fire he fought so hard to light."
George's face flushed a deep, angry red. "Careful," he warned.
"Or what? You'll ignore me more?" She laughed, a bright, sharp sound that drew the eyes of everyone on the terrace. "You see, George, your 'Invisible Wife' plan has a flaw. To make me invisible, you have to be able to look away. And yet, for the last twenty minutes, you haven't taken your eyes off my lips."
She reached across the table, her fingers grazing the back of his hand. George flinched as if burned, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't. Not with the Vogue editor sitting three tables over.
"You want revenge for the rain?" Dolphine continued, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that felt like a physical grip. "You want revenge for the times I made you wait? Then look at me. See the woman you've tied yourself to. I am the Miss Canada you humiliated yourself for. I am the woman who made you beg. And every day that you pretend I don't exist, I am going to make sure the rest of the world sees exactly what you're missing."
She picked up a strawberry from a bowl on the table, dipped it slowly into a side of cream, and bit into it while holding his gaze. It was a gesture of pure, unadulterated provocation.
"By the end of this year, George, the 'Invisible Wife' won't be the one starving. It will be you. You'll be sitting in that separate bedroom, listening to the sound of my breathing through the wall, and you'll realize that the 'Lions Den' you built... has no bars to keep me in. Only bars to keep you out."
George's grip on his wine glass was so tight the stem looked ready to snap. He realized, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that he had fundamentally misunderstood his opponent. He had thought he was the one holding the leash.
He looked at Dolphine—radiant, cruel, and devastatingly beautiful in the Parisian sun—and he felt the first stirrings of a terrifying realization:
He hadn't married a victim. He had married a mirror. And she was about to show him exactly how ugly his revenge could become.
"Waitress," George called out, his voice tight. "The check. Now."
Dolphine leaned back, a triumphant shimmer in her eyes. "Why so fast, darling? We haven't even had dessert. And I was just starting to enjoy the view of you breaking."