Chapter 35 - A Christmas Eve in Paris
Two years later, Christmas Eve arrived once again.
Snow was falling gently over Paris, dusting the slate roofs of Saint-Germain and the stone gargoyles of Notre-Dame in pristine, glittering white. The city looked like a living painting, glowing with warm amber streetlamps and festive evergreen garlands wrapped around ancient limestone balconies.
Inside our restored townhouse on Rue de Varenne, a roaring fire crackled in the grand hearth. The dining table was set with heirloom French porcelain, crystal decanters of vintage burgundy, and a magnificent holiday roast prepared by our private chef.
Laughter echoed through the vaulted living room.
Marcus Vance and his wife had flown in from Chicago, sitting near the fire trading stories with Henri Laurent and Claire Montgomery. In the corner of the room, beside a towering twelve-foot fir tree decorated with hand-blown silver glass ornaments, Julian was kneeling on the Persian rug, building a wooden block castle with our eleven-month-old daughter, Madeleine.
Madeleine had Julian’s hazel eyes and my stubborn chin. When the wooden tower collapsed with a soft clatter, she let out an infectious, joyous giggle that filled the entire room with light. Julian scooped her up into his arms, kissing her chubby cheek, his laughter joining hers in pure, untainted harmony.
I stood by the tall arched French doors, holding a flute of vintage champagne, watching my family.
I wore a dark emerald velvet evening gown, my yellow diamond wedding ring catching the warm glow of the candlelight. My heart was so full that it felt almost impossible to believe that seven years ago tonight, I had been sitting in an idling sedan outside Samantha Cole’s high-rise in Chicago, clutching a steering wheel with frozen hands, watching my life shatter into pieces.
Julian handed Madeleine to Claire, who was delighted to play with her, and walked over to join me by the window. He wrapped his strong arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin gently against the curve of my neck, his warmth chasing away the chill of the glass.
"What are you thinking about, my love?" Julian asked softly, his breath warm against my skin.
I leaned back into his chest, letting out a long, peaceful breath that held no ghosts, no regrets, and no bitter memories.
"I was thinking about seven years ago tonight," I confessed quietly. "About the Range Rover parked in the snow. About the cold dinner on the counter in Lake Forest. About the woman who thought her life was ending."
Julian turned me gently in his arms, his hazel eyes looking into mine with infinite tenderness and respect. "And what would you say to that woman now, if you could stand beside her in that idling car?"
I smiled, my lips parting into a triumphant, radiant expression of complete self-mastery.
"I would tell her to step on the gas," I whispered, resting my hand against Julian’s cheek. "I would tell her that the locked gates she was about to close behind her weren't a prison sentence—they were the entrance to paradise. I would tell her that betrayal is only a detour, and that the greatest empire she would ever build was the one waiting on the other side of her own courage."
Julian smiled, clinking his crystal flute against mine with a soft, resonant chime that seemed to echo throughout the beautiful, vibrant house.
"Merry Christmas, Evelyn," he said, leaning down to press his lips against mine in a long, sweet, restorative kiss.
"Merry Christmas, Julian," I replied against his lips.
May you like
Across the room, our daughter giggled again, the fireplace roared with steady warmth, and outside the window, the Parisian snow fell silently into the night.
The storm was over. The accounts were balanced. The past was forgiven, and the future was entirely, gloriously mine.
