He nods, then clears his throat. "After I drop you off at your home. I'm sorry."

I wave my hand. "No need to be sorry. It isn't your fault."

It's my brother's. And Mom's for using him to get me married. She knows how Machiavellian he is. To him, everything justifies the end. The only reason he isn't trying physical violence is that it isn't his MO. Also, wedding photos look like crap when the bride is black and blue.

The other people in my entourage back away, bowing and mumbling apologies, and Mr. Clifford drives me home. The car stereo plays Chopin's Waltz in E minor, the rapid, turbulent notes reflecting my mood.

Unlike most Paris people of my age and circumstances, I don't live with my parents at the "primary residence." The place is huge, with three different wings and additions, so I would have all the privacy I wanted. Charles didn't move out after getting married; he just occupied one of the wings with his family. But then, as the heir to the Golden Gate empire, he's expected to be at the primary residence. He always does what's expected of him and doesn't understand why I don't. He forgets I don't have to because I'm not part of the empire the way he is. I'm not even a replacement, because if anything happened to him, the entire conglomerate would go to the management of an outside executive.

So Dad lets me live in a large luxury condo complex in the tony section of Paris called Chez, which is famous all over the world I wonder how much longer I can stay there without Charles finding a way to kick me out. Unfortunately, the lease is under the company's name for complex legal reasons I never quite understood.

And if he does, do I get to move back to the primary residence, or do I have to find an apartment on my own?

Probably on my own, because he specified not using family money. The primary residence has to fall under that category.

Tapping my fingers to another waltz, I mentally go through a list of friends in Paris I might be able to stay with, then shake my head. None of them will take me in, not if Charles makes a call. All of them have some kind of business dealings with Golden Gate or its subsidiaries. Friendships are fine until your market cap is at stake.

When the car stops at the glitzy gold and black entrance to my condo complex, Mr. Clifford  opens the door for me.

"Thank you for everything," I say. "Good luck."

"Thank you, Ms. Ben. I hope you have a good day," he says pleasantly, but I catch a hint of wistfulness. Mr. Clifford is a physical guy who likes to be out and about. So being my chauffeur and bodyguard has been an ideal assignment for him.

He drives away. I watch the black Mercedes vanish around the curve and wonder how I'm going to get around. There might be a bus stop or subway station somewhere, but I have no clue where. We don't get taxis driving by either, because every resident here has a car or two. Besides, I probably can't afford to ride taxis all the time now. I only have one hundred thousand FRF in cash like a hundred dollars in U.S. currency which is pathetic.

A loud engine roar catches my attention. I look in the direction and frown at the sight of a lemon-yellow Lamborghini. A familiar guy in his mid-twenties sticks his head out of the driver's-side window with an overly white grin. Excessive tooth bleaching. His pale, strawlike hair is spiked with gel. A pair of reflective sunglasses hides eyes I know to be small and unexceptional.

"Hey, babe. Finally caught you alone." His teeth gleam like a row of tiny searchlights.

I roll my eyes heavenward. Normally, Ms. Katherine  or Mr. Clifford f would keep people like this away, but I'm on my own now. Should I beat him with my heel? But is he worth ruining a Chanel?

"You're dressed nice," he says, trying again.

Obviously. Violet Georges Hobeika is more than nice. And Chanel heels are to die for. I love fashion, and I have excellent taste.

"Wanna go for a ride? This car's almost as nice as the way you look."

"I don't go for rides with convenience store cashiers who have to borrow their uncle's Lamborghinis. Or try to pick up girls who are way out of their league. You shouldn't be driving a car you can't fill up with money you make yourself."

His jaw drops. "What How did you...?" His face turns blotchy. "What are you talking about?"

"I know everything about everyone."

When I moved here, the security team created a set of extensive reports on everyone in the building, including the janitorial staff. I didn't read or remember everything about everyone, but I looked this idiot up when he repeatedly tried to hit on me despite Mr. Clifford's pro-level cock-blocking.

"You still haven't finished college, have you?" My voice drips with feigned pity. "Does your girlfriend know what you're up to?"

He swallows. "Freaky bitch."

"At least I'm not a loser and a cheater."

I turn and walk away, tossing my hair over my shoulder. I'm not worried about him trying anything. There are guards all over the place, one of the many benefits to living in the building.

I walk past the concierge and reception desks and take the elevator to the top floor. As the car moves upward, I tap the strap of my purse with my thumb, feeling anxious and nervous. Mr. Clifford  drove me here as soon as I left headquarters, but Charles could have some quicker and meaner minion to keep me out of my home. Although the stuff inside is mine I can't imagine Charles wanting to take over my shoe collection I can't take it if I can't get into the place. Given how ruthless he's been so far, he wouldn't mind one bit if I had to find an empty spot under a bridge to spend the night.

I pray the passcode is still good and enter the six-digit combination into the lock panel on the door to my unit. There is an interminable moment...

The panel beeps and turns green. Thank God. I step inside my condo.

The spectacular early summer view of the city greets me. My white Steinway baby grand in the sunken living room floor gleams under the sun. I sit down and play a few scales. It always helps anchor my thoughts.

Charles wants to win. So he’s going to do everything in his power to ensure I can’t get a job. In fact, he’s probably already done it. By now, I’ll be lucky to find employment scrubbing public toilets for the city. But I’m not going to give in and marry someone he picks from the dossiers. Nor am I going to pick one out myself so he can feel good about giving me a “choice.”

Basically, I need to go to someplace beyond his reach and influence. That means out of the country. And I’d better do it before he can stop me. All he has to do is make a call to somebody in the Ministry of Justice and have my passport flagged for a travel ban. Too many politicians owe him favors, and I won’t even be able to sue because they’ll all laugh like we’re buddies and say, “No hard feelings, just a misunderstanding.”

I stop mid-scale and pull out my phone. Fortunately, the service is on a separate contract under my name. I text Ivy and Tony, hoping one of them is awake, since it’s almost eleven p.m. in Los Angeles. They might not be. Ivy’s hugely pregnant and often exhausted. And Tony likes to go to bed with her and rub her back and feet.

Me: Hey. Can you get me a ticket to L.A.?

I tap my fingers on the Steinway, waiting. Then stand up abruptly because I shouldn’t be wasting time like this. I need to start packing.

My phone rings. It’s Ivy.

I answer instantly, putting her on the speaker so I can pack and talk at the same time. “Hey, girl.”

“What’s going on?” she asks. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I pull out a huge suitcase and start throwing in my dresses and purses. “I just need to get out of here. Don’t need a round-trip ticket,” I add, since most ticketing agents will want to have a return date.

“Oh no…” Ivy sighs. “This doesn’t sound good.”

“It isn’t the best situation.” The understatement of the month. But I don’t want to go into detail. It’s too much for an international phone call, plus it’s late in L.A.

“When are you coming?”

“As soon as possible.” Before it occurs to Charles to make that phone call to the Ministry of Justice. “Like, now. Immediately.”

The suitcase is full. I pull out another and start stuffing it with shoes and accessories. Must have shoes and accessories to go with the clothes and purses I already packed.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, nothing like that,” I say, not wanting her to worry. Stress is bad for pregnant women. My honorary nephew and niece deserve only the best. “It’s just my brother being a jerk. A long story. I’ll tell you everything when I get there.”

“Okay. What do I need to get you a ticket? I have your name, but don’t I need your passport number and stuff, too?”

“Probably. Let me text you a picture of my passport. Give me a sec.” I rummage through dresser drawers until I find my passport. I take a photo of the page with all my details. “Sending it now.”

There’s a pause. “Okay, got it. I’ll send you the ticket info soon. How about something that leaves in the next three hours? I see one here.”

I think for a second. It shouldn’t take that long to pack, and it’s about fifty minutes to the airport. Since I have no clue how to catch an airport bus, I’ll just have a taxi come pick me up.

“That’s fine. Thanks, Ivy!”

“My pleasure. Can’t wait to see you,” she says, still sounding a little worried.

This is all Charles's fault.

I finish shoving everything I need into two suitcases, but I still want the rest of my stuff. I stop to think for a moment. Who is someone Charles can’t screw with?

I call Mr. Patrick, my dad’s chief executive assistant.

“Ms. Ben,” he answers immediately, his tone professional. “The chairman’s in a meeting.”

“Hello, Mr. Patrick. I’m not calling to talk to my dad. I need to ask you for a small favor.”

“Anything.”

“I’m going to Los Angeles and can only take two suitcases. Can you pack up the rest of my things and overnight them to Ivy Blackwood’s home address? It should be on file.” My family maintains the addresses of everyone we associate with.

“Certainly. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Thank you. You’re a gem.” I smile although he can’t see it. I don’t ask him to keep it from Dad because it wouldn’t be right to test his loyalty that way. But he isn’t the type to gossip, and he won’t tell Dad what I wanted unless asked.

“My pleasure. Have a lovely trip.”

“Oh, I will.”

I hang up, feeling smugly triumphant. So Charles hasn’t been able to turn absolutely everybody against me. But then, he knows better than anyone how much Dad indulges me. We grew up together, after all.

I make a mental note to ask Dad to give Mr. Patrick a fat bonus. Or the fully comped use of one of our resorts. That should make him and his wife happy.

My phone pings.

Ivy: Got the ticket. Emailed it to you just now. You need to leave soon to catch the flight, though.

I check my email to make sure. First class to LAX. I smile.

Me: You’re the best!

I call the concierge in the lobby and ask them to arrange for a taxi pickup for the airport, then roll my suitcases out into the living room. I stop and put a hand over my fluttering belly. I’ve never done anything like this before. It feels like cutting ties, making my desires known, insisting on them, in fact…and hoping for the best. I’ve never not had the support of my family, and now here I am, not even telling them I’m leaving.

But I know that if I do, they’ll try to stop me.

My parents love me to pieces. Unfortunately, that means they can be a bit overprotective at times.

But I can’t let them run my life. They don’t have to sleep with my future husband and have his babies. I’m not having sex with a guy I feel nothing for.

I blow a kiss at the baby grand. “I’m going to miss you, sweetheart.”

Nothing calms my anxiety like playing the piano. If I could, I’d take it with me. But I can wait until I get to Ivy’s place. She has a Bösendorfer concert grand I can use.

Inhaling deeply, I grab my bags and head downstairs to go to the airport.

Davidson's [POV]

I step off the flight from Italy to France and smooth the minor wrinkles in my shirt. My mood could best be described as extremely irritated, because the flight was five hours late. Which, of course, means I've missed my connection to LAX.

Just how difficult is it for the airline to maintain its fleet properly and operate on time?

Delays due to mechanical issues just mean the airline is terrible at its primary function. And I hurried through everything in Italy to make the damned flight for nothing.

I pull out my phone and turn off airplane mode. Texts and alerts fill my screen. Some of them are from the airline about the damn flight, like I wouldn't know I've been hugely inconvenienced without their idiotic alerts.

A mountain of to-dos are waiting for me in L.A. I don't have time to waste here, even if this airport is spectacularly spacious and nice.

One new email in particular is near the top of my inbox. Despite the fact that it's in French, I check it first because it's going to be more effective than meds for bringing down my blood pressure.

Sure enough...

The email contains pictures of old golden retrievers. They look adorable and happy. I smile. Only a sociopath could stay angry seeing those panting doggy grins. And just look at those cute, bright eyes. The dogs are lovable. No other word for it.

This is exactly what I wanted when I started sponsoring a "retirement center" for old seeing eye dogs in France. I never knew what happened to those dogs. Actually, I never gave much thought to them at all, since I've never known anybody who needed one.

But three years ago on a long trans-Pacific flight, I watched a documentary about what the French people did with their animals once they grew too old to serve. Since they can't be seeing eye dogs anymore, they're sent to a kind of retirement center where they live out the rest of their lives. Their owners visit them if they live nearby. But it has to be painful for the dogs to be away from someone they've known and loved for so long.

Toward the end, the film featured a sick dog named Nana. That poor thing was old and suffering from an unspecified illness. A center worker said they were waiting for a vet to come in, while rubbing Nana to comfort her.

The slow way Nana blinked...and how unfocused her eyes were... It just gutted me. The film wasn't trying to solicit donations. But I found out where the center was located, hired a translator, and flew out there.

Nana had already died, so there was nothing I could do for her. But I got to see the other dogs at the center. How intelligent and gentle they were, how happy they were to have a visitor, tails wagging and noses questing to meet this new person.

They've spent all their lives in training and service to humans. Now that they're retired, they could use some pampering beyond what the center's budget can give. Every single one of the dogs there deserves steak and biscuits. They deserve dignity.

I set up an annual donation on the spot.

Everyone was thrilled about the decision except my accountant. He advised me to choose a different organization to give money to, saying I couldn't write it off my taxes. Apparently, a foreign entity that isn't registered with the IRS doesn't entitle me to a deduction. It's my accountant's job to worry about stuff like that, but I ignored his advice. It's my money. I'll give it to whoever I deem worthy, not who the IRS considers acceptable.

And I say those dogs deserve to be treated like royalty.

So every month, the center sends me updates and pictures...sometimes videos. I can't read the updates because they're in French Google Translate helps to sort of parse it out but opening the updates is always a happy moment.

Finally I close the email, then send a quick text to my best friend Aiden.

–Me: Can't make it for drinks like we planned. Got delayed.

–Aiden: That sucks. Some other time, then.

Assuming we can agree on a date. We both keep busy schedules. He's an attorney and lives to protect his clients and destroy their enemies. I'm one of his clients too, and I love having an asshole on my team. Comes in handy at times.

–Aiden: Lemme know when you get back.

–Me: Ok. I'll have Benedict check my calendar next week.

–Aiden: Too special to hang out with me this weekend?

I snort. Because of my trip, I suggested meeting for drinks on Saturday rather than Friday, but he told me he was busy.

–Me: Like you have any free time.

–Aiden: Yeah, true. TTYLater gator.

That done, I contact my assistant Benedict.

–Me: I just landed. Call me.

I see another security checkpoint. Shit. But at least the lines are moving.

–Me: Wait. Call me after I clear security. Ten minutes.

After I go through a metal detector and have my carry-on scanned by a woman who tries to maintain eye contact a little longer than is really necessary, I walk along the wide and curving main corridor of Charles de Gaulle Airport, past a string of brightly lit duty-free stores, phone in hand. I also note an indoor garden that must be new. I don't remember seeing it last time I came to Seoul. Panels on the high ceiling above show soothing patterns of blue and orange. I squint. Are those fish on the screens...?

And when is Benedict going to call? I said ten minutes, not eleven—

My phone rings. "Tell me you put me on the next flight out of here," I say.

"Sorry. The airline put you on the one after."

"Why?" The gall of the airline. "Don't they know they've wasted enough of my time?"

"I made that clear, but they were worried that you might not clear the second security check after getting off the flight from Singapore. But they assured me that was the fastest they could arrange. Even said it was with their partner airline."

Oh for God's sake. "Well, I've already cleared it. So can they put me on the next flight?"

"Probably not. Unless it's been delayed, it's already boarding. Or about to."

Fuck. Me.

"But according to the schedule, you should be home in the next fourteen hours for sure."

That fails to improve my mood. I should be halfway over the Pacific by now, damn it. But there's nothing to be done, so I latch on to something that I can do something about. "Fine. Update me on anything I should know."

"No emergencies. Your agent sent five more scripts since you left for your little getaway in Phuket. How's your tan, by the way?"

"Good enough." I grunt with half annoyance and half pleasure.

I don't regret adding the three-day detour to Thailand to my trip to Japan, where I was filming a few whiskey commercials for a local brewery.

I'd never been to Thailand, and a producer told me the beaches in Phuket are fantastic. But I resent the hell out of the fact that the airlines fucked up my return trip home.

"Also, FYI, you have fourteen calls from Jessica Martins," Benedict says, to distinguish her from another Jessica, a photographer I used to work with some years ago.