Chapter 10 - Paris in the Rain
10 - 15
The private Gulfstream jet cut silently through the stratosphere, cruising above a vast, endless ocean of moonlight-drenched clouds. Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was a sanctuary of quiet luxury—soft leather seating, dim recessed lighting, and the faint, rhythmic purr of the turbine engines.
Sadi sat by the window, wrapped in a plush cashmere blanket, watching the ethereal glow of the stars against the dark velvet expanse of the night sky. Across the aisle, Roman was reviewing a series of encrypted logistical dispatches on a secure tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration before he locked the screen and set the device aside.
He stood up, walked over, and slid into the seat directly across from her, his gray eyes softening as he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’ve been quiet since we left the lounge,” Roman noted softly. “Are you thinking about Trevor?”
Sadi turned her head to look at him, a faint, melancholic smile touching her lips. “No. Not Trevor. I was thinking about how strange life is. Three years ago, if someone had told me I’d be flying private to Paris with the most powerful man in the financial district, I would have laughed in their face. I would have thought it was a cruel joke.”
“It wasn't a joke,” Roman replied, his voice firm and unwavering. “It was inevitability. You just had to survive the winter to see the spring.”
“Is that your version of poetry, Mr. Vance?” Sadi teased, her dark eyes sparkling with a rare, effortless amusement.
“My poetry is usually written in balance sheets and corporate hostile takeovers,” Roman chuckled, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Though for you, I’m willing to expand my portfolio.”
The jet began its gradual, seamless descent through the cloud cover as they approached European airspace. Far below, the sprawling, illuminated avenues of Paris stretched out like glowing filaments of gold, tracing the winding path of the Seine past the skeletal elegance of the Eiffel Tower.
When the aircraft touched down on the tarmac of Le Bourget private airfield, the damp, cool air of an autumnal Parisian night rushed into the cabin as the cabin door swung open. A sleek, black Mercedes Maybach waited at the base of the mobile stairs, its engine idling silently.
They drove into the city through rain-slicked streets that reflected the neon glow of historic Haussmann-style architecture. The city felt timeless, romantic, and entirely detached from the corporate bloodsports of the American financial district.
Their penthouse suite overlooked the Place Vendôme, its high ceilings adorned with ornate plaster moldings and crystal chandeliers that cast a warm, flickering glow across antique velvet furnishings.
Sadi walked straight to the tall French doors, pushing them open to step out onto the wrought-iron balcony. The crisp Parisian air carried the scent of wet asphalt, roasted chestnuts, and distant pastries from a nearby bakery opening early for the morning shift.
Roman stepped out behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her back against his chest so she could feel the steady, reassuring warmth of his heartbeat.
“Cold?” he murmured against her neck.
“Never,” Sadi whispered, resting her hands over his.
She looked out over the quiet square, watching the rain mist softly against the historic stone facades. For the first time in her life, the ghosts of her past didn't follow her. They didn't lurk in the shadows or echo in the footsteps behind her. They were gone—buried beneath the weight of an empire built entirely to protect her peace.
“What happens now, Roman?” she asked quietly.
May you like
“Now?” Roman rested his chin gently on her shoulder, his gaze tracking the horizon where the first pale streaks of dawn were beginning to break through the gray clouds. “Now, we live. The board is clear, the pieces are put away, and there’s no one left in the world who can touch you.”
Sadi closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of cedarwood, ozone, and absolute security. The girl who had once scraped pennies on Tenth Street was gone. In her place stood a woman who shared a bed with the city’s most ruthless ghost—and together, they owned the world.
