One thing I knew, I wasn’t leaving France.
Not on my life.
When I dragged out a piece of my luggage (there were three), Pierre was there.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Packing,” I said in a bored tone, one that I didn’t affect.
I was, indeed, bored.
Done.
Over this.
On to the next adventure.
“Packing? Just like that?”
I turned from unzipping and opening my suitcase to him.
“You need to get that painting back,” I told him. “And you need to destroy the other one. You also need to give me all the pictures you took of me and erase any digital copies you have.”
His mouth dropped open.
He then used it to say, “That is not happening.”
“You don’t have my permission to use my image, Pierre. It’s illegal for you to sell those paintings or use those images for monetary purposes without my permission.”
I was no Hollywood starlet rushing into the latest hip club, ripe for any paparazzo’s lens, needing it at the same time feeling it wholly an invasion of my privacy.
I had posed for Pierre for the thrill of it. I’d done it because I had feelings for him. I’d done it because I loved his work and wanted to be a part of it. I’d done it because it was fun, and I thought it was cool. I’d also done it because I thought he wasn’t going to sell them.
But bottom line, I’d acted as his model.
And first, he needed to pay me if he was going to make money off me.
Second, he needed my permission.
“That’s rubbish,” he bit out.
“Do you know who I am?”
It wasn’t arrogant posturing.
But for God’s sake, he knew I was Imogen Swan and Tom Pierce’s daughter. America’s sweetheart and one of the best tennis players ever to walk on a court.
They were two of the most famous people on the planet.
Of course I knew what I’d just said was far from rubbish.
And he knew it too.
“They are my paintings,” he asserted.
“It’s my body. My face,” I fired back. “I own them, and you cannot use them unless I grant you permission. And I’ll remind you, I posed for you because you said you were never going to sell the paintings you painted of me. ‘Never’ for you lasted less than three months. But the true meaning of never is never, Pierre. Which means you lied to me about your intentions when you took those pictures and did that work. Now, if you don’t want to turn over or destroy all you have, you can give me a million euros. I think that’s fair compensation.”
His eyes grew huge.
And the French rolled off his tongue.
I was learning the language, but I didn’t catch even half of it.
“English,” I demanded.
“I am not giving you a million euros, Chloe. I am not getting that painting back. I am not destroying the rest. And you are not leaving.”
“Oh, I’m leaving,” I confirmed. “And I advise you rethink your course of action.”
This time, his eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me and leaving me at the same time?”
“Well, it’s not exactly a threat, but for the most part, yes.”
Now, as he took in my tone, actions, and demeanor, it hit him.
I was, in fact, leaving.
Suddenly, he appeared wounded.
Suddenly and genuinely.
This did not make me pause.
Truth told, I didn’t care that he had pictures of me nude, or sold them. I had a great body, I was proud of it, and his work was amazing.
This was about something else.
Something far bigger.
It was the promise broken.
The betrayal.
Uncle Corey a lot of the time could be creepy (these times when he was around Mom).
But the man was a multi-billionaire tech czar.
Which meant he was no idiot.
So he gave great advice.
Every time he gave it, I stored those little gems so I could take them out and polish them when the time was nigh.
Obviously, with one of those gems, the time was nigh.
“Get that painting back and destroy the rest, or pay me, Pierre, those are your choices,” I summed up. “Now, it’d be easier to do this,” I motioned to the suitcase, “if you went off and got a coffee.”
He stared at me, thrown, angry, hurt.
What he didn’t do was go and get a coffee.
I sighed and then got down to business, taking my time and making perfectly sure I got everything because I wasn’t coming back.
At the door, I decided it might be uncool just to sweep out, even if it would be dramatic and what I wanted to do.
Thus, I halted, turned to him and said softly, “It’s been fun.”
He stopped sulking (what he’d been doing the entire time I packed), and the hurt dug deep in his hazel eyes.
“Fun?” he whispered. “It’s been fun? Chloe, mon cœur, you’re the love of my life.”
I studied him quizzically because that truly perplexed me.
“How can that be?” I asked, genuinely wanting to know.
“How can that…how can it… How can it be?” he asked in return. “Have you not been here,” he tossed his arm out to indicate the flat, “with me for the last six months?”
“You lied to me,” I stated flatly. “And you don’t lie to someone you love.”
His head snapped like I’d slapped him.
“Good-bye, Pierre,” I said.
And with that, not looking back, not knowing that I’d never see him again, but even if I did, I knew I wouldn’t care, I left.
And checked into The Ritz.
Judge
Five years later…
“You have no direction.”
Judge sat opposite his girlfriend of the last year and a half, Megan, and said nothing.
She did.
“I need a man with ambition. Drive. Who knows what he wants and goes after it, works for it, fights for it.”
Judge remained silent.
“Judge, are you listening to me?” she asked, though she didn’t wait for him to answer, probably because he was staring right at her, and he was doing it hard, so she had to know he was listening. She carried on, “I mean, I’m sorry. This is rough. But you always say we need to be honest with each other. And this is me being honest.”
That got him talking.
“Right then, let’s be honest, Meg. Really honest. What you’re saying is, I’m not going in the direction you want me going. My life goals aren’t what you want them to be. I know what I want, you know I do. I know who I am, you know that too. It’s just that those things aren’t what you want. Am I right?”
Her face twisted. “No man wants to hike for a living.”
Okay.
Now he was getting pissed off.
“After all this time together, is that what you think I do?”
She shifted on her barstool.
She knew what he did, and she knew that was bullshit.
And…
Yeah.
Barstool.
They both lived in Arizona. But he lived in Prescott, she lived in Phoenix, a two-hour drive from each other, so it wasn’t like they were living together or even saw each other every day.