Page 66 of Her Cruel Empire
But I know the answer. It’s always the same: I’m being selfish. I’m taking something I want. This is not unusual behavior for me. But blowing off work? Twice in a row?
I’ve never done that before.
Ever.
An hour later, Leon enters the suite’s sitting room while Robin showers. His expression is thunderous.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says without preamble.
I don’t look up from my coffee. “Making buyers sweat is a valid tactic, Leon. You know this.”
“It’s not the buyers I’m worried about.” His tone sharpens with something approaching insubordination. “It’s you.”
“Then let me assure you, you have nothing to worry about on my behalf.”
“You’re being reckless.”
That gets my attention. I straighten, meeting his gaze with the full force of my authority. “I have it under control.”
“Do you?” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You are purposely riling up the very people you came here to calm. What if Robin gets caught in the crossfire? What if whoever tried to kill your father decides to finish what they started, and remove the Novak Consortium from consideration altogether?”
My fingers tighten on my coffee cup, but I can’t dismiss his concern entirely. Leon has taken bullets for me. He’s earned the right to speak plainly, more than anyone else in this world. But still?—
“What are you suggesting?” I ask coolly. “And watch your tone,” I add.
“I am suggesting you remember who you are.Whatyou are.” His eyes are hard as granite. “This girl…she’s making you soft.”
“Soft?” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “I’ve postponed a few meetings, Leon. I’m hardly abandoning the empire.”
He crosses his arms. “You are choosing her over everything else. But worse, you are pretending not to. Yesterday, you ran around Paris as though you had no cares in the world, and you refused to let your security detail come with you up the Tower. All of this is unwise behavior, and I would not be doing my duty to you—to the Consortium—if I did not point this out.”
From deep in the suite, I hear the shower stop running, because I’ve been attuned to it the whole time. Robin will emerge soon, with flushed skin and damp hair, smelling like expensive hotel soap. The thought makes my pulse quicken.
“Fine,” I say quickly. “You’ll accompany us today, wherever I choose to go. But go and wait downstairs.”
Leon nods, satisfied at last, and leaves the room.
I try to brush off the feeling that I’ve been chastised like some naughty schoolgirl.
I take Robin to the Paris I love—not the tourist’s version with its crowded monuments and overpriced cafes, but my own carefully curated world.
We start at the Galerie Privée, a converted mansion where rare artworks hang in climate-controlled silence. The owner,Monsieur Dubois, opens the gallery exclusively for us—another perk of unlimited wealth and carefully cultivated connections.
Robin and I wander through rooms of luminous paintings, past Monet and Degas and Renoir and Cezanne. I find myself talking more than usual, explaining the art to her—impressionism’s softness, cubism’s beautiful chaos, the raw emotion of abstract expressionism.
And she soaks it all up like a sponge. She doesn’t belong in my world, and yet she fits. She moves through the gallery with genuine appreciation, asking thoughtful questions, making connections I wouldn’t have expected. There’s an intelligence in her that has nothing to do with formal education and everything to do with natural curiosity.
When she lingers before a particularly violent Picasso, I find myself sharing the story of how I acquired a Picasso of my own, involving a hand of cards in Monaco and the previous owner’s desperation. But as I end on a laugh, I see she doesn’t find the story as amusing as I do.
“Don’t you ever feel guilty?” she asks quietly. “Taking beautiful things from people who can’t afford to keep them?”
The question annoys me. “I preserve them. Without collectors like me, half these paintings would be rotting in attics or destroyed in wars.”
She turns away with a sad smile, but I hear her murmur, not intended for my ears, “Is that what you tell yourself?”
The words sting, but she’s already moved on. Still, those words follow me as we leave the gallery, a small splinter of doubt I can’t quite shake.
For lunch, I take her to Le Jardin Caché, a restaurant hidden behind unmarked doors in the Marais. The maître d’ leads us to a private courtyard where ivy climbs ancient stone walls and the air is perfumed with roses.
