The interior of Le Coucou was a masterpiece of warm lighting and hushed exclusivity. Eve sat at a corner table, shielded by a high partition of lush greenery. It was the most private spot in the restaurant, chosen specifically for this moment.
She checked her Cartier watch. Andre was twelve minutes late.
She took a sip of water, the ice clinking softly against the crystal. It was fine. He was an artist. Time was a fluid concept to him, something to be bent rather than obeyed. She touched the velvet box in her purse again, grounding herself.
Her phone lit up on the white tablecloth. A notification from a celebrity gossip app she usually ignored.
BREAKING: The Reclusive Artist Returns. Famed Artist Andre Wilcox spotted at JFK with an old flame.
Eve's breath hitched. Her finger hovered over the screen, trembling slightly.
She tapped the notification.
The photo was grainy, taken with a long lens, but undeniable. It was Andre. He was walking through the arrivals terminal, looking tan and rugged. But he wasn't alone. Tucked under his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, was a woman with distinctive red hair.
Cinda Nixon. His ex-girlfriend.
Eve felt the blood drain from her face. Her stomach dropped, a physical sensation of falling. Why was Cinda with him? Why hadn't he mentioned she was coming back?
"Right this way, Monsieur."
The maitre d's voice drifted from the other side of the greenery partition. Eve froze.
"This is perfect, thank you," a voice said.
Andre's voice.
Eve's heart slammed against her ribs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She sat paralyzed, listening as two people slid into the booth directly behind her, separated only by the decorative plants.
"I missed this city," a female voice purred. Cinda. "But I missed you more."
There was the sound of fabric rustling, hands touching.
"I told you I'd come back for you," Andre said. His tone was low, intimate-a tone Eve had heard in her head a thousand times, but never directed at her.
"What about her?" Cinda asked. Her voice carried a mocking lilt. "Is that Franks heiress still obsessed with you? The one who bought all your early paintings?"
Eve gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles turned bone-white. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for him to defend her. Praying for him to say they were friends, partners, anything respectful.
Andre let out a short, dismissive laugh.
"Don't talk about her," he said. "It kills the mood."
"Come on," Cinda pressed. "She's rich. Did you sleep with her?"
"God, no," Andre said. The disgust in his voice was casual, easy. "She's... intense. Suffocating. She's a burden, always has been. Besides, look at her. She's just a checkbook with legs. She was a useful stand-in while I got established, Cinda. A placeholder. Every time I looked at her, I was just wishing she was you."
The words hit Eve like a physical blow to the chest.
A stand-in.
A placeholder.
A high-pitched ringing started in Eve's ears, drowning out the ambient noise of the restaurant. The room tilted. The air felt too thin. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob that was clawing its way up her throat.
Seven years. The sneaking around to avoid the press, the secret funding of his gallery shows, the late-night calls where she listened to his insecurities. It was all a lie. She wasn't the love of his life. She was his ATM.
She looked down at her champagne silk dress. She looked pathetic.
Anger, hot and blinding, flared in her chest, but it was quickly extinguished by a crushing wave of humiliation. She couldn't confront them. If she stood up now, if she screamed, she would be the crazy, desperate heiress. She would be the joke.
She wouldn't give them that satisfaction.
Eve stood up. Her legs felt like they were made of lead. She moved silently, like a ghost, leaving the unopened menu and the glass of water on the table. She slipped out the side exit, bypassing the maitre d'.
The cold night air of Soho hit her face, stinging the tears that had finally spilled over.
She pulled out her phone. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped it. She found Andre's contact. My Star.
She deleted the nickname. Then she blocked the number.
She opened Instagram. Blocked. Twitter. Blocked.
With every tap, a piece of her heart fractured. It was a digital amputation.
Thomas pulled the car up to the curb, seeing her distress immediately. He hurried out. "Ms. Franks? Is everything alright? The dinner hasn't even started."
"Get in the car," Eve choked out. Her voice was unrecognizable-raw, broken.
"Where to? Home?"
"No," Eve practically screamed, the control finally snapping. "Not home. Everything there reminds me of him. Take me to The Apex Club."
Thomas hesitated, his hand on the door. "Ma'am, you have the board meeting tomorrow morning at eight..."
"Drive!" Eve slammed the door shut, sinking into the darkness of the backseat. "I want the strongest drink they have. Drive the car!"
The Maybach peeled away from the curb, leaving behind the restaurant, the cufflinks in her purse, and the shattered remains of Eve Franks's dignity.
