1

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN FATE HATES YOU

ISABELLA

"You're not coming, are you?"

Camille's voice cracked through my phone speaker, equal parts accusation and disappointment. I shifted the device against my ear, staring at the suitcase on my bed. It was half-packed, like my commitment to this trip.

"Of course I'm coming. The flight's tomorrow."

"You've been saying that for three weeks. Every time I call, you're 'definitely coming,' but your suitcase looks like it's been in the same spot since Tuesday."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. She wasn't wrong.

"Julien thinks I shouldn't go."

"Julien." She said his name like it was a flavor she'd tried once and hated. "What does Julien think you'll miss? Another dinner where he answers emails under the table? A weekend where he 'accidentally' schedules golf with clients instead of your anniversary?"

"Camille-"

"No, listen to me." Her voice softened, losing its edge. "Izzy, when's the last time you did something just for you? Not for him, not for work, not because it was the practical choice. Something that made your chest feel light because you couldn't believe you got to be there?"

I glanced at my window. Paris stretched beyond it, gray and drizzly, beautiful in that scripted way that made you want to write sad poetry or drink expensive wine.

I'd lived here for six years, and I'd stopped noticing either.

"The Moreau beach house," she continued, "is stupidly beautiful. Like, annoyingly so. White cliffs, water so blue it looks fake, and sunsets that make you believe in God. And my father's never there, so we have the whole place to ourselves. Three months, Izzy. Just us, champagne, and absolutely no men telling us what we should want."

I almost laughed and almost said yes, then reality crept back in.

"I have deadlines. And Julien will be impossible when I get back-"

"Julien will be Julien whether you're gone for three days or three months. That man has the emotional temperature of a houseplant."

"Camille-"

"Isabella Laurent."

Okay.... She just called my full name.

"I love you. You're my person. But if you let that emotionally constipated architect talk you out of the best summer of your life, I will fly to Paris and pack your suitcase myself. And I will bring the embarrassing lingerie you hide in the back of your drawer."

"I don't have embarrassing lingerie."

"You will after I'm done shopping for you."

I pressed my palm against my forehead, but I was smiling. The part of me that wanted a new scenery was beginning to win.

"Three months is a long time."

"Three months is nothing. Three months is a blink. Three months from now, you'll be back in this apartment, staring at that same gray sky, wishing you'd said yes. Don't wish, Izzy. Just say yes."

Fuck it. I'm doing it.

"Yes," I whispered.

"What was that? I didn't catch it."

"Yes, you insufferable woman. I'll come."

She squealed like a child on Christmas morning, and I laughed... really laughed for the first time in months.

Twenty-four hours later, I regretted everything.

The flight had been fine. The car service had been fine. But standing in the doorway of the Moreau beach house, with its white stone and impossible cliffs and beautiful waters, I felt overwhelmed.

"Told you," Camille said, appearing behind me with two champagne flutes. "Stupidly beautiful."

"It's a lot."

"It's just a house." She pressed a glass into my hand. "With better views than most. I told you, my father's never here. We have the whole place to ourselves. Total freedom."

Camille had been my person since sophomore year of college. She was sharp and blonde and carried her wealth like a sweater she'd forgotten she was wearing. She didn't flaunt it, but she also didn't understand why I checked restaurant prices before ordering.

I took a long sip of champagne, letting the bubbles settle my nerves.

The terrace stretched before us, white stone bleeding into golden sand that flowed into water the color of crushed sapphires.

"See?" Camille bumped her shoulder against mine. "Worth it already."

I nodded because it was. The air smelled like peace, which made me forget Julien's disappointment.

Then we heard the sound of a car engine.

Camille's eyebrows dipped into a frown. "That's my father."

"I thought you said he was never here."

"He's not. He wasn't supposed to be." She drained her champagne in one long swallow. "Shit."

The car came to a stop near our shed, and the driver's door opened. Then he stepped out.

For a moment, he was just a silhouette against the dying light. Tall. Broad-shouldered with a kind of stillness that suggested absolute authority.

Then he removed his sunglasses, folded them once, dipped them into his jacket pockets, and looked up.

Holy. Fucking. Molly.

Camille grabbed my hand, pulling me forward before I could process what was happening. Her fingers were cold. Or maybe mine were.

"Dad, this is Isabella."

Up close, he was sinfully devastating.

Dark hair touched with silver at the temples. Eyes so pale blue they looked like a winter sky. High cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and a mouth that looked like it smiled rarely. Let's not even talk about his height.

How can he be so fucking good-looking!?

Then he looked at me, and something in my body recognized him.

"Isabella." His voice was low and accented, wrapping around my name like it belonged to him. "Camille has told me everything about you."

I opened my mouth. But nothing came out.

There was a little twitch at the side of his lips, and the sight of it got me more tongue-tied.

Say something, Isabella!!

"Welcome," he said softly, "to our home."

Behind me, Camille laughed nervously. "Dad, you said you weren't coming until August."

"Plans changed." His eyes hadn't left mine. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, of course not. We're just-it's fine. It's your house."

"Mmm." He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was something he hadn't expected to find. "Isabella. How long are you staying?"

I finally found my voice. "Ninety days. If that's-if it's alright with you."

His smile deepened. Just slightly. Just enough to make my stomach drop.

"Ninety days," he repeated. "How fortunate for me."

In that moment, I knew I was cooked.

I just didn't know yet that three mornings from now, I'd open the wrong door.