CHAPTER 253: CHAPTER 253 ASHTON: NO ROOM AT THE RITZ

I tore down Rue de Rivoli, swerved past Boulevard Haussmann, and headed for the 8th arrondissement, probably broke half a dozen traffic laws on the way.

My car screeched to a stop in front of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée. I jumped out, tossed the keys to the valet, blew past the smiling concierge trying to greet me, and jabbed the lift button.

Lea’s screams still rang in my ears.

She’d sounded terrified on the phone. There hadn’t been time to think—just act.

The lift crawled upwards. Agonisingly slow.

When the doors finally opened, I stepped out into a softly lit hallway, carpeted, perfumed, and decorated to tasteful perfection.

But no amount of piped jazz or high-end fragrance could cover the drunken yelling or the reek of stale booze.

Pierre Marchand was slamming his fists against the door of room 602, knuckles bleeding onto his monogrammed shirt cuffs, not that he gave a shit.

I grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face me.

Even flushed with rage and alcohol—and whatever else he’d taken—he still had that annoyingly textbook-handsome face: blue eyes, high-bridged nose, thin lips, strong jaw.

His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed red. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he slurred in French.

I didn’t answer. Just kept my grip firm so he couldn’t keep hammering the door.

‘Let go of me, you fuck!’ he roared, spraying me with breath that stank of whisky and something more chemical.

The lift dinged behind me. Fast, quiet footsteps approached.

‘Boss,’ one of the men said.

‘Take him. Keep him contained. No phone calls.’

‘Understood.’

Pierre might’ve dabbled in fencing, but that wasn’t going to help him against four men built for real combat, not gym selfies.

They hauled him into the lift, still kicking and flailing.

I looked up at the CCTV in the ceiling. Red lights blinked back at me, unblinking.

Then I knocked. ‘Lea. It’s me. Ashton.’

The door flung open and Lea threw herself into my arms. ‘Ash. Thank God you’re here! Is he—?’ She was trembling.

‘He’s gone.’ I stepped into the room behind her. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Lea sat down on the ottoman. The carpet around it was littered with crumpled tissues. Her face was blotchy, eyes raw from crying. She stared at the floor.

‘I... I called him after you left.’

‘When I specifically told you not to.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She still wouldn’t look at me. ‘I just thought... if I told him what you told me... that if he really loved me, he’d quit the drinking, the drugs. And if he couldn’t, I’d leave. I didn’t know he was already in Paris. I thought...’ She put her face in her hands. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I swear.’

‘You told him you were staying here?’

‘I didn’t. But it didn’t take him long to find out. The hotel owner’s a family friend of his dad’s.’ She gave a bitter smile. ‘That probably explains why no one came when I called security. I should be grateful they didn’t just hand him a key.’

‘Pack your things.’

‘What?’

‘You can’t stay here.’

She stood up slowly, hesitantly. ‘But... what about Pierre? Where is he?’

‘Contained. For now. But I can’t keep him there long. The hotel knows I took him.’ I’d be hearing from the Marchand family any minute.

She disappeared into the bathroom. When she returned, her face was washed, and she’d changed into fresh clothes.

‘Where are we going?’

I ran through the options.

The Marchands had deeper roots in Paris than I ever would. Their family had been embedded here for centuries.

‘What’s your decision?’ I looked at her. ‘Still holding out hope for a reunion?’

If so, she wasn’t worth the risk. I couldn’t afford someone with that kind of vulnerability.

Lea gave me a watery smile. ‘I might’ve been blind and in love, Ash. But I’m not that blind. I’ve made my decision. I’m leaving him.’

‘For good?’

‘For good.’

‘Then you’re coming to Skyline. He won’t be able to touch you there.’

She nodded. ‘What about work?’

I gave her a look. ‘You really think I don’t know what goes on at Titanova? You don’t need an office to do your job.’

She laughed softly. ‘Fair.’

I grabbed her suitcase and we checked out.

‘Hope you had a pleasant stay. Where are you off to next?’ the receptionist asked with a blinding smile.

I stared at her until the smile faltered, then vanished. A pink flush spread over her cheeks. ‘I just meant, so I could arrange a taxi.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ I walked out with Lea.

‘She probably has orders to follow us,’ Lea said under her breath.

‘I know.’

Which was why I took the long way round, zigzagging through different arrondissements until I was sure no one was tailing us.

We arrived at Rue de l’Abbé Grégoire just after ten.

I led her up to the seventh floor and unlocked the door. ‘I bought the building under another name. Pierre won’t find you here.’

‘I should thank you, but I know you hate that,’ she said, taking in the flat. ‘So—hug?’ She opened her arms.

I didn’t move. ‘Get some rest. Order room service if you want.’

‘You haven’t eaten either. Stay. Share a meal?’

‘I can’t. In the morning, I’ll introduce you to my wife.’

‘Your wife?’ She blinked. ‘Rusty mentioned it. I thought he was joking.’

‘He wasn’t.’

‘It’s just... hard to imagine you married. Of all the guys in the gang, you were the least likely.’

I wished Mira could’ve heard that. Maybe then she’d understand why I insisted on the wedding. Without a very public, very official ceremony, no one believed me when I said I had a wife.

‘Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.’ I closed the door behind me and took the stairs up to the next floor.

Mira was awake.

‘How was the dress fitting?’ I asked.

‘Who is she?’ she asked at the same time.