CHAPTER 271: CHAPTER 271 MIRA: CRUISE

‘See you.’ I stood at the door, waving as Étienne climbed into the car with the rest of his delegation, my smile fixed in place.

The moment the cars disappeared down the drive, my team erupted into cheers.

Peter Carl crushed me in a hug. Louis-François nearly tripped over his own feet sprinting back inside for the case of champagne he had been saving.

‘We did it!’ Clémentine flung her arms around us, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Mirabelle, we did it!’

I wriggled free, grinning until my cheeks ached. ‘Yeah. We did.’

After two gruelling months, our autumn/winter jewellery collection was finally launched. Today’s meeting sealed the deal with Cartier’s Paris distribution arm. Soon, our necklaces, earrings and statement pieces would adorn runway models and grace the pages of Vogue, Elle and Harper’s Bazaar.

Valmont & Cie was still bleeding from the financial crater Fabrizio had left, but this was a start. A damn good one.

The team herded me into the conference room. Champagne corks popped, glasses clinked, laughter and tears mingled.

The celebration stretched from afternoon to dusk, but I bowed out when they proposed moving on to Le Procope and then a bar.

‘You have to come!’ Peter Carl pleaded. ‘You’re the reason we’re still standing.’

‘Not a chance.’ I pointed at the shadows under my eyes. ‘I’ve looked like a sleep-deprived panda for weeks. Time to reclaim my humanity.’

I rang the restaurant to put the team’s dinner on the company tab, then sent them off, still giddy.

I slid into my rented Peugeot 208 and drove back to my flat on Rue de Rivoli.

I had moved out of Ashton’s building the day after we broke up.

Two months of silence followed.

I’d buried myself in work and, when that failed, in wine—just enough to knock me out before the memories could surface.

‘Get a grip,’ I whispered each night, reaching for a warmth that was no longer there.

It took a week to stop making coffee for two.

For sixty days straight, I arrived before the cleaners and left after everyone else. I would have slept at the office if Peter Carl hadn’t threatened to report me for fire hazards.

Now, with the launch over, I had no excuses left. Just an empty flat and a microwave meal for one.

I called Priya halfway through my sad dinner.

‘Sales dipped slightly this month,’ she said.

‘Expected.’ Mira Joie bore my name, and with me gone, it was bound to happen.

‘The new OEM factory’s a dream. Faster turnaround, cheaper rates. I’m tempted to shift all production there instead of splitting orders.’

‘Do it.’ I half-listened as she talked about lost-wax casting and electroforming, but my focus slipped.

I had avoided calling Priya, preferring email.

Priya meant Skyline City. Skyline City meant Ashton.

And Ashton meant silence.

Yvaine once said: ‘A good ex is a dead ex.’

She would cheer if hers vanished as cleanly as Ashton had.

I had felt the same about Rhys. Every unwanted reappearance after the breakup had chipped away at what little goodwill remained.

So why did Ashton’s absence feel like a wound?

***

Yvaine kicked open my flat door without knocking. ‘Up. Now. You’re not rotting here tonight.’

I didn’t look up from my wine. ‘I’m busy.’

She snatched the bottle from my hands. ‘Staring at walls isn’t a hobby.’

Before I could protest, she hauled me to my feet and into a taxi.

La Lune was all neon and sweat, the air thick with perfume and bass. On stage, a man in a police uniform—badly unbuttoned—swung round a pole to the roar of the crowd.

Yvaine shoved me into a velvet booth. ‘Two vodka sodas. And tell Antoine I want the special for her.’ She jerked a thumb at me.

‘No specials,’ I said.

‘Rubbish.’ She leaned in. ‘You need something to loosen up. Two months is plenty to get over a man. Even one like Ashton.’

‘I am over him.’

The drinks arrived, followed by a man—tall, dark-haired, with a jawline that nearly hit right angles.

His smile was too slick, his eyes too eager.

‘This one’s shy,’ Yvaine told him, sliding a fifty into his waistband. ‘Be persuasive.’

He knelt in front of me, fingers trailing up my thigh. ‘You’re much prettier than the other girls here.’

My skin crawled. ‘Don’t.’

He grinned, undeterred, and leaned closer. ‘Come on, chérie—’

I shoved him back hard enough to topple him onto the floor.

Yvaine groaned. ‘Christ, Mira. You’re acting like he’s diseased.’

‘I’m not paying to be groped by a stranger.’

‘You’re not paying, I am.’ She flicked her nails at the dancer. ‘Go on, then. She’s hopeless.’

As he slunk away, Yvaine spun on me. ‘My new boyfriend’s a model. He’s got friends. Hot ones. We could do double dates.’

‘No thanks. I’m fine.’

‘Liar.’ She jabbed a finger at my chest. ‘You’re not fine. You’re just saying you are.’

The music pounded, too loud. I knocked back my drink. ‘Can we just not?’

She opened her mouth, then huffed. ‘Fine. But you’re drinking properly tonight.’

We did.

An hour later, Yvaine abandoned me for a drinking game with a group of men who looked as if they had been carved from the same marble slab. I slipped away, climbing the stairs to the rooftop terrace.

Cold air hit my face. Below, Paris glittered. Above, fireworks exploded in gold streaks—just like the ones Ashton had arranged for my birthday.

I pulled out my phone. Missed calls from Rhys and Daniel.

Nothing from Ashton.

When I returned to the booth, Yvaine shoved something at me. ‘Take this.’

‘What is it?’ I looked down at the envelope.

‘Cruise to the Mediterranean. You need to get away from work. A change of scenery will do you good.’

She had a point. I took the envelope. ‘Are you coming with me?’

‘Nope. It’s a singles’ cruise. And you’re getting on that ship if I have to hogtie you and throw you on board myself.’

‘Still haven’t given up on fixing me up, have you?’

‘No, and I won’t stop until I see a genuine happy smile on that face of yours.’

I leaned down and kissed my best friend’s forehead. ‘Thanks, Yvie.’