Kelsey left the reception after just two hours. She waved her phone in my face, saying, “Paris is waiting, and I can see that Jack is in good hands. So I’ll see myself out. Congratulations to you both, darlings. Really.” She leaned down and kissed Gigi’s tired cheek, giving a pat to the dog. “What are you going to name him, baby?”

“Charlie,” Gigi said, using a French accent to make the “ch” soft. “Charlie is the best name in the world.”

“Well, Charlie,” Kelsey echoed, in the American way. “Welcome to your new family.”

Gigi and I watched her leave. Gigi collected my hand into hers and squeezed it, whispering, “Do you think we could go to bed soon? I’m so tired.”

I glanced at the wedding party. Jack was falling into laughter alongside Marcus, a hand over his stomach. His mouth was wide, his teeth flashing. Marcus was finishing a tirade about New York, clearly one of the great fiery lives of the party. My heart ached. I wanted to go home.

The plates were cleaned of food, but the wine continued to flow. I traced through the small group, tugging at Jack’s elbow. In response, his friends began to clink their forks against their glasses, telling us to “Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.” My heart hammered with anxiety. I looked up at him and met his lips with mine. Sexual desire made my stomach go wild with butterflies. But as I moved away from him, wishing he would come home with me, he just whispered, “You can take Gigi home, can’t you? I don’t want to leave the guests.”

I was falling into the role he’d laid out for me. Housewife. Babysitter. I saw it, now. I brought my hand over Gigi’s shoulders and guided her to the doorway, not bothering to say goodbye. I led the dog with a leash. I felt a final few flashes from the photographers, the paparazzi, on my cheeks. I left the rest of the dress in the corner, thinking someone could throw it out with the garbage. I didn’t need it anymore.

I held Gigi in my arms. Despite being eight, she was still thin-boned and light, and I carried her into the waiting car below. She fell asleep against me in the backseat as I watched Paris fly by beside us. A light rain had sprung up, putting people under black umbrellas, their noses to the ground. It dribbled down the window, putting a haze over my emotions. Was I happy? Was I sad? Had I made the wrong choice? It wasn’t clear.

I carried Gigi up the steps of the Marais apartment, with the dog following close behind, and helped her change from her dress and into her pajamas. Her limbs were like spaghetti strings. “I drank too many juice cocktails,” she whispered. “I must be drunk.”

I giggled, kissing the top of her head. The blonde curls were mostly taut, with a few flyaway hairs. These were my favorite. They reminded me that she’d once been a smaller girl, the stuff of daydreams. A little baby, like one I wanted to have for myself.

Not that Gigi wasn’t enough. Of course she was.

And not that Jack would want to have a baby with me, anyway.

When Gigi was completely tucked away, with the dog sleeping at her feet, I walked into the living room and draped myself across the couch. I was still in my dress, almost feeling as if it were a part of me. It stuck to my skin, moved with me. My eyelids fluttered as I waited, knowing I didn’t want to fall asleep without Jack.

I wanted to see if we’d fall into each other again. If we’d make love. If I’d see that same glint in his eyes, the one I’d seen the night before when we’d kissed each other hungrily, both wanting the same thing, for once.

I just wanted to see.

Nearly an hour later, Jack blasted through the door. He was slightly drunk, holding onto a bottle of champagne that was open, guzzled from the top. He flashed that confident smile, making my heart hammer with lust.

“Hi, baby,” he said. “My wife. Look at you.”

I sat up, blinking several times to take him in. “How was the rest of the party?” I asked, after a long pause. I knew the words seemed flat and stunted.

“Oh, it was a great party,” Jack said. He undid his tie and tossed it toward the fireplace, with a flash. I watched it fall to the ground. “It went off without a hitch, Margot. First off, you looked absolutely gorgeous. Everyone said so. Not like some kid I picked up off the street, but like a real woman.”

I shifted, my eyebrows drawing low over my eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do,” he said. He was being an asshole. I wanted to smack my hand over his cheek, yell at him—tell him that I was worth more than he ever bargained for. Of course, I didn’t believe it, myself, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

“But regardless, our plan worked,” he continued. “Kelsey totally bought that we were in love. And she saw how happy Gigi was. She seemed genuinely okay with it, like we’d solved some of her problems in the process, as well. She was kicking up a fuss, but now? I mean, the war is over, as far as I can tell.”

“That’s great to hear,” I stammered, speaking sarcastically. After a pause, during a strong, tense moment, I said, “Really. I’m so happy Gigi can stay here. It’s the place she belongs. And you love her so much.”

“I do.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest, giving me a soft smile. “And you were remarkable tonight. I can’t get over it. An actress, in your own right.”

Had I been acting? Had I been acting when I’d realized I was falling in love with Jack? That, if these were any other circumstances, I’d actually be happy marrying him? I nodded, moving my hand to my dress. I unzipped it with a flourish, stepping out onto the hardwood floor in just my balconette bra and panties. My body was thin and angular, but my breasts were firm and upright. I waited, watching as Jack’s eyes traced my body, my waist, my thighs. What did I want him to do? To say?

He stepped forward. He began to unbutton his shirt, revealing those perfect chest muscles, those dark nipples, his black chest hair. I grew hungry for him. My pussy stirred, growing wet. But I remained where I was, wanting him to come to me.

He whipped off his shirt, taking his stance in front of me. He inhaled my smell, the perfume I’d chosen so specifically for the night. Placing my hands on his chest, I could feel his beating heart.

In a whisper, I asked, “What are you doing?”

Jack’s smile cut across his face. “I want to thank you for all you did for me. All you have been doing.”

“You want to thank me?” I asked, incredulous. It sounded like a business transaction. Not like love.

He moved forward and kissed me hungrily, his lips sucking at mine. I pushed him back, feeling a roaring in my ears. He staggered back, looking aghast.

“We can’t do that,” I whispered. “Not unless it actually means something to you. Not unless you can feel—or could possibly feel—love between us. In the future.”

He blinked at me several times. The silence became a wave around us, sweeping me into a moment of pure, unadulterated anxiety. I couldn’t handle it. I turned toward my bedroom, heading inside to put on a ratty black dress—one I’d had even before I’d arrived in Paris and bought “better” clothes. I whipped past Jack, running toward the door.

With my hand on the handle, I heard him say, “Where on earth are you going, Margot?”

I didn’t have an answer.

“I just can’t look at you right now,” I told him, my voice low. “I don’t want to think about the fact that I entered into a loveless marriage. That I slept with someone who could never love me. Who probably doesn’t even know how to love.”

I regretted what I said almost immediately. But without waiting for his answer, I entered the stairwell and raced to the ground. The rain continued to spit, but I could hardly feel it. I was simmering in a pool of my own despair. Racing ahead, I found myself several neighborhoods away. The clock on a nearby church struck midnight, taking me into the second day of my marriage. Shivering, I ducked into a side bar and ordered a glass of dark, red wine. Over it, with my eyes glaring directly into the drink, I felt the sobs come. They made my body shake and quiver and ache. I gasped, knowing the tears wouldn’t end.

The bartender, a man with thick gray hair, placed his hand over mine on the wooden counter. My tear-filled eyes met his. He nodded to me, looking both stern and grounded. “It is going to be all right,” he told me, with a thick French accent. “You just have to keep getting up every day, and going to bed at night. The wine will always help, as well.”

He winked. Then, he raised his telephone—an ancient thing, still attached to a chord—and called me a taxi to take me home. He waved the fee on the wine, probably seeing my torn black dress and my black makeup and thinking me a poor traveler, far from home, rather than one of the richest women in the world. Obviously, he’d missed the rock sitting on my left ring finger.

I placed 50 euro on his bar stool, for him to find later.

Back at home, Jack’s master bedroom door was shut. I snuck into my separate bedroom, just like every other night, and fell into my sheets. I sobbed myself to sleep, knowing I would never find love, that I would never trust another man with my body. I felt so alone. I would have to get used to it.