I had never been in a plane before, let alone a private one. As I played with Gigi, giggling with her, falling into her story, I could feel Jack’s eyes, watching us. They were a piercing blue, much like Gigi’s, and they held a power over me. I knew if I spent too much time looking back, catching his gaze, I wouldn’t find a way to resist him. That would complicate everything. Sex always did.

The plane ride was six hours, a short jaunt across the ocean. I tried not to show my nerves, sensing that Gigi was none-too-pleased to be as far above the water as we were. I clung to her hand during a brief bout of turbulence, making soft jokes to her in her small, porcelain-like ear. When the clouds broke beneath us, she brought her head back to my shoulder, not wanting to see. I understood. It was too much new, at once.

When we arrived in Paris, I watched from the side as several hired workers slung our bags into a private, black car. A mustached Frenchman slipped into the driver’s seat. Leaning across the open window, he gestured for us to get into the back. We did. I watched as Jack took to the language quickly, assumedly instructing the driver where to go. The driver gave a curt nod and sped away from Charles de Gaulle airport. We were on our way.

I’d done a bit of reading about Paris in the very few days leading up to our arrival. Jack’s mother’s apartment was in the Marais, the old Jewish quarter, with skinny, alley-like streets, countless curiosities, and gorgeous bakeries. It was just a short walk to Notre Dame cathedral, and very brief rides to the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and many other, gorgeous sites that made my heart swell, just reading about them.

The car cut down a small street, skirting down the cobblestones before halting abruptly in front of our number. After Jack paid him handsomely, with colored money that seemed like the stuff of board games, we left the car, piling our things at the front door. Before I had a chance to ask, three movers arrived in a yellow truck, yanking our suitcases up the steps and into the bright Marais apartment. Windows lined the slanted ceiling, offering a view of the many rooftops of Paris. It was all grey slats, with spitting chimneys, with small terraces and hanging laundry, flapping in the breeze. It was gorgeous, in a weird sort of way.

Jack was watching me as I inhaled the view. He pointed toward the far corner, saying, “That’s your room, Margot. I’ve had it suited up for you. Queen-sized bed, new bedding, a dresser, everything you might need.” He gestured toward my suitcase. “And if you need some cash to pick out some more Parisian clothing, be my guest.”

I felt my insides quake. As the movers began to unpack our things, even hanging my clothes in the closet, I watched Gigi fall into a box of toys and begin to play alone. Her dolls danced along the edge of chairs, speaking in a kind of playful, fake French. She was an imaginative, very alive child. I couldn’t have had it any better.

That night, Jack took Gigi and I to dinner in the Marais. The place was closet-sized, with just enough space for three tables. The kitchen spit out stunning smells. We ate cheese, with Gigi even opting for a bit of Brie (which she tolerated). Jack ordered a bottle of wine, splitting it between the two of us. I felt like a far different woman than the one who’d been spit up from the bus from Detroit to New York, not even three weeks before.

After dinner, we wandered the streets of the Marais. The city came alive at night, but much differently than in New York. It was a cozy aliveness, with people speaking conspiratorially over dinner, sipping wine along the glittering river, and gazing up at the bright moon. The moon seemed to burn a hole into the sky above.

I was captivated, wanting to inhale all of it. I had to pinch myself several times, remembering that this would be my life, if I wanted it to be. I glanced several times at Jack, wondering what was on his mind. He was fleeing his ex-wife, stealing his child. And I was a party to it. But the way he held onto Gigi’s hand, guiding her across the cobblestones, made my heart swell. I couldn’t imagine this man would ever purposefully hurt anyone.

Least of all me.

Gigi yawned beneath us. We exchanged a humorous glance. Jack leaned down and picked Gigi up from the ground, leaning her against his shoulder. His muscles burst against his shirt. “All right, little girl. We’ll take you home,” he whispered.

Before we arrived home, Gigi was completely asleep in his arms. He guided her to the back bedroom, where I slipped off her dress and tucked her beneath the sheets. She muttered something—was it “merci?”—and then drifted back into the pillow, a stranger to the world. She was leaving Jack and I alone again. With a jolt, I felt panicked.

Moving back into the living room, I watched Jack pry open a wine bottle and pour two glasses. He gestured, giving me that wonderful, A-list celebrity smile. My stomach clenched.

“I poured you a glass,” he said. “Come sit with me on the terrace. Let’s toast our first night in Paris.”

Unable to refuse him, I followed onto the terrace and sat, my legs crossed at the ankles. We clinked our glasses together.

“I suppose this must be normal for you,” I said, sounding hesitant. “Just being able to change your surroundings whenever you want.”

“You think?” he asked, laughing. “I’m so curious to know what you think my life is like.”

“You’ve been all over the world. You could live in the nicest places, from Los Angeles to New York to Tokyo to…” I trailed off. “If you wanted, we could do the same thing tomorrow. End up in a different apartment, in a different part of the world.”

“Technically, of course I could,” he said, his eyes glittering. “But there’s something about being in this old apartment. My mother lived here during all of her twenties and thirties. I have memories here, as a kid, taking trips with her. She taught me to dance when I was eight years old. Ballroom. In that corner over there.” He pointed, trying to paint the picture.

Above him, the moonlight glittered down, making his dark hair glow.

I sipped the wine, trying to find focus and stop my nerves. I felt our days in Paris stretched out before us, making me anxious about how to fill them. “Do you know that I haven’t told my parents I left the country yet?” I asked him, tittering slightly.

“No?” he said. “I suppose there wasn’t much to say. It’s not as if you were asking permission.”

“No.”

Silence. He looked at me for a long time, almost as if he were trying to peer into my soul. Reaching across the table, he patted my hand. “Hey. It’s going to be all right.”

I shifted, trying to laugh. Everything felt heavy, making my heart hammer. “Has your ex-wife found out what you’re up to yet?” I asked.

He dropped eye contact. His eyes were brooding, lost. “She’ll figure it out in a few days, when I miss a meeting with our custody lawyer. Around then, she’ll flip her shit.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked him.

“Taking my child from an evil ex-wife isn’t my specialty,” he said, joking. “I’m not sure yet. I’m playing it by ear, I guess.”

There was another moment of silence between us. I stood up, reaching for the wine bottle, and poured us two more glasses. I could feel the heat of him, gravitating up and down my arm. My lips were just a few inches from him as I poured. They dripped with desire to touch his.

I hovered over him the next few minutes, waiting. We sipped our glasses, gazing at one another. It felt like we were the only two people on the planet, caught up in some kind of bizarre, twisting love story.

I couldn’t fall for him. It would make everything crumble apart.

“Anyway,” I whispered, wiping the back of my hand across my lips. “I think the jetlag is finally catching up to me. I should sleep.”

“Sleep well, Margot,” Jack said, his voice deep. The way he looked at me, I wanted to strip bare and splay myself over his lap. I wanted to kiss him with abandon. I wanted to fall into his arms.

But I didn’t.

I was far away from anything I knew, in Paris, France. As I slid beneath the sheets, I shivered with anticipation at what I would learn and see and do in the next few weeks—with Jack at my side. Not romantically. It would have to be enough, this way.