Chapter 5 - The Suite at the Hotel de RussieThe Hotel de Russie was not just a hotel; it was an Italian Renaissance dream tucked between the Spanish Steps and Piazza del Popolo.
When the bellhop unlocked the double doors of our fourth-floor corner suite, Maya gasped, dropping her stuffed rabbit and immediately sprinting across the herringbone parquet floors to press her face against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the hotel’s sprawling, secret terraced gardens.
The suite was larger than my entire apartment back in Boston—high ceilings, cream-colored velvet armchairs, fresh orchids in hand-blown glass vases, and a king-sized bed draped in crisp Egyptian cotton that looked like a cloud.
And on the mahogany dining table in the foyer sat three massive leather-bound gift boxes from Bulgari and Hermès, alongside a warm basket of fresh pastries and a handwritten note on heavy cardstock.
Tessa,
Leo slept twelve straight hours. You cured what modern medicine couldn't. Let the concierge handle your luggage, your meals, and your transport while you figure out your breathing room. I’ll be in touch once my meetings here conclude.
—J.
I traced the sharp, aggressive scowl of his signature with my thumb, feeling a strange, fluttery warmth in my chest that terrified me far more than Richard’s fists ever had.
I was a labor and delivery nurse from a working-class Boston suburb. Men like Julian Vance didn't orbit my universe; they bought corporations, restructured hospitals, and flew private across continents. Our intersection in the sky had been a statistical anomaly—a brief, cinematic collision of two people whose lives were violently derailing at the exact same moment.
Yet, for the next five days, the Hotel de Russie became our fortress.
We ate warm cornetti on the balcony overlooking the Via del Babuino. We walked through the Borghese Gardens while Maya chased pigeons with unbridled, carefree laughter. I didn't check my bank account once. I didn't panic when the maid brought up complimentary designer clothes for Maya that cost more than my monthly car insurance.
I just breathed.
On the sixth evening, just as the Roman sun was melting into a bruised palette of amber and violet across the skyline, my phone buzzed on the glass coffee table.
An unknown international number.
I swiped to answer, my pulse catching. "Hello?"
"Tessa," Julian’s voice came through the speaker—deeper, richer, carrying the low hum of a European hotel lounge in the background. "I hope the concierge hasn't been bothering you."
"He keeps trying to send a private masseuse to the room," I said, leaning back against the velvet sofa. "And Maya has consumed enough gelato to qualify for Italian citizenship. I think we're surviving."
A low, genuine laugh echoed on the other end of the line. It was the first time I had heard him truly laugh, and it completely transformed the hard angles of his voice.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm downstairs in the lobby bar. And I want to buy you dinner."
My breath hitched. "Julian, I—"
"It's not a negotiation, Tessa," he interrupted smoothly. "It’s a command from a grateful father. Put on something that doesn't smell like airplane formula. I'll be waiting in fifteen minutes."
The line clicked dead.
I stared at the phone for three seconds, my heart hammering like a trapped drum. Then, slowly, I stood up and walked over to the closet where the mysterious Hermès garment bag hung.
Inside was a simple, breathtaking emerald-green silk wrap dress that hugged my postpartum curves in a way no hospital scrubs or oversized sweatpants had in years.
When I stepped out of the elevator into the dimly lit, mahogany-paneled hotel bar fifteen minutes later, Julian was sitting at a corner banquette nursing a glass of dark scotch.
He looked up as I approached.
The air between us instantly turned heavy, charged with an undeniable, gravitational pull that had nothing to do with airplanes or crying babies.
May you like
Julian stood up slowly, his steel-gray eyes sweeping over me from head to toe, lingering for a fraction of a second on the curve of my collarbone before locking back onto my eyes.
"Tessa," he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that made my skin tingle. "Boston was missing something."
