Page 58 of The Wrong Husband
"Does anyone have any questions?"
One team member raised his hand. "Is Emilia coming back?"
"No."
"We'd like to apologize to her." Serena stood up and looked around the room. Everyone nodded. "We're so sorry to have hurt her. You're right, Damian, we didn't behave well. That's on us."
Duncan spoke then, and all heads turned to look at him. "Let's get one thing clear. I don't care if someone's last name is Trump, if they work here, you treat them with respect. You're lucky this is not Archer Galleries Europe because I swear to God, you'd have all been frog-marched out of the building."
Duncan looked relaxed as he spoke. There was no inflection in his voice. No insinuation that he was even upset.
"Let me add something to what you can see as a warning coming from the company leadership. Emilia is not just my sister-in-law, she's my friend; and I take care of my friends."
On that ominous note, he left.
"He certainly knows how to make an exit," Pablo muttered.
Devi caught up with me by my office door. "I'm sorry, Damian. I really am."
I nodded. "Thanks for everything, Devi. I wish you the best."
She'd lost my trust and that meant I couldn't keep her on as an EA, no matter how good she was at her job.
She gave me a wan smile. "For what it's worth, Emilia…was always polite with me, which shames me even more. I will apologize to her personally if I have your permission."
"You don't need my permission to talk to my wife, Devi."
Chapter 18
Emilia
When Damian had suggested dinner, I knew it would become a thing. The last time we'd gone to that seafood restaurant, unflattering pictures of me ended up everywhere with captions like:
Damian Archer is having a plain Winter(s).
Is that a paint brush in her hair? Honey, that's the wrong kind of hairbrush.
Billionaire's New Bride Dresses Like A Homeless Person
In addition, the last time we ate out, I didn't see him for weeks after. So, I wasn't sure what the repercussions of this little outing would be.
We were in a cute French bistro not far from the Four Seasons. The chef had greeted us himself. Jean-Pierre Jeunet was a Michelin-star chef and a good friend of the Archer family.
He took my hand in his when Damian introduced us and kissed my fingers. Very movie-like. "I can see why you're keeping her to yourself," he said in a French accent.
"You can?" I asked.
"You're a… how do I say this? Belle comme une rose fraîche."
I arched an eyebrow. My French was rusty at best. "A fresh rose?"
"Beautiful like a fresh rose," Damian corrected me.
I've been called a lot of things. Beautiful never made the repertoire.
Chef himself led us to our table and we sat French bistro style, not across from each other but at a slight angle, nearly side by side. The table was just large enough to hold plates and wine glasses. I felt like I was in Paris.
Jean-Pierre chit-chatted with Damian while I looked around the Michelin-star restaurant. The atmosphere was intimate and charming, with soft lighting that cast a warm glow over the white tablecloths and polished silverware. The air was filled with the enticing aroma of French cuisine, and the gentle hum of conversation.