My hand hovers inches from his door, trembling. Seven-eighteen. The numbers blur as I stare at them. My heart pounds so hard I'm certain everyone on this floor can hear it.
What am I doing? Twenty-four hours ago, I was Adrian's wife. Now I'm standing outside a stranger's hotel room, pregnant with twins, about to... what?
I don't even know what I'm hoping for. Or maybe that's a lie. Maybe I know exactly what I'm hoping for—to feel wanted, to feel alive, to feel anything other than this crushing rejection.
The door opens before I can knock.
Henri stands there in his shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking like he's been expecting me. A knowing smile plays at his lips, not smug but understanding.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," he says gently, stepping aside. "But I'm glad you did."
"I shouldn't be here." The words tumble out as I step inside anyway.
"Perhaps not. But you are." He closes the door softly. "Sometimes that's enough."
His room is just like mine in structure but entirely different in feeling. Warmer somehow, lived-in. His jacket drapes over the chair, papers scattered across the desk in organized chaos.
The air smells like his cologne—something subtle and expensive that makes me think of leather libraries and aged whiskey. Soft French music drifts from his phone on the nightstand.
"Édith Piaf," he says, noticing my glance. "'La Vie en Rose.' A bit cliché, perhaps, but I'm feeling nostalgic tonight."
"It's beautiful."
"Beauty helps, don't you think? When the world feels particularly ugly." He moves to the small bar. "Cognac?"
"I shouldn't…"
"Of course you should. One drink won't solve your problems, but it won't make them worse either."
He's pouring two glasses, the amber liquid catching the lamp light. "Unless you have religious objections? Or medical ones?"
Medical ones. Even two. "No, it's fine."
Henri hands me the glass, and I bring it to my lips, pretending to sip. The smell alone makes my stomach churn. When Henri turns to adjust the music, I quickly tip the contents into the potted orchid by the window.
The poor plant probably won't survive the night.
"You were fast with it," Henri laughs, noticing my empty glass. "Next time I'll know better who I'm drinking with."
"I needed it," I lie, forcing a smile.
"No judgment here. Though I prefer to savor my vices." He sets down his own glass, barely touched, and extends his hand. "Would you dance with me?"
"What?"
"I was quite the ballroom dancer in my youth. Competed, actually, before business took over my life." His hand remains extended, patient. "A simple waltz. It helps take the mind off things."
"I don't know how."
"Perfect. Teaching is the best distraction I know." He waits until I place my hand in his. "Now, hand here, on my shoulder. Yes, like that. I'll lead."
His hand settles on my waist, warm and secure but respectful, leaving space between our bodies.
"The waltz is all about trust," he says, guiding me through the first basic step. "One, two, three. One, two, three. You have to trust your partner to guide you."
"Trust isn't exactly my strong suit right now."
"All the more reason to practice." He leads me through another box step. "Better. Don't look at your feet. Look at me."
I raise my eyes to his. They're kind, these gray-green eyes, with lines at the corners that speak of laughter and sorrow in equal measure.
"Tell me about yourself, Henri. The real you, not the wine importer making jokes."
"Ah, but the jokes are part of the real me." We turn slowly, and I only step on his foot once. "Very good. You're a natural."
"Liar."
"Only with the best intentions." His hand adjusts slightly on my waist, steadying me. "What would you like to know?"
"Why are you really here? In this hotel, alone, dancing with a stranger who's clearly falling apart?"
"Maybe I'm falling apart too, just with better choreography." He spins me gently, catching me before I stumble.
"My wife died three years ago. Cancer. I've been traveling ever since, pretending it's for business, but really I just can't stand being in our house without her."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you. But tonight isn't about my ghosts." We move in silence for a moment, just the music and our feet finding rhythm. "And you’re obviously running from ghosts you don’t wanna talk about either."
Something breaks inside me at his kindness. Without thinking, I rise up on my toes and kiss him. It's soft, desperate, searching for something I can't name—comfort, connection, proof that I'm still desirable.
His lips are warm, surprised but not unwelcoming.
Then reality crashes in. What am I doing? I jerk back, my hand flying to my mouth.
"Oh God. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I'm married— Well, almost divorced actually, but… I don't know what I—"
"Elena." Henri's fingers gently touch my cheek, stopping my stammering. "You're in pain. I won't take advantage of that."
"But I kissed you…"
"And it was lovely. But you're not really here with me, are you? You're here running from someone else." He guides me to the small sofa, sitting beside me but not touching. "That's not what either of us needs."
"What do you think I need?"
"Time. Distance. Probably a good therapist." He smiles to soften the words. "And maybe a friend who expects nothing from you except the pleasure of your company."
"Is that what you're offering? Friendship?"
"I'm offering whatever you need me to be and whatever you are ready for."
Henri leans back, and suddenly we’re spending another hour talking. He's telling me about his vineyard in Provence, painting pictures with words. I listen.
He talks about the house his grandfather built, the cellar where wines age for decades, the cat who adopted him last spring and now rules the estate. His voice is hypnotic, and I find my breathing steadying, my heart rate slowing.
"I should go," I finally say when I realize I've been here more than an hour.
"If you wish."
He walks me to the door, and I think that's it… But then he leans in and kisses my cheek, soft as a whisper.
"I leave tomorrow morning for New York, then back to France. But I'd genuinely like to stay in touch. Would you consider it?"
"Why would you want that?"
"Because you're interesting, Elena. Because you made me laugh for the first time in months. Because I think we both could use a friend who doesn't know our history."
Henri pulls out a business card, writes something on the back.
"My personal email. No pressure, no expectations. Just... if you ever want to talk to someone an ocean away who thinks you're remarkable."
I take the card, running my thumb over his handwriting. "I'm not remarkable. I'm a mess."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive." He opens the door for me. "Bonne nuit, Elena. Whatever happens, be kind to yourself."
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. As I walk back to my room, his card in my hand, I realize he's given me something I didn't know I needed—the possibility of connection without possession, kindness without condition.