Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet her piercing gaze. “I’m sorry?” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Louise’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Don’t play coy, Alice. I saw the photos in Le Parisien this morning. You and Lucas Moreau, looking quite cozy for the cameras.”
Heat flooded my cheeks as I recalled the encounter with the paparazzi. I shifted in my seat, acutely aware of the plug inside me, a secret reminder of just how ‘cozy’ Lucas and I had become.
“It’s not… We’re not…” I stammered, unsure how to explain my complicated relationship with Lucas.
Louise leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Listen, I know it must be exciting. A famous footballer, all that money and attention. But trust me, you’re making a huge mistake.”
I blinked, taken aback by her blunt assessment. “What do you mean?”
Louise’s dark eyes flashed with an odd mixture of emotions—concern and disdain somehow keeping company in a single glance. She leaned in closer, her sleek bob swinging forward as she lowered her voice. “Alice, you can’t be serious. Everyone knows that of all the chauvinistic male athletes out there, Lucas Moreau is the worst.”
I felt my cheeks flush, a prickle of defensiveness rising in my chest. “That’s not true,” I protested weakly, even as I realized how little I actually knew about Lucas’ public persona. Football news was hard to come by in America, and I’d been far more focused on my studies than on following European sports stars.
Louise’s perfectly arched eyebrow rose skeptically. “Oh? And I suppose you know him so well after what, a few days?” She shook her head, her voice taking on a tone of exasperated concern. “He’s well known for his archaic views on gender roles. The man practically thinks women should be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.”
I squirmed in my seat, the plug shifting inside me as I moved. The physical reminder of my submission to Lucas sent a confusing mixture of arousal and shame coursing through me. “That’s not fair,” I argued, my voice sounding weak even to my own ears. “Lucas is… he’s…” I trailed off, unsure how to defend a man I was still getting to know.
Louise’s lips curled into a sneer. “He’s what? Charming? Handsome?” She switched to English to drive her point home. “Drrrreamy?”
She reached into her bag and pulled out her sleek smartphone, its glossy screen reflecting the fluorescent lights of the seminar room. With quick, decisive movements, she tapped and swiped until she found what she was looking for.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the phone in front of my face. “Read this and tell me again how ‘unfair’ I’m being.”
I blinked, trying to focus on the screen that was suddenly inches from my nose. The headline of the article blazed across the top: Lucas Moreau: Football’s Last True Gentleman?
Beneath it was a photo of Lucas, looking devastatingly handsome in a tailored suit, his ice-blue eyes piercing even through the digital image.
As I began to read, I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. The article was a profile of Lucas, discussing his career, his charity work, and his personal life. But it was a quote about halfway down the page that made my breath catch in my throat:
“I’m old-fashioned when it comes to relationships,” Lucas had, it seemed, told the reporter. “I look forward to a traditional marriage one day, where my wife follows my lead, and I can care for her the way a husband should care for a wife. In today’s world, I think we’ve lost sight of the natural order of things.”
CHAPTER 18
Alice
I spent the rest of the seminar, of course, thinking not about fourteenth-century peasant life but about Lucas. The oppressed condition of women in medieval France didn’t help at all. Every time I tried to focus on the discussion I just kept thinking about whether Lucas would, for example, sequester me—even starve me—the way young wives could easily find themselves isolated and starved if they didn’t comply with this or that burdensome idea of Christian feminine virtue.
The fate of unmarried women—the kind of scullery maid, for example, I had so lewdly fantasized about—was even worse. And apparently Lucas Moreau, the man who seemed so perfect for me, thought we should go back to the old ways.
By the time I got back to my apartment, I knew I had to confront him, at least. The afternoon stretched endlessly before me as I paced my small apartment, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The gentle autumn sunlight streaming through the windows seemed to mock my inner turmoil, its warmth at odds with the chill of doubt that had settled in my chest.
I found myself drawn to the full-length mirror in my bedroom, studying my reflection with critical eyes. The girl who stared back at me looked outwardly unchanged—same wavy chestnut hair, same green eyes, same slender build. But beneath the surface, I knew he had fundamentally altered me. The plug nestled in my bottom was a constant, undeniable reminder of that fact.