Chapter 7: The Visconti Sapphire

The Visconti gala filled the ballroom of the hotel on Avenue Montaigne, and three hundred people turned to look when Adrien and I walked in.

He had sent the dress to the house that morning in a flat white box.

It was midnight blue with a low back and a skirt that moved when I did, and it fit the way Margaux's dresses had not.

"You are not wearing jewelry," he said, in the lift.

"I don't own any."

"Good."

That was all he said until the doors opened.

His hand rested at the small of my back as we crossed the marble floor, and I felt the heat of it through the silk.

It was a light, correct, public hand.

His thumb moved once, and then stopped.

"Smile a little," he murmured. "They are looking."

"They are looking at you."

"They are looking at you and wondering who's holding the leash."

I almost laughed.

The old man sat in a wheelchair beside the dance floor, a plaid blanket over his knees and a glass of water in his hand. He grinned at me.

"There she is," he said, loud enough for six tables. "My lifeguard. Come and be admired."

I kissed his cheek.

"Monsieur."

"No Monsieur. Grandpapa, like the others." He squeezed my fingers. "Adrien, the case."

A man in a gray suit stepped forward and handed Adrien a flat velvet case.

Adrien held it for a second without opening it.

I saw his face change. Something went across it quickly and was gone.

"Grandfather," he said, very quietly. "Are you sure?"

"I have never been surer of anything in my life. Open it."

Adrien opened the case.

The stone inside was blue and the size of a pigeon's egg, set in a thin band of diamonds. It was the Visconti sapphire.

In my first life I had worn it once, on my wedding day.

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