The Billionaire's CamGirl

He rolls us both over back onto our sides and spoons me, peppering kisses on my cheek and neck. We lie like that quietly, spooning, and fall back to sleep in the soft sheets and warmth of the sun.

15

Chris

The day started out brilliantly, in bed with Weaver at the hotel. Like most of my grandfather’s demands, this one turned out not to be as urgent as he’d first suggested. When Weaver and I were walking through Charles de Gaulle on Monday morning, I received a text from him that he was “indisposed” for a few days, but “definitely, absolutely, it was completely imperative” that we meet at his estate in the country on Wednesday. And then Wednesday morning I received a text: See you Thursday. I didn’t mind at all since it gave me and Weaver time to ourselves.

I had prepared Weaver as much as I could for Alexandre Beliem, the Beliem family patriarch, CEO and Founder of Beliem Enterprises, but really, I knew there was no preparation that was adequate enough. He was an octogenarian who had worked hard, achieved enormous success early in life, and has been having his way for decades. The man was fixed in his ways and mercurial, and I never knew which Grandad I’d find behind his estate walls.

Weaver was naturally speechless when we arrived at the estate. The long entry drive from the road up to the house is a mile-long, lined with oak trees that are hundreds of years old. The house itself is a nineteenth century château, with square towers at each end and set on a grand terrace. If I hadn’t taken Weaver to Versailles earlier in the week, I probably could have convinced her that this was it.

“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Chris, I knew you were rich, but I thought it was exclusive-cam-girl-arrangement rich not château in France rich! It must have been wild to run around here when you were little.” I love seeing Weaver excited, and experiencing everything through her eyes this week has been more fun than I could have imagined. In fact, more fun than I think I’ve had in the last few years, but I can’t share her excitement right now.

“This is a new acquisition, actually,” I tell her. “He’s lived here for just a few years. I actually don’t think more than two bedrooms have even been slept in. One for Grandad and one for Sandrine, his…I guess his nurse. When I visit, I go back to Paris at night. Alexandre Beliem is good in small doses, so don’t get too comfortable, okay Weaver? Quick trip and then we have dinner reservations at Kate’s.”

The car pulls up around the circular driveway and stops in front the oversized door, flanked by pillars with lions’ heads on top. The driver opens our door and I take Weaver’s hand and lead her up the stairs. She smiles so sweetly at me. It makes me want to turn around and put her back in the car, send her back to the hotel. I’m second-guessing why I even brought her here. Probably in part because of pride. I’d spent so many months pining for her, longing for her, now that she felt like mine, I wanted the world to know it. But it suddenly feels like I’m offering her up to the lions.

The large door opens before I can turn around. “Christopher, welcome home.” It’s Sandrine, Grandad’s nurse/maid/companion. No one in the family is completely clear on this arrangement, and frankly, we’re better off without the details. But I like Sandrine, and my mother can sleep easier at night knowing there’s someone by her father’s side in case of emergencies. “Alexandre is in his study. He’s been expecting you.”

“Thank you, Sandrine,” I say, offering her my coat and helping Weaver out of her own. “I’d like you to meet my friend from New York, Weaver.”

“Pleasure to meet you Weaver,” she says kindly. Weaver for her part is standing in the foyer with her mouth agape. Adorably agape, but I still prod her gently in the side. “Oh, yes, nice to meet you too,” she says, blushing.

We walk down the cavernous hallway to the back of the house to his study, where grandad spends most of his time. We find the old man there, sitting by a fire, a stack of newspapers and a cigar burning in a heavy crystal ashtray by his side. The doctors have told him over and over not to smoke, but he won’t listen.

“Grandad,” I say loudly, leading Weaver in ahead of me. He begins to rise but I rest a hand on his shoulder to stop him and kiss his cheeks. “Why get up when we’re just going to sit down?” I say, saving the old man face. “Meet my friend, Weaver. She’s come from New York with me.”