The Consequence (The Evolution of Sin 3)

I loved that Stefan had chosen to stay there because it spoke to what I already knew about his character. He further delighted me by waiting for me in the lobby in a perfectly tailored, form fitting burnt orange suit that somehow looked utterly fantastic on him.

I threw myself into his arms because he opened them for me.

“Giselle,” he said into my hair.

He smelled amazing, some kind of strong, manly cologne designed to cut women off at the knees.

“Stefan,” I beamed at him as I stepped away, clutching our hands and swinging them between us. “You look fantastic.”

“As do you.” He cast a critical eye over my form, encased in black trousers, a Gucci belt that Cosima had given me, and an amazing pearl-buttoned white blouse. I wasn’t wearing panties and the seam of the denim kept rubbing against my clit. I was mildly concerned about the effects of pussy lubrication on jeans. “Happiness looks good on you. Let me guess, the Frenchman won you over?”

I laughed at him as I took his arm and he led us into Le Cinq but I didn’t answer until we had been seated at a table by the window.

“He did,” I confirmed. “The painting you sold him helped that. Thank you, Stefan.”

He made a face. “I was loathe to part with it but he told me about your upcoming collection and I knew I could replace it with something new and inspired by you.”

I blushed. “It’s different than my normal work.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said with a wink. “You are a different woman since Mexico, no?”

“I am. Sinclair makes me feel strong and sure of myself.”

“You have many reasons to feel that way outside of your relationship with that man. Your art alone is reason for a considerable amount of arrogance,” he offered as the waiter came to fill our water glasses and take our drink orders.

Stefan ordered us a bottle of Domaine Romanée Conti.

I didn’t object.

“You flatter me,” I said when the waiter swept away.

“I do not. Your art is actually the main reason that I wanted to meet with you.” He eyed me for a long moment before coming to a decision. “First, you fill me in on your life, then I tell you about what I had in mind.”

I was curious but I hadn’t spoken to him since the first and only email I sent to him on my return from Mexico letting him know that Sinclair’s ‘Darling’ was, in fact, my sister. So, I settled in to tell him the entire sordid story and was rewarded by his occasional bark of laughter and occasional dry comments.

“So, you ran away again?” Stefan concluded, taking a sip from his glass of extraordinary Burgundy wine.

I frowned, hesitating to bring a morsel of Cod fish, spinach and raisins to my mouth. “We didn’t exactly run away.”

“Giselle, darling, do not fool yourself. You ran away from Naples, you ran away from Paris and now you have run away from New York. You are a runaway girl.”

Carefully, I placed my fork back down and propped my chin in my hand to think about the accusation Stefan was making.

He was right.

I was a runner. I had just never realized it.

Was I that cowardly that I couldn’t face the consequences of my actions?

I felt, momentarily, ill.

“We’re going back,” I said.

“I am not criticizing you, Elle. You left behind a steaming pile of merde each time you ran away so the desire to do so was not unwarranted. In fact, I’m looking to enable you.” He dabbed his lips daintily with his napkin before replacing it in his lap and leaning back in his chair to commit himself to staring at me.

“Yes?” I prompted after several moments of his unnerving contemplation.

“A friend of mine is one of the senior editors at French Vogue. They need a new art editor and I thought…” he trailed off with a wave of his hand at me. “You would be perfect. Of course, it means that you would have to relocate to Paris but, given the circumstances especially, I do not think that would be so hard.”

I blinked at him in total shock. Editor at French Vogue? How was this even a remote possibility? I was just a relatively unknown artist from backwater Naples.

“I don’t deserve an opportunity like that,” I expressed.

Stefan glared at me. “Bullshit. As we spoke about in Mexico, you have begun and, I would now say finished, the transformation from an ‘ugly’ ducking to a swan. You are a competent, intelligent and talented artist with a degree from one of the most prestigious art schools in the world. You have four successful shows under your belt and another one upcoming in New York that has already generated much talk, even in Paris. You deserve this opportunity and any others that I or anyone else can throw in your path.”