The click of the door was not loud, but in the tomb-like silence of the Plaza Athénée penthouse, it sounded like a guillotine blade hitting the basket.
Dolphine stood paralyzed in the center of the room. The moonlight, which moments ago had felt like a romantic spotlight, now felt like a cold, clinical neon glare exposing her nakedness. She was the most beautiful woman in Canada—perhaps the world—and she was standing in a five-thousand-square-foot suite in the City of Love, discarded like yesterday's tabloid.
The Bordeaux she had drunk turned to lead in her stomach. Her skin, still tingling from the expectation of his touch, began to crawl with a frantic, icy heat.
"I have never felt more disgusted."
The words vibrated in the air, mocking the rose petals scattered across the duvet. George Serial, the man who had spent thirty-six months playing the role of a pining lapdog, had just performed the greatest feat of acting in human history. He hadn't been chasing her; he had been stalking her. He hadn't been courting her; he had been measuring her for a cage.
For a full minute, Dolphine didn't move. A normal woman would have burst into tears. A weaker woman would have scrambled for her robe, hiding her shame behind silk and lace.
But Dolphine Serial was not a normal woman.
She slowly reached down and picked up her sheer gown. She didn't hurry. She didn't tremble. She shook the fabric out with a sharp, rhythmic snap that echoed against the gilded molding of the ceiling. She stepped into it, pulled the ties, and cinched the waist with a force that mirrored the tightening of her heart.
She walked over to the vanity mirror, her reflection staring back at her. Her makeup was perfect. Her hair was a dark waterfall of silk. She looked like a goddess.
"Disgusted?" she whispered to her reflection. Her voice was thin, but it wasn't breaking. A slow, dangerous smile began to curl at the corners of her lips. "Oh, George. You've been reading the wrong scripts."
Dolphine didn't go to sleep. Instead, she paced the length of the suite, her silver heels clicking a predatory rhythm against the marble. She was analyzing the battlefield.
George wanted a war of attrition. He wanted to use her own vanity against her. He knew that for a woman who lived on adoration, silence was the ultimate torture. By making her invisible,he wasn't just denying her sex; he was denying her existence.
"He wants me to starve," she mused, stopping by the window to watch the Eiffel Tower's light show end. "He wants me to knock on that door. He wants me to cry through the keyhole and ask him what I did wrong. He wants to hear the 'Queen' beg for a crumb of his attention."
She looked at the door George had disappeared behind. It was solid oak, reinforced and silent. He was likely sitting in there right now, feeling the rush of his "victory." He was probably savoring the thought of her huddled in the massive bridal bed, weeping into the silk pillows.
Dolphine walked to the phone and dialed room service.
"Yes," she said, her voice dripping with royal boredom. "This is Mrs. Serial. I find I'm quite famished. I'd like the Beluga caviar, the truffle pasta, and another bottle of the '96 Dom Pérignon. And... send up a jeweler's polishing kit. My rings feel a bit dull tonight."
If George wanted a ghost, she would be a haunting he could never escape.
An hour later, there was a soft knock at the main door. Dolphine opened it to find a bewildered waiter pushing a silver cart. She didn't just take the food; she directed him to set it up directly in front of the door George had locked.
She sat in the hallway of the suite, the scent of truffles and expensive salt wafting under the crack of George's door. She hummed a light, French cabaret tune. She laughed—not a hysterical laugh, but a genuine, tinkling sound of someone thoroughly enjoying their own company.
She knew he was listening. A man who spent three years obsessing over a woman doesn't just "turn off" his ears. He was behind that door, waiting for the sound of a sob, and instead, he was hearing the sound of a feast.
When she was finished, she didn't go to bed. She went to the bathroom and drew a bath so hot the steam began to billow out into the suite, carrying the scent of expensive eucalyptus and honey. She left the bathroom door wide open. She turned on a playlist of jazz—smooth, sultry, and loud enough to permeate the walls.
She spent two hours on her skincare routine. She massaged her limbs with shimmering oils. She treated her body not as a rejected gift, but as a weapon being sharpened.
At 6:00 AM, the sun began to bleed over the Parisian horizon, turning the sky a bruised purple. Dolphine was sitting in the main salon, dressed in a breathtaking white silk robe with fur-trimmed sleeves. She was reading a fashion magazine, a cup of espresso in her hand, looking as refreshed as if she had slept for a thousand years.
The door to the second bedroom finally opened.
George stepped out, looking slightly disheveled. He had expected to find a wreck. He had expected to find a woman with puffed eyes and a broken spirit.
Instead, he found a vision of morning perfection.
Dolphine didn't look up from her magazine. She simply took a slow, elegant sip of her coffee.
"Good morning, George," she said, her tone as bright and vacuous as if they were at a boring charity brunch. "The espresso is still warm. I'd offer you some, but I wasn't sure if ghosts drank coffee. Or was it that I'm the ghost? I get confused with your metaphors."
George stiffened, his jaw tightening. He walked toward the windows, avoiding her gaze. "I see you've made yourself at home."
"Oh, more than that," Dolphine said, finally closing the magazine and looking at him with a predatory shimmer in her eyes. "I've realized something, darling. You're right. I have been quite cruel to you over the years. Making you wait in the rain... it was terribly cliché of me."
She stood up, the silk of her robe hissing against the floor. She walked toward him, and this time, when he tried to step back, she didn't let him. She moved with the speed of a strike, pinning him between the window and her presence.
"You want me to beg for your love, George? That's adorable. Truly. But here's the problem with your 'Lions Den'..." She reached out, her finger trailing down his sternum, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through his shirt. He didn't pull away this time—he was paralyzed by the sheer audacity of her calm.
"A lion only rules until the hunter shows up," she whispered, leaning into his ear. The scent of her honey-oil was intoxicating, a physical assault on his senses. "You think you're punishing me by not touching me? Darling, you're just giving me time to plan how I'm going to make you break. And you will break. You're already sweating, George. Is the room too hot, or is the 'disgust' starting to feel a lot like desire?"
She pulled back, giving him a brilliant, sharp smile that didn't reach her cold, calculating eyes.
"Enjoy the honeymoon, husband. I've decided I'm going shopping at Dior this morning. Since I'm 'invisible,' I assume you won't mind the dent I'm about to put in your Black Card. After all, a ghost needs a very expensive wardrobe to haunt you properly."
She turned on her heel, leaving him standing in the light of the rising sun.