The suite was still thick with the electric tension of their morning confrontation when George's phone began to vibrate against the marble countertop. The ringtone was a specific, melodic chime—one he couldn't ignore.
It was his mother.
George stood by the window, his eyes tracked the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, but his mind was a chaotic storm of Dolphine's scent and her razor-sharp words. He checked his reflection in the glass, straightening his shoulders and wiping the trace of "sweat" she had mocked from his brow. He needed to sound like a victor. He needed to sound like a man who had finally ascended his throne.
He swiped the screen. "Mother," he said, his voice dropping into a smooth, practiced baritone. "Isn't it a bit early in Toronto for you to be awake?"
"For my son's first morning as a married man? I haven't slept a wink, George!" Lydia Serial's voice was bright, bubbling with the kind of pure joy that made George's stomach twist into a fresh knot. "I've been sitting here with my tea, looking at the photos from the ceremony. You both looked like royalty. But tell me—I've been dying to know—how is Paris treating the happy couple? How was the night? Was it everything you dreamed of during those long years of waiting?"
George felt the weight of the lie settle in his chest, heavy and cold. He looked toward the bathroom door, where the steam from Dolphine's bath was still dissipating.
"It was... fantastic, Mother," George lied, his voice never wavering. "Memorable. Beyond words, really. The hotel went all out with the preparations. We had dinner on the balcony, watched the lights... it was exactly what I worked so hard for."
"Oh, George, I knew it," Lydia sighed happily. "I can hear the satisfaction in your voice. After everything she put you through, seeing you two finally united... it feels like justice. Is my beautiful daughter-in-law nearby? Let me say a quick hello to the new Mrs. Serial."
George's grip tightened on the phone. "She's in the shower, Mother. You know Dolphine—she takes her beauty routines very seriously. Especially after a night like last night. I wouldn't want to disturb her."
"Of course, of course," Lydia chuckled. "She has a crown to maintain, after all. But George, darling... I was just thinking about three years ago. Do you remember that winter? The night of the Snow Ball?"
George closed his eyes. The memory hit him like a physical blow. "Mother, we don't need to talk about the past."
"I just can't help it," she continued, her voice softening with maternal sympathy. "I remember you coming home at three in the morning, your wool coat soaked through with freezing rain. You had waited outside her office for six hours because she told you she might have a 'window' for dinner. And then, when her assistant finally came out, she didn't even look at you. She just said, 'Miss Canada has decided to retire early. She suggests you try making an appointment next month.'"
George's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He could still feel the phantom chill of that rain. He could still feel the sting of the security guards' pitying looks as he stood there, a billionaire with the world at his feet, being treated like a stray dog by a woman who didn't even find him worth a "no" to his face.
"I remember," George said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum.
"And that time at the charity auction," Lydia went on, oblivious to the darkness growing in her son's eyes. "You outbid everyone by half a million dollars just for the chance to sit at her table for twenty minutes. And what did she do? She spent the entire twenty minutes on her phone, laughing at texts from some French model, while you sat there like a ghost. I cried for you that night, George. I really did. I asked you why you kept pursuing a woman who seemed to have a heart made of dry ice."
"Because I knew I would win, Mother," George interrupted, his words sharp. "I told you then, and I'm telling you now. I don't lose."
"And you didn't! That's the miracle," Lydia said warmly. "You stayed relentless. You showed her that no one could love her the way you could. You broke through that ice. I hope she realizes now, as she's lying there in Paris, just how lucky she is that you didn't give up on her when any other man would have walked away in shame."
George looked at the closed door of the master suite. The "shame" his mother spoke of wasn't gone. It had merely been transformed. It had been forged into a weapon. Every hour he had spent waiting in the rain was a debt he was now collecting with interest.
"She knows, Mother," George said, his eyes darkening as he watched Dolphine's silhouette pass by the frosted glass of the bathroom door. "Believe me, she is becoming very aware of exactly who I am and what my love represents."
"Good. Because you deserve the world, George. You've always been so sensitive, so devoted. I'm just glad the 'sad memories' are over. You don't have to be the one begging anymore. You have the girl. You have the fairytale. You're the king of the castle now."
"Don't remind me of the sad memories, Mother," George said, his voice turning ice-cold, though he forced a small, fake chuckle for her benefit. "The past is dead. I told you—I already won. I have everything exactly where I want it."
"I'll let you get back to her, then. Give her a kiss for me when she gets out of the shower!"
"I'll be sure to give her exactly what she deserves," George replied.
He ended the call and let the phone slide onto the table. The silence of the room rushed back in, but it was no longer peaceful. His mother's words—the rain, the waiting, the begging—were screaming in his ears.
He turned around to find Dolphine standing in the doorway. She wasn't in the shower. She was wrapped in her silk robe, her damp hair clinging to her neck, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. She had heard every word.
"Fantastic and memorable?" she asked, her voice a low, mocking purr. "Tell me, George... does your mother know her 'sensitive' son is currently running a psychological gulag? Or does she only get the edited version where you're still the pining lapdog who loves the rain?"
George took a step toward her, his eyes flashing with the very resentment his mother had just stirred up. "She knows I won, Dolphine. And that's the only truth that matters."
"You haven't won anything yet," Dolphine whispered, stepping closer until she was directly in his space, her eyes defiant. "You've just invited a queen into your home and told her she's invisible. But ghosts have a way of making people lose their minds, George. Are you sure you're ready to live with the one you've created?"
George didn't answer. He couldn't. Because as he looked at her, the memory of the freezing rain outside her office met the heat of her presence in the present, and for the first time, he realized that revenge might be a much more dangerous game than love ever was.