The CEO's Contractual Wife (Olivia and Ryan) novel Chapter 203

Chapter 203

Olivia

The jet descended through wispy clouds as Paris materialized below us, a sprawling tapestry of Haussmann architecture and winding streets. Morning light glinted off the Seine, and I pressed my face closer to the window, catching my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower rising above the cityscape.

“There it is.” I breathed.

Alexander looked up from his laptop, a smile playing at his lips. “First time seeing it?”

“In person? Yes.” I couldn’t tear my eyes away. “Pictures don’t do it justice.”

“Wait until you see it at night. The whole thing lights up.”

The jet touched down smoothly at Le Bourget, Paris’s private aviation hub. Within minutes, we were through customs and settling into the back of a Mercedes waiting on the tarmac. No lines, no crowds, just seamless efficiency that still felt surreal.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Carter, Madame Carter,” the driver greeted us in accented English. “Welcome to Paris. We go to Le Bristol now, yes?”

“Oui, merci,” Alexander replied, his French flawless.

Of course, he spoke French.

The drive into the city center was everything I’d imagined. Elegant buildings with wrought iron balconies lined wide boulevards. Cafés spilled onto sidewalks where Parisians sipped espresso and smoked cigarettes. The Arc de Triomphe loomed ahead, traffic circling it in controlled chaos.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, watching Paris unfold outside my window.

Alexander’s hand found mine, squeezing gently. “It is.”

Le Bristol Hotel sat on the prestigious Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, its pale stone facade exuding understated elegance. A doorman in a crisp uniform opened my car door before we’d fully stopped.

“Bienvenue, Madame Carter,” he said with a slight bow.

The lobby was a masterclass in French luxury. Marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers. Fresh flowers the size of small trees occupied massive urns. Oil paintings in gilded frames lined silk-papered walls.

“Monsieur Carter,” the manager materialized instantly, hand extended. “What a pleasure to have you back. And with Madame Carter this time. Congratulations on your marriage.”

“Merci, Laurent,” Alexander replied, shaking his hand. “Everything prepared?”

“Mais oui, of course. The Imperial Suite, as requested. And the roses you ordered have been placed in the bedroom.”

I glanced at Alexander, surprised. He’d ordered roses?

“Perfect. We’ll head up now.”

A butler escorted us to a private elevator that opened directly into the suite. I stepped into the entrance hall and stopped dead.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

The Imperial Suite was absurd. An enormous living room stretched before us, decorated in soft creams and golds. Antique furniture mixed with modern comfort. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a private terrace. and, beyond that, the Parisian rooftops.

“The bedroom is through here, Madame,” the butler said, gesturing to ornate double doors.

I followed him, Alexander trailing behind with that amused expression he wore when watching me react to his world.

The bedroom was somehow even more spectacular. A canopy bed dominated the space, draped in silk. And on every available surface, red roses. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

“Alex,” I turned to him, genuinely touched. “You did this?”

He shrugged, suddenly looking almost bashful. “Thought you might like them.”

“I love them.” I crossed to the nearest arrangement, breathing in their perfume. “Thank you.”

The butler cleared his throat delicately. “Shall I show you the rest of the suite? The bathroom, the office, the dining room?”

“Yes, please,” I said, reluctantly leaving the roses.

The bathroom featured a marble tub big enough to swim in. The office had a mahogany desk and built-in bookshelves. The dining room seated ten comfortably. There was even a kitchen, which seemed excessive for a hotel suite but very French.

After the butler departed with promises that anything we needed would be provided immediately, I flopped onto a cream velvet sofa.

“This is insane, I announced. “People actually live like this?”

“Only when visiting Paris,” Alexander said, loosening his tie. “I have meetings starting at two. That gives us a few hours. Want to explore or rest?”

I checked my phone. Just after nine in the morning. “Explore. Definitely explore. I’m too wired to sleep.”

“Thought you might say that.” He pulled out his phone, typing quickly. “I’ll have the concierge arrange something.”

Twenty minutes later, we were back in the Mercedes, this time heading toward the city center. The driver navigated with practiced ease through narrow streets lined with patisseries and boutiques.

Chapter 203

“Where are we going?” I asked as we crossed a bridge over the Seine.

“You’ll see.”

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We stopped in a charming square I didn’t recognize. Small shops and cafés surrounded a central fountain where pigeons congregated. Alexander led me to a tiny bakery with a red awning.

“Best croissants in Paris,” he declared, holding the door open.

The smell inside was incredible. Butter and sugar and something indefinably French. Display cases showed off perfect pastries, their golden crusts gleaming under warm lights.

Alexander ordered in rapid French, gesturing to various items. The woman behind the counter beamed at him, clearly charmed, then turned that smile on me.

“Your wife is very beautiful,” she said in heavily accented English.

“Thank you,” I managed, feeling my cheeks heat.

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