Chapter 118 Sleep, Mia.
Mia’s POV
+25 BONUS
“Thank you, Henri,” I said, settling into the buttery leather seat. My back ached from the flight despite the specialized accommodations, and the twins seemed determined to make up for their earlier quiet by performing what felt like sterfionized swimming routines.
“Everything okay?” Scarlett asked quietly, noting my wince as one particularly enthusiastic kick caught me under the ribs.
“Just my travel companions making their presence known,” I assured her, mobbing the spot gently. “I think they’re welted about Paris.”
Henri navigated through evening traffic with the practiced ease of someone who’d been driving these streets for decades. 1 caught glimpses of the city through the windows–elegant buildings, street cafés, people strolling along tree–lined bonterards Even in these fleeting snapshots, Paris had an undeniable romance to it.
Our hotel–Le Grand Paris–was a magnificent historic building in what Scarlett informed me was “the alisolute best part of the 8th arrondissement, darling, literally steps from everything important.” The ornate façade was illuminated by tasteful lighting, highlighting the belle époque architecture and intricate stonework
A small army of staff materialized as our car pulled up, whisking away luggage and ushering us through a lobby that redefined luxury. Crystal chandeliers hung from coffered ceilings, while marble floors gleamed beneath plush area rugs that probably cost more than my car. The scent of fresh flowers permeated the air. Enormous arrangements adorned every surface, creating botanical wonderland within the historic space.
I’m pretty sure I can learn a lot in Paris.
“Mr. and Mrs. Morton, Ms. Williams,” the general manager greeted us personally, his English perfect though softly accented.” Welcome to Le Grand Paris. We are honored to have you with us. Everything has been prepared according to Mr. Morton’s specifications.”
Morton nodded his approval after a brief exchange about security measures and privacy protocols. We were then escorted to a private elevator that required a special key card, bypassing the main bank of elevators entirely.
“The Morton Suite occupies our entire top floor,” the manager explained as we ascended. “Complete privacy, separate entrances, and our most spectacular views of the city.”
The elevator opened directly into what could only be described as a palatial apartment. Floor–to–ceiling windows showcased a breathtaking nighttime panorama of Paris, the Eiffel Tower visible in the distance, illuminated against the evening sky.
“Oh my god,” I breathed, momentarily stunned by the sheer opulence of the space.
“It’ll do,” Scarlett said with mock indifference, though her eyes sparkled with appreciation. “Though the ceiling could be higher.
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The manager chuckled, clearly used to Scarlett’s teasing. “We will endeavor to raise it for your next visit, Mrs. Morton.”
After a brief tour of the main living spaces–living room, dining area, two offices, a fully stocked kitchen, and what appeared to be a small movie theater–we were shown to our respective bedrooms.
private garden
“Ms. Williams, we’ve prepared the east wing suite for you,” the manager said, opening double doors to reveal a space larger than my entire apartment. “Mr. Morton specified this room for its morning light and proximity to the
terrace.”
The bedroom was a study in understated luxury–cream walls, elegant furniture, and a bed that looked big enough to sleep a small village. A sitting area by the windows offered a different but equally spectacular view of the city, while the en–suite bathroom gleamed with marble and gold fixtures.
“This is incredible. Thank you.” I said.
“You’ll find a detailed guide to all the suite’s amenities on the tablet,” he indicated a sleek device on the bedside table.”
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Including our 24–hour room service menu, spa available for your needs at any hour.”
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services, and direct lines to your personal concierge team. Someone will be
After ensuring we had everything we needed, the manager left us to settle in. Scarlett immediately kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the nearest sofa.
“This is paradise,” Scarlett sighed, stretching luxuriously across the sofa. “And look! Dinner as promised.”
True to Morton’s word, an elegant spread awaited us on the dining table–covered silver dishes, fresh bread, and what appeared to be a selection of non–alcoholic beverages for me alongside a bottle of champagne.
“You should eat something,” Morton suggested, helping t especially in your condition.”
me to a comfortable chair at the table. “The flight can be dehydrating,
“My condition,” I repeated with a small smile. “You make pregnancy sound like a Victorian ailment.”
He looked momentarily abashed, a rare expression for someone normally so composed. “My apologies. I’ve been reading extensively about prenatal care and nutritional needs during the third trimester.”
“Told you,” Scarlett stage–whispered. “Medical journals for fun.”
Despite my exhaustion, I found myself enjoying the meal–a light but delicious selection of French classics modified to avoid ingredients on my pregnancy restriction list. As we ate, Scarlett outlined our schedule for the following day, which thankfully included a late start “to accommodate jet lag and general human decency.”
“We’ll begin with brunch at this adorable café near the Tuileries,” she explained, scrolling through her meticulously planned itinerary. “Then a gentle stroll–no more than thirty minutes, I promise–before your first prenatal massage at the hotel spa.”
“You’ve really thought of everything,” I said, genuinely touched by her consideration.
“Of course I have,” she replied breezily. “I’m excellent at vacations. It’s practically my superpower.”
By the time we finished dinner, the combination of jet lag, pregnancy fatigue, and the day’s excitement had caught up with me completely. I could barely keep my eyes open, something both Scarlett and Morton noticed immediately.
“Bedtime for baby mama,” Scarlett declared, helping me up. “Come on, let’s get you settled.”
My luggage had already been unpacked, my clothes hanging neatly in a closet bigger than my bathroom at home. Even my toiletries had been arranged on the marble vanity, organized by some intuitive system I couldn’t have managed myself.
“Do you need anything else?” Scarlett asked, turning down the bed while I changed into pajamas in the marble–clad bathroom. “Water? Snacks? A small French orchestra to play lullabies?”
“Just sleep,” I laughed, emerging in the silk pajamas she’d insisted on buying me “for proper Parisian nights.” They felt ridiculously luxurious against my skin, the fabric easily accommodating my growing bump.
“Then sleep you shall,” she declared, giving me a quick hug. “Text if you need anything. I mean it–anything at all. Morton has the hotel staff on high alert for your every possible whim.”
“I’m sure that’s not-”
“He created a color–coded emergency response chart,” she cut in, eyes twinkling. “With corresponding protocols based on the nature and urgency of the potential pregnancy crisis. It’s laminated.”
That sounded exactly like something Morton would do. “Tell him thank you,” I said, genuinely touched by his thoroughness. For everything. This is all so much more than I expected.”
“Please,” she waved dismissively. “This is the bare minimum for my best friend and future godchildren. Now, sleep!” She pointed imperiously toward the bed.
After Scarlett left, I sank gratefully into the impossibly comfortable mattress, my body practically melting into the high–thread- count sheets. The room had been preset to the perfect temperature and blackout curtains eliminated all but the faintest glow
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from the Parisian night beyond my windows.
I was about to drift off when my phone buzzed with an incoming text. Mom, right on cue:
Safe and sound? How was the flight? Did you eat something?
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I smiled, typing back with heavy fingers: Arrived safely. Flight was perfect. Currently in a hotel suite bigger than our apartment. Miss you and Gas already.
Her response came quickly: Glad to hear it. Gas is having the time of his life–Nate sent pictures of him playing with the other dogs. Sleep well, sweetheart. Love you.
The mention of Gas made me momentarily homesick, though I knew he was probably having more fun without me than I was having without him. I had just enough energy to set my phone on the nightstand before sleep claimed me completely,
That’s a good start, isn’t it? A new place. I haven’t left home for four years. Not even to blocks far away. I’ve closed myself off. I shook my head. That marriage doomed to failure because I didn’t even know how to guard my self.
Sleep, Mia. Tomorrow’s a busy day.
