The one thing Mira could count on, was that she’d officially survived the worst experience of her life. It was a small comfort, but it was something. On a less comforting note, another truth emerged as she sat under the warmth of the summer sun: it would take a lot more than one fabulous meal to feel happy again.

With full awareness of the rough road ahead, Mira opted for a few more minutes of people-watching, which if nothing else was a distracting bit of fun.

After paying for her meal, she strolled back along the designer brick road, armed with some courage and a deep-down hope that time would heal all things.

#

Before long, Mira had returned to the hotel lobby, right on schedule to collect her belongings and make her way to the airport. She wasn’t looking forward to going back home and facing the rubble of her blown-up life, but she’d always have Paris—a morning’s worth, anyway.

Mira thanked the concierge as he brought out her carry-on.

“Au revoir, bonne journée,” he said, gesturing to the revolving doors.

That was strange. “And the car?”

His stare was long and his eyes devoid of emotion. “Car?”

“My itinerary says our company hired cars to take us to the airport.”

“Ah yes,” he said, finally understanding. “There were three cars, and they were occupied by your colleagues for the earlier departure.”

She gasped. “They didn’t save me a car?” She racked her brain for who could be responsible for this terrible mistake. Frank? Shirley?

Someone will die for this.

Before Mira could plot out her first-ever murder, Jake lumbered out of the elevator and headed her way. She’d almost forgotten he was part of this equation, and truthfully, had kind of hoped she wouldn’t see him at all. Especially now, the way he looked so sweaty and worse for wear. He resembled a man who’d spent the night playing the sponge to every drop of booze in the vicinity.

Jake glanced from the concierge to Mira. “Car ready?”

“They only budgeted three cars,” she said, “and our colleagues already used them.”

Not having the time to wait for his reaction, Mira pulled out her phone and opened the ride share app. Her eyes bulged when she took in the details. “A hundred and twenty euros just to go to the airport?” She looked to the concierge for answers. “Doesn’t that seem ridiculous?”

The concierge shrugged. “Surge pricing is common on the weekends; you know . . . everyone off to the airport for their little holidays in Lisbon or Biarritz.” The last part of his sentence was coated in a palpable contempt.

“But it’s Friday morning; don’t people have to work?”

The concierge chuckled but said nothing.

“Let’s just take it and expense it,” Jake suggested.