My Toxin

Chapter 33

The plane touched down in Paris with a gentle thud, the city sprawling beneath us like a glistening tapestry. As we disembarked, the excitement between Marjorie and me was undeniable. This trip wasn't just about escaping the routine; it was about reconnecting, creating memories, and immersing ourselves in a city that promised romance at every turn.

The cab ride to the Hôtel de Luxe felt like stepping into a movie. Paris was alive—its cobblestone streets, charming cafés, and elegant architecture passing by like scenes out of a storybook. When the hotel came into view, Marjorie's face lit up with wonder. That look alone made the trip worth it.

Our suite was the epitome of luxury. Marble floors, a king-sized bed dressed in crisp white linens, and an expansive view of the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance. Marjorie dropped her bags and immediately flopped onto the bed with a contented sigh.

"This is amazing," she murmured, stretching out as if she could soak in the luxury through osmosis.

I watched her for a moment, taking in how relaxed she looked. Even here, in this perfect setting, she managed to steal the spotlight effortlessly. But as my gaze shifted to the blonde wig she had been wearing since we arrived, I hesitated. It was striking, sure, but it wasn't her.

"You know," I started carefully, sitting down beside her, "I really prefer your natural curls. The wig is... nice, but it's not you."

Marjorie turned her head to look at me, her lips curving into a relieved smile. "I'm glad you said that because I hate it. It's uncomfortable, and honestly, I don't feel like myself in it. Chanel insisted, and I didn't want to let her down."

I chuckled softly, brushing a strand of the wig away from her face. "Let's take it off then. We'll figure it out together."

Her expression softened. "Really? You don't mind?"

"Of course not," I said, kissing her forehead. "You're beautiful as you are. Let's get it sorted."

We ordered room service first, indulging in croissants, cheeses, pâté, and champagne. The meal was light but satisfying, setting the tone for a relaxed evening. Afterward, I pulled out my phone, and we searched for tutorials on how to safely remove a glued-on wig.

We ended up in the bathroom, both of us squinting at the tiny screen as the video played. The steps seemed straightforward enough, though the list of tools they recommended made us laugh. We didn't have most of them, but we improvised with what the hotel provided—a washcloth, warm water, and a bit of oil.

Marjorie stood in front of the large mirror while I stood behind her, carefully following the instructions. I dabbed the edges of the wig with the warm, damp cloth to loosen the adhesive, my fingers brushing against her skin as I worked. She stayed still, her shoulders relaxed, and I took my time, not wanting to rush or hurt her. The intimacy of the moment wasn't lost on me—it wasn't just about the wig; it was about care, trust, and showing her she didn't have to carry anything uncomfortable alone.

"Does this hurt?" I asked softly, watching her reflection for any sign of discomfort.

She shook her head, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "No, it's fine. You're being really gentle."

The edges of the wig finally began to lift, and together, we peeled it off carefully, revealing the tightly braided cornrows underneath. Marjorie let out a relieved sigh, running her fingers lightly over her scalp.

"That's so much better," she said, laughing softly. "I feel like I can breathe again."

I smiled, reaching for the braids. "Mind if I help with these too?"

She nodded, sinking to the floor between my legs as I began to unravel them. My fingers worked slowly, gently tugging at the ends until her curls started to spring free. It was a slow process, but I didn't mind. Her head rested against my knee as I worked, the quiet intimacy of the moment filling the room.

As her natural hair fully emerged, thick and coiled, I couldn't help but admire it. "Your curls are amazing," I murmured, running my fingers through the soft strands.

She tilted her head back to look at me, her expression warm and a little shy. "You really think so?"

"I've always thought so," I said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. "No wig, no braids—just you. That's my favorite."

Once her hair was fully free, I handed her a silk bonnet to wear overnight. "I'll book you a hair appointment for tomorrow," I promised. "But no more wigs unless you really want to."

She laughed, tucking her curls into the bonnet. "Deal. Thank you, Alex. For everything."

We snuggled into bed after that, both of us in matching pyjama sets—her idea, though I had to admit I liked the way they looked on her. We turned on Emily in Paris, her favourite series, and for the next couple of hours, I watched her more than the show. She laughed at the romantic mishaps, critiqued the outfits, and made little comments about how unrealistic some of the plotlines were.

As the evening wore on, she tried again to guess what surprise I had planned for tomorrow, but I refused to give anything away. "You'll find out soon enough," I teased, enjoying the playful pout she gave me.

Eventually, she grew tired, her head resting on my chest as her breaths became soft and even. I kissed her forehead, pulling her closer. Tomorrow was going to be unforgettable, but tonight, holding her like this, I already felt like the luckiest man in the world.