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On the right, I spot a walk-in closet that seems bigger than my bedroom at home. Our bedroom, I guess. Nope, actually, it's still my bedroom. My space. But this, here, is something else. On the left, the door to the bathroom is open enough for me to spot the claw-foot cast-iron tub and a whole lot of marble. Shiny, shiny, shiny.

And there's more. I walk to the other side of the room, leaving my dear husband behind. Olivier decided to carry both our bags up, even though a porter insisted he'd be happy to take them to our room. I read that in luxury hotels like this, you don't have to do anything. They can wake you up at a certain hour, recommend and book restaurants, and even organize your whole stay if you want them to. I might want them to, actually. Everything happened so fast and I haven't had a chance to think about, well, anything.

Even before opening the French doors—is that what they call them over here?—I can already see the Eiffel Tower standing tall in the distance. Frankly, I don't know why people fuss over a metal sculpture so much. What am I not getting? But I do know this: staying in a hotel suite overlooking Paris's most recognizable monument means something. Money, glamour, love in the air.

I'd drown in jealousy if I weren't me. I step out onto the balcony, my phone at the ready. There's a light breeze in the air, which wakes me up a little. I dozed off on the plane—thanks to the sleeping pills I got for the trip—but the taxi ride over put me back to sleep.

Sounds from the street travel up, mostly cars honking and the hum from the bus that just stopped. Not 'so' glamorous—I'll mute the video. I record it all: the big phallic iron thing, of course, but also the perfectly lined-up slate roofs with their cute little chimneys, the creaminess of the facades, and the balconies decorated with perfectly groomed potted plants. Then I turn around, catching my reflection in the spotless glass of the doors, and give a casual wave for the camera, like I feel so normal about being here. Like I'm in my element, when everyone knows that... Nope. They only know what I tell them. What I show them.

When I'm done filming, I immediately hit Play. Even though I'm here, experiencing it live, I can't help but marvel at how it all looks: the pastel-blue sky above the roofs, the soft glow of Parisian summer, my fresh blond highlights catching the sun, my hair literally glowing.

I don't overthink it on the caption. I think this two-thousand-dollar-a-night view will do all of the explaining.

Honeymoon Day One

Pinch me! 

Back inside the room, Olivier is slouched in one of the armchairs, staring at the wall. Not at his phone. At the wall. The bare one.

"You were right," I say. "This place is perfect."

Olivier slowly turns to me, like he forgot I was here. "Glad you like it."

I'll admit the honeymoon wasn't exactly part of the plan, but things change. Sometimes you have to shake things up a little.

"Mind if I take a quick video?" I say, already pressing the red button.

"Why would I?"

I stop and frown at his sharp tone. Olivier straightens up. "I mean, of course," he adds. "Do whatever you'd like."

His tone is still a little cold and I almost want to say something. Instead, I swivel my phone around, making sure to catch every fine detail: the delicate fabric lampshade, the chilled bottle of Dom Perignon waiting in a silver engraved bucket, and the flat, wall-mounted TV. Little Cassie would have flipped her lid.

"Smile!" I say, as Olivier is about to enter the frame.

He does. It's not one of his warm, charming smiles, but I don't think you can tell through the screen.

I hit Share on this one as well, then decide it's time for a break. If I post too much, it will start to look suspicious, like I'm not having fun because all I do is snap pictures of the fun I'm supposedly having. Plus, a little mystery is always good. Let them wonder.

"I think I'm going to lie down for a moment," Olivier says, kicking off his shoes.

He goes to sit on the bed and rubs his eyes, then presses his palms against them. A nap would do me good, too. I feel dehydrated enough that it hasn't even occurred to me to pop that free champagne bottle open. Free champagne! And the good stuff, too...Dom Perignon is the good stuff, right? But I'm not sure I want to be next to Olivier right now. He's been acting weird since I sprang this surprise trip—nonrefundable flights and all—on him. But he must have gotten over it, because we're here now.

I leave him to it and head to the bathroom, where I start running the bath. The hotel provides free lavender-scented salts, which smell like summer in heaven when I open the glass jar. This is the life, I think, as I step into the steaming-hot water. This is my life.