I frown. “Who is Jamillah?”
“Jamillah was me. It was my name until your uncle took me in.”
I feel stupid now. “I had no idea.”
She wipes under her eyes with the heel of her palm and sniffs. “Yes. I didn’t want to be Jamillah anymore, and he said I could change it to whatever I wanted. I wanted to fit in here, so I chose the French name that I thought was the prettiest.”
“It is the prettiest.”
She glances up at me. “Really?”
I nod. “I’ve always thought so.”
She studies me for a moment as if trying to gauge my sincerity. “Well, most of the time I feel like I picked wrong. I should have stayed Jamillah. Or just someone with no name. I mean, fuck, half my foster parents just called me ‘girl’ or even ‘brown girl.’ And yet I thought I was deserving of being Seraphine. Seraphine is the name of a girl who doesn’t have a boyfriend who cheats on her in front of everyone she knows.”
“Seraphine is a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
The moment those words leave my mouth, I know it’s a mistake.
“You . . . ,” she says softly, obviously taken aback. “You think I’m beautiful?”
Fuck.
Yeah, I think you’re beautiful. I think your lips should be outlawed. I think your eyes are as big and dark as the night sky, but a million times more mysterious, a million times more mystical.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, trying to sound bored. “Look, I’m just trying to make you feel better.”
She gives a few small nods and averts her eyes. I see what little hope there was in them vanish and feel like now I’m the one to blame.
Shit. Why the hell is this so complicated? Is it only complicated to me?
“Well,” she says with a heavy sigh, one I feel in my bones. “You succeeded for a moment. And I guess a moment is all I can hope for. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be alone.”
She gives me one sad little smile and walks off down to the front of the house, her shoulders slumped and head hanging low.
Jesus. I could have handled that better. She doesn’t deserve any of this.
There’s only one way to make things right.
Or, at least, there’s only one way that will make me feel right.
I march around the corner, right back into the drama, where Emil has his arm around the blonde bitch, trying to console her.
“Hey, asshole,” I cry out, not slowing my approach toward them.
Emil looks up in time to see me swing back and punch him squarely on the nose. Blood spurts out as he screams and goes stumbling back.
“That was for Seraphine Dumont,” I tell him, ready to hit him again. My knuckles have burst and they’re throbbing wildly, but I don’t actually feel any pain. I’ll do it again and again until I feel something. “Are you still a fan of mine or what?”
“Fuck you!” Emil yells, covering his nose, spitting out blood. If he makes one move to come at me, I’ll hit him again, making sure his nose shatters into pieces.
“A fair-weather fan, then,” I comment as I lean in and grab him by his bloody collar, the mask crooked and half-up his face. “Do me a favor and never set a foot here again. Take this blonde bitch with you. If you try and get a job anywhere in Paris as a designer, I can guarantee I’ll go out of my way to make your pitiful little life a living hell.”
A crowd has gathered around, all probably wondering what’s come over me. I couldn’t give a shit. I’m done with them, done with all this. If I grow a spine in the next year, I won’t be back here again.
I walk back toward the party, hoping to get out of here once and for all, when my father steps in front of me and pulls me aside.
“What the fuck was that?” he says in my ear, his voice low but simmering and barely contained. I know that voice. That’s the voice that comes before a strike. Well, I fucking dare him.
My eyes must say that exact thing, because when I pull away from him, my gaze fixes on his and I’m not backing down. He manages to, just an inch.
“That fucker isn’t welcome here,” I tell him.
“You couldn’t have made that more apparent,” he says, jaw tense. “And now it’s going to be reported that Blaise Dumont is not only the most useless member of the family but the most violent as well.”
“That will always be Pascal. You’ve trained him so damn well.”
“Pascal always knows his place, and he knows not to make a scene.”
“But that’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? For them to write about us in some way. Your brother makes headlines one way, you make headlines another.”
He flinches like he’s been slapped. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m doing exactly what you want, and I fucking hate it,” I say, my voice tight, anger building up inside me. All around us are fairy lights in the trees and beautiful people decked out in elaborate jewels and gowns and masks, yet all I can see is a hell burning around us, a fire that started inside me.
“Then why did you do it?” he asks me, brow arched. “Whose honor were you defending there? It sounded like Seraphine’s, but that couldn’t be right. That girl is nothing. She has no honor. Why on earth would you waste time on her?”
My eyes narrow as I take in the sharp, stiff face of my father, a person I hate more than anything in the world. “Because she has more honor in her little finger than you do anywhere.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just takes me in, breathing in long and deep through his nose. I don’t care what he’s thinking, but he’s thinking something.
“You’re mistaken, Blaise, and I hope this is the last time you ever make this mistake. You hear me? I hope this is the last time. I hope you realize that there are few things in this world that you stick your neck out for, and your cousin isn’t one of them.”
“And neither are you,” I tell him and then turn to leave.
“She’s not even one of us,” he says as I walk away. “She’s not a Dumont.”
“Yeah,” I reply under my breath. “Maybe that’s why I did it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BLAISE
I have no fucking idea what Seraphine is doing.
What I do know is that Pascal was right.
There is something going on with her, something that’s making her hole up inside that dirty bar called the Terrible Cat in the forgotten seedy section of the Latin Quarter, the last place I expected to see Seraphine disappear into, let alone have some sort of meeting with her ex-husband and some nondescript guy who moves like a hit man.
The sight of Cyril is most confusing. I’m outside the bar, just out of sight, pretending to be on my phone and sneaking a look inside the joint every few minutes. It’s not like she’s happy to see her ex. In fact, she’s sitting on the opposite side of the booth and watching him with disdain. She hasn’t cracked a smile once, though he’s done plenty to try to charm her.
My stomach knots up with jealousy. Over the years I’ve had to watch Seraphine date others and fall in love, and all this time I’ve dealt with it. I didn’t see her often anyway; it was easy to pretend she didn’t exist. And then, when I decided to join forces with my father and brother and start working for the company, I had to see her every day.
I was there when she first started dating Cyril.
I was there when she’d bring him to the office, all proud and in love and showing him off, and it was like my heart got a jump-start for the first time. It moved in my chest, poking and prodding sharply, reminding me that I used to have feelings at one time. I used to want and yearn and lust. I haven’t felt any of those things since the day I left Mallorca and wiped her clean from my mind.
Then they got married. It happened quickly. I knew it was a mistake for her, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt in a very acute, very unreasonable way. They had a wedding. I didn’t go. I was invited out of formality, but I knew she couldn’t care less if I was there. In fact, if she’d remembered at all what hap
pened between us once, she wouldn’t have wanted me there.
They were married for two years, and during those two years I had to look at that wedding ring on her finger, and I had to pretend that it didn’t bother me. I’m her cousin; I’ll always be her cousin. It’s fucked up that she could even affect me that way.
But I’m used to being fucked up. I don’t fear it. I don’t feel shame in it.
It made me bitter, though. It made me angry. It made it so that my interactions with Seraphine were sharp and harsh and full of spite. She hated me, too, adding fuel to the fire, making it easier to be around her when she looked at me with disgust, and so I looked at her the same way.
Then she and Cyril broke up. Marriage over. He cheated on her repeatedly, caught by tabloids, and I know it destroyed her. It reminded me of the masquerade ball, when she was just sixteen and I’d caught her douchebag boyfriend making out with someone else. She was publicly humiliated, though part of that was my fault too.
During the divorce, she did her best to hold her head up high and let it roll off her. She put up a strong front. But I knew she was hurting inside. Beneath her beautiful and polished veneer, she has a big heart, and she comes from a lost and damaged place. She’s sensitive and delicate, and sometimes I think I’m the only person in her world who knows that.
Of course, that didn’t stop me from secretly delighting that her marriage failed. I know you’re supposed to want what’s best for someone and you shouldn’t take pleasure in someone’s pain, but that’s not how it works with me.
“What are you doing, Seraphine?” I say out loud, my words swallowed up by the noise and traffic on the nearby street. In this narrow cobblestone alley there is thick silence tempered by the occasional drunken shout from inside the bar.
I end up watching her for two hours.
She talks the entire time, looking emotional with a lot of hand gesturing. Cyril tries to butt in every now and then, but she’s dismissive with him. Meanwhile, the hit man only asks her questions.
I wish I had known they would be here so I could have gotten a spot somewhere inside, though the chances of me hearing their conversation would be low. The minute she abruptly left work, I had to do the same, following her to her apartment and then to the café around the corner, where she stayed for a few hours, drinking champagne by herself. Then she hopped on the métro, and a few stops later, got off here. I nearly lost her in this unfamiliar area and just happened to be looking in the window of the bar when I saw her and Cyril together.
I’m not sure what to say to Pascal about this.
Part of me thinks that she’s getting in over her head with something dangerous. I mean, she drove all the way down to Bordeaux in the middle of the night and snuck into her brother’s castle, and now she’s meeting with her ex-husband and a stranger who looks like he strangles people for fun. Part of me wants to protect her from whatever this is.
The other part of me agrees with my brother. That she’s fishing for information on her father’s death, and that information could lead back to me. Now, I know I’m innocent, but I’m not certain about Pascal or my father. I couldn’t imagine either of them killing anyone, and yet . . .
And yet you know your father is capable of that. Capable of worse. There are so many events that have happened around you that have exposed his true nature, yet you choose to put your head in the sand and ignore it.
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, wishing I could ignore that voice that grows louder every day. Growing up, I had no loyalty to my family, and now I’m being asked to show it. What happened to me over the years that made me tuck away all my anger and distrust of my family? What made me want to give up my carefree life roaming around the planet and decide to work for the Dumont label? When did I stop looking out for myself and become a sheep and a coward instead?
When did I fall in line with exactly what they want me to be?
I open my eyes and notice that they’re getting up from their seats.
Shit.
I spin around and look for somewhere to hide. I’m useless at this whole stalking thing, whereas Pascal turns it into an art form.
I tuck myself away between a garbage can and a storefront, watching as the three of them exit the bar.
“So you’ll call me the moment you know of anything?” Seraphine asks, her voice clear as day and full of hope.
The man just nods, his face grim, while Cyril says to her, “Let me walk you home.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve ordered an Uber. He’ll be picking me up in two minutes.”
Good. The last thing she needs is Cyril following her. If he did, I might have to intervene.
“Okay, well, keep your chin up and stay vigilant,” Cyril says to her, trying to sound tough. “You need to keep a low profile with this sort of thing, so let Jones take care of everything.”
Jones. Funny name.
The Jones guy just nods while Seraphine gives a polite smile. “I’ll talk to you later. Thank you again.”
“Anytime,” Cyril says, watching her walk away toward the main street. I keep my eyes on him, hoping to see his angle. He watches her the entire time, but what disturbs me is the lack of lust or affection in his eyes. If anything, he looks completely disdainful, as if she took a piss in the middle of the alley.
He then looks at Jones. “So what do you think?”
Jones gives him a quick glance. “We learned nothing new. So I think nothing except the lip service I’m going to provide and the paycheck she’s going to give me.”
“But, just for the sake of argument,” Cyril says, crossing his arms across his chest, “if she is onto something—”
“You know she’s onto something. But she didn’t hire me first. She hired me second. My loyalty lies with the highest bidder. And it’s not her.”
“You’re sure about that?” Cyril asks, narrowing his eyes.
Jones doesn’t look too impressed at being questioned. “Maybe you should ask yourself why you’re doing this?”
Cyril shrugs. “Let’s chalk it up to revenge and leave it at that.”
Revenge?
I didn’t expect this.
“Fine,” Jones says. “Then let’s go report to the boss. Where is he right now?”
Cyril takes out his phone and glances at it. “Still at this fundraiser in the Trocadéro.” Jones makes a face. “Hey, you’re the one who insists on doing everything in person and not by phone.”
“Then let’s go,” Jones says.
They walk off in the opposite direction of Seraphine.
I glance down the alley in both directions. Seraphine is gone, and I probably should get in a cab and follow her to her place, but there’s no way I’m going to let this go. I know what Pascal asked me to do, but this is about more than that now.
I wait until I see Jones and Cyril disappear around the corner, then I follow.
Crouching down and keeping a low profile, I watch them get into a black car.
I immediately wave for a taxi, lucky to flag one down in this spot.
I get in and do something I never thought I’d do.
I tell the driver to follow that car.
The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Are you serious?”
“I have two hundred euros for you,” I tell him, opening my wallet and showing him. “Now go. Now!”
The driver shrugs and then we’re off, heading down rue Linné. The taxi catches up to the black car with ease, and we stay two to three cars behind them all the way through the twists and turns of the Left Bank until we end up on the Right Bank at a fancy hotel gleaming with lights.
I tell the driver to park and wait, and I watch from my seat as Jones and Cyril step out of the car.
They linger at the steps of the hotel, and through the large, well-lit windows, I can see a party going on. Jones texts something on his phone, and they both stare at the entrance to the hotel expectantly.
Then someone comes out, and because of the people walking past
the taxi, I can’t quite see who it is at first.
But when the crowd clears, my heart stops.
It’s my father, dressed in a tuxedo and shaking Cyril’s hand as if they’re long-lost friends.
CHAPTER NINE
BLAISE
Nine years ago
Mallorca
What a fucking mess.
I should have known better than to step foot on this island. I should have known better than to answer that phone call. I should have known that my mother would cry over the phone, begging me to come, just as she’s crying now.
Only she doesn’t know I can see her.
She also doesn’t know that I can see my uncle Ludovic in the dark corner with her, trying to console her.
She’s drunk. I knew she would be. She always is. But I especially knew that since this was my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary, a whole bunch of pent-up and raw feelings would come out, as they always do in these situations. Too many complications all in one spot.
Earlier we had all been having dessert and drinking wine around the table on the white-sand beach, immaculately set up just beneath the villa here on Mallorca. A lot of wine was had, far more than normal. I guess that’s what happens when both sides of the family are in one place—an event as rare as an eclipse.
I had a lot to drink, too, so I wasn’t really paying attention to what happened. I was more focused on the dessert in front of me, a type of flan created by the famous chef my parents had hired for the event.
The next thing I knew, my father was saying something to my mother, whispering in her ear—something malicious judging by the smug look on his face, a look I know all too well. She looked across the table to Uncle Ludovic, yelled something that made no sense, and burst into tears. When she got up to run away, the tablecloth caught on her tacky jeweled bracelet, and she ended up pulling everything off the table in one messy swoop.
The dessert, all the wine, everything went falling into either our laps or on the ground. My mother fell onto the sand, screaming and crying, and the only person that would help her was Ludovic, who got her to her feet and brought her up the stone steps and inside the villa.
Disarm Page 9
