by Alix Nichols
TWENTY-TWO
“Welcome back, madame.” Octave performs his signature head bow and takes a suitcase from Sebastian. “Monsieur, it’s good to see you smiling and tanned. I hope everything went as planned.”
“Better than planned,” Sebastian says, heading upstairs with the rest of our baggage. “It was a perfect wedding.”
And in many ways, it was.
Now that I’ve faked a marriage to the man, I find it hard to believe it’s been only a month since I moved in with him in mid-May. This has been the speediest month of my life. Almost every night, we’ve gone out or hosted a dinner at home. Sebastian has been acting as a man utterly and completely smitten with his fiancée. When I took him to Nîmes, he charmed the bejesus out of Mom and all my childhood friends.
I didn’t dare to take him to Marseilles.
In fact, I didn’t even have the courage to tell Dad about him. Chloe did that for me.
As expected, first he was shocked. And then he was mad.
I hope he’ll forgive me one day after I’ve completed my mission and he’s put two and two together.
If that day ever comes, that is.
Because so far, the muddiest, stinkiest dirt I’ve found on my fiancé is a speeding ticket.
Our wedding was an “intimate” affair, held in the privacy and extreme luxury of a paradisiac Bahamian island. My fiancé told everyone we couldn’t wait for the chateau wedding scheduled for next May, to which everyone and their cat will be invited. This gave rise to rumors that I’m pregnant, which both of us denied so vehemently that a lot of people decided they were true.
The ceremony took place on a pristine sand beach with only the minister, Sebastian, a handful of guests, and me to stain its unspoiled purity. I wore a bespoke wedding dress of hand-embroidered silk and exquisite Alençon lace. It hugged my body like a glove, pushing my breasts up and flaring out at the hem.
Now that Sebastian and I are on shagging terms, wearing sacks is kind of pointless.
Our handpicked guest list included Raphael and his bestie Genevieve, Sebastian’s aunt and uncle, and a few of his closest friends including Laurent, who arrived alone, and Mat, who came with Jeanne.
Sebastian’s mother and his youngest brother Noah were “unable”—read “unwilling”—to attend.
My side consisted of Mom, Chloe and Hugo, two childhood friends from Nîmes, and Elorie. Manon couldn’t make it.
Unsurprisingly, neither could Dad.
A couple of weeks before the wedding, Sebastian published the banns, which made me jittery.
“Are you sure our marriage is truly fake?” I asked him for the umpteenth time.
“Better than that,” he said. “It’s genuinely fake. Everything is real and legit, in case anyone wants to check.”
Color drained from my face.
“Don’t look so terrified!” He laughed. “I forgot to submit a crucial piece of paperwork to the closest French consulate in Miami. I’ll be sure to keep forgetting for three more months, after which our marriage will be null.”
I exhaled in relief.
“My dearest, Diane.” He patted my hand. “I have just as little desire to marry you for real as you do. So relax and enjoy your fake wedding and honeymoon.”
And so I did.
We both did, judging by my new husband’s insatiable appetite throughout the week. We fooled around at the hotel, on the beach, up against a palm tree, in the sea, in the pool, in the Jacuzzi, in the shower, on the bed, on the couch, on the floor, and against the wall in our palatial suite.
Against every wall in our suite.
The whole week was a nonstop sexfest, leaving certain parts of my body a little sore, but also pleasured beyond my wildest fantasies.
On the way home, I sat next to Chloe for a good part of the endless flight. We talked about her physical and emotional recovery, and how she was beginning to see life in a different light. She said it felt like putting on Technicolor lenses after years of gray scale. Happiness still scares the shit out of her, but she’s learned to breathe through her fear and carry on.
“I’m grateful for every day with Hugo,” Chloe said, staring at the blue expanse above the clouds. “It took me a while to recognize that he’s the love of my life. But now that I have…” She paused, her expression dreamy.
“What has changed, now that you have?” I asked.
“I keep falling in love.” She smiled. “Every day, I tell myself it isn’t possible to love a man more than I love Hugo, and yet the next day I find myself loving him more.”
“Your fiancé is a wonderful man,” I said.
And I meant it.
“And you”—Chloe gave me a wink—“still haven’t told me how you went from hating Sebastian Darcy to marrying him six months later.”
“It’s a long story,” I said, borrowing his favorite excuse.
Fortunately, Chloe didn’t point out that we were stuck on a plane with nothing to do for a few more hours.
Good girl.
TWENTY-THREE
Finally in the quiet and comfort of the master bedroom at Darcy House, I stretch out on the bed and catch a quick nap while Sebastian showers.
Lucky bastard—he had no problem sleeping on the plane.
“I’m off to the office,” he says, emerging from the bathroom all crisp and kissworthy. “Lots of catching up to do.”
“Go catch them all up, darling!” I produce a nauseatingly saccharine smile. “What’s a little jet lag to a captain of industry?”
He laughs. “What about you?”
“Bath. Pajamas. Sleep.”
“It’s only four in the afternoon.”
I give him a “so what” shrug.
As soon as Sebastian is gone, I take a long bath and put on my PJs. The problem is I can’t sleep. With no industry to captain and no catching up to do, I should’ve dropped off the moment I shut my eyes. But my wayward brain has decided otherwise. After thirty minutes of vain attempts to cop some z’s, I give up and get dressed.
Too tired to read, I decide to explore the last unchartered area of Darcy House—the attic. Vast and high-ceilinged, it’s used for storage—an unpardonable waste of space in any normal person’s point of view. As I climb the wooden staircase and step into the loft, I remember Sebastian telling me his father wanted to install an indoor swimming pool in here. But the city of Paris denied him the permit, what with the mansion being classified as a historic building.
Poor rich man, he must’ve been heartbroken!
I wander around, running my hand over mismatched pieces of furniture and unveiling old paintings stacked against the walls. Specks of dust dance in the light coming in through dormer windows. The place smells of old wood and the lavender hanging from the ceiling beams in little dried bunches. The attic has so much character and charm that if I were the real mistress of this house, I would’ve wiped the dust, washed the windows, and set up my workspace here.
But as things stand, I’m the fake mistress of this house, and my goal is to find dirt on my fake husband.
Get to work, Diane.
I begin with the massive chest of drawers in front of me and work my way through the loft, leaving no object unturned. Two hours later, just as I begin to tell myself this is pointless, I pull out the middle drawer of an unpretentious little desk that’s hiding behind a gigantic throne-like armchair and stacks of old magazines.
Weird… The drawer looks shallower than its siblings.
Using my tiny Swiss army knife—Lionel drilled into me to always have it handy—I hook the false bottom of the drawer and lift.
Bingo!
Concealed underneath is a secret compartment that holds a bundle of four letters. I open the first one. It’s from Sebastian’s mom, accusing her ex-husband of having turned their older sons against her and insisting Raphael would be much better off living with her in Nepal than with him in Paris. Why only Raphael, I wonder before remembering that Noah was already with her and Sebastian must’ve been aro
und twenty by then.
The second letter is more or less the same as the first with the addition of a few choice adjectives I wouldn’t’ve expected from a high-society lady.
The third letter, again from her and again on the same topic, ends with this passage:
I was hoping it would never come to this, but your blatant refusal to meet me halfway leaves me no choice. So here goes. Do you remember how I was already pregnant with Sebastian when we married? I’m sure you do. What you don’t know is that I wasn’t pregnant by you. That’s right—Sebastian, your adored firstborn, your rock and your heir, is not your son. He’s Emmanuel’s. If you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to steal a few hairs from Sebastian’s comb and have them tested. Once you’ve done that, it’s up to you to wait until I tell him the truth or to send Raphael to live with me.
Marguerite
I reread the passage twice more and then open the fourth—and last—letter and read the following:
Thibaud,
I’m glad you did the paternity test. Now that you have proof that I wasn’t bluffing, will you please send Raphael to me? I promise that if you do, I’ll never tell Sebastian the truth. It would break his heart. But I’m prepared to do that if you leave me no choice. It is my duty to shelter Raphael, who lacks his older brother’s sense of purpose and moral rectitude, from your debauched lifestyle. I hope you understand my motives and will do the right thing.
Marguerite
The letter is dated a month before Darcy senior overdosed.
This revelation must’ve been the straw that broke his back. He’d already lost his wife, his good name, and his youngest son. He was being blackmailed and pressured to send his middle son to a faraway country. But, perhaps worst of all, he’d been robbed of his oldest and favorite boy. Not in the literal sense, but on that fundamental fruit-of-my-loins level, which means more to us than it should.
With shaking hands, I fold the letters and stick them in the back pocket of my jeans.
That’s it.
My mission is accomplished. I’ve found the muddy, stinky dirt that I’ve been looking for.
The dirt that could destroy Sebastian Darcy.
TWENTY-FOUR
The round-faced pastry shop assistant gives me a bright smile. “What can I get for you, mesdemoiselles?”
“A small bag of coucougnettes, please,” I say politely.
Elorie snorts. “Did you just ask for testicles?”
“I did.” I pay and offer a soft pink sweet from my bag to Elorie. “I promise you’ll like it.”
She studies the almond paste “ball” spiced with ginger and candied in sugar and pulls a face. “Really?”
I nod to encourage her. “They’re a Southwest specialty, but I discovered them only a month ago here in Le Marais.”
Elorie puts the coucougnette in her mouth and chews it slowly.
“So?” I ask.
“Tastes better than it sounds.”
I grin. “Told ya.”
We step out and amble along the cobblestone streets of this medieval quartier until our next stop—the European House of Photography. The exhibition space is located in an eighteenth-century hôtel particulier at 5 rue de Fourcy. Impressive as it is, the building can’t hold a candle to the splendor of Darcy House.
It’s just an impartial observation, that’s all.
The plan is to split up for a while. While I check out the new exhibit at the photography museum, Elorie will explore the best vintage clothes shop in the capital just around the corner on rue de Rivoli.
An hour later, I leave the museum and head to the “falafel street”—rue des Rosiers. When I arrive, Elorie is already standing in the long line in front of L’As du Fallafel.
She holds up a big plastic bag filled with clothes. “Your new neighborhood rocks.”
“I know!” I grin. “Where else in Paris can you have so much fun on a Sunday afternoon?”
“Unfortunately, being so cool has a flip side.” She sighs and points at all the people ahead of us in line. “I hope you aren’t too hungry.”
“Fear not, my friend.” I pull the coucougnettes bag from my purse and wave it in front of her nose. “We have balls.”
Fifteen minutes later, the line has barely moved.
“You know,” Elorie says, helping herself to a pink bonbon, “sometimes I hate this country.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s all about égalité, but when you scratch below the surface, there’s no real equality. What we have is a sky-high fence between the rich and the poor.”
“I agree,” I say. “But I would argue it isn’t as tall as it seems.”
Elorie shakes her head. “Your Cinderella story, ma cocotte, is so improbable it’s suspicious. A man like Sebastian Darcy falling in love with a cashier? Marrying her? You have to admit it sounds fishy.”
Of course it does.
Because it is.
“Hey, what about your ‘marry-a-billionaire’ plan?” I ask. “If you don’t believe in Cinderella stories, aren’t you wasting your time plotting to snatch a prince?”
“Maybe I am.” Elorie bites her nails, her expression morose. “I haven’t had much success, even with all the opportunities you’re throwing my way.”
I give her hand a squeeze.
Suddenly, she perks up. “I know what I have to do! I need to adjust my strategy and focus on the nouveau-riche billionaires. The new money, not the old.”
“Athletes? Start-up wonder kids?”
“Yes, but also mafia bosses.” She shrugs. “They’ll be less picky.”
What can I say to that?
If anything, my fake Cinderella story only proves she’s right.
Best to change the topic. “Remember I told you about Belle Auxbois and how she didn’t want to credit Dad for his work?”
She nods.
“You won’t believe it, but she changed her mind.”
Elorie holds her thumbs up while chewing another coucougnette.
“Dad sent me a link to the talk show that aired on TF1 last Saturday.”
Elorie widens her eyes. “She went on TV with it?”
“Yup.” I beam. “Prime time. The show host asked her about the perfume, which is selling really well, and she said she hadn’t done it alone. She admitted she’d had precious help from Charles Petit, one of the country’s best parfumiers.”
“She said that?”
“Uh-huh.” I can’t wipe the grin off my face. “Isn’t it fantabulous? I have no idea what triggered her sudden confession, though. Maybe she just woke up one morning and realized that acknowledging Dad’s work was the right thing to do.”
At last, we enter the eatery. Just as I’m about to order a falafel plate with a side of grilled eggplant, Elorie claps her hand to her forehead. “I know why she caved in.”
I stare at her expectantly.
“It’s your husband.”
“What?”
“When I stayed over at the castle, I overheard him talking on the phone with someone. He sounded stern, even a little scary.”
“What did he say?”
“He mentioned the perfume, some other stuff I didn’t understand, and said things like ‘I have proof’ and ‘it’s in your best interest to announce it yourself.’ ”
“Anything else?”
Elorie furrows her brow, trying to recall. “Oh yeah, he also said ‘I’m giving you a month, and then I’m suing the pants off you.’ ”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“I didn’t make the connection.” She gives me an apologetic shrug. “It’s only now that everything clicked into place.”
I can’t think of much else for the rest of our girls’ day about town.
We say good-bye at République, and I take the métro to my apartment in the 14th, which Sebastian has been paying for since I chucked the supermarket job.
My head throbs as I struggle to adjust to Elorie’s revelation
about Sebastian.
And to how I can possibly reconcile it with what I intend to do.
TWENTY-FIVE
Two hours later, after I get to my apartment and frame the rest of my rooftop prints for Jeanne’s gallery, my thoughts are still in a jumble of epic proportions.
So, Sebastian worked behind the scenes to help Dad, and hid it from me. Clearly, he didn’t do it to improve my opinion of him. Does this mean he’s sorry for what he’s done to Dad? Is this his way of making amends?
Am I prepared to forgive him?
After all, he can truly be held responsible only for Dad’s bankruptcy. My parents’ divorce and Dad’s stroke were the consequences of that but they weren’t, strictly speaking, Sebastian’s fault.
There’s another question that’s been growing in the back of my mind for weeks now. It started as a tiny seed that I could ignore, but it’s exploded inside my head, deafening me.
Could our fake relationship ever turn into something real?
I lean my forehead against the window and stare outside.
Don’t be daft, woman.
Sebastian and me, it’ll never work. We’re like fire and ice, matter and antimatter. We’re wired for mutual destruction. Whatever it is that’s sprouted between us, it’s doomed.
I read Libération, vote for socialists, and believe in strong government. He gripes about France’s “archaic” labor laws that “overprotect” employees and discourage entrepreneurial initiative. Even though in public he supports the Greens, I’m sure it’s only because his PR people told him it’s good for the company’s image. Deep inside, he’s as conservative as it gets.
He’s a billionaire, for Christ’s sake.
And he reads Le Figaro.
I hate that kind of people. They have no civic sense, no notion of solidarity. Their only concern is how to make more money and pay less in taxes. And while these glorified crooks succeed in dissimulating their income in Swiss banks and offshore companies, people like Dad—hardworking, honest people—go belly up.
I rack my brain for additional arguments.
What I’m trying to do here is to wind myself up into a righteous anger against Sebastian. Only a couple of months ago, I had no difficulty doing it.
