“Oh darling,” he said, his voice ominous. “How little you understand. I cannot allow Enrico to beat me at this game. I’ve been the most successful businessman in Monte Carlo for decades, since I took over my father’s casino. I won’t ruin his memory by losing to a little fluff named Enrico Fonti. I want to squeeze that new blood from the fold.”
“Weren’t you once like Enrico, yourself?” Aimee whispered. “Trying to make it in this tiny, saturated town? Trying to wrestle success from the clutches of the old guard?”
“Perhaps,” Duchamp said, yanking a tobacco pouch from his pocket. He began to roll quickly, his elbows twitching as he formed the perfect cylinder. He jolted it between his lips, a smile creeping across his face. “But there’s a very important difference, my dear: I’m at the top now, and it’s my job to stay there. It’s my job to stomp these little wannabes like Enrico out. And it’s your job to assist me.”
Aimee turned her face slightly to avoid the smoke that billowed from his mouth as he spoke. She sighed, imagining her father’s debt disappearing. She thought of Christopher, her co-receptionist, of the maids and chefs who had worked for years at the hotel. Because of her father’s gambling, they would all lose their jobs. Because of her father’s carelessness, the weight of their livelihoods fell upon her shoulders.
“Enrico is a good man,” Aimee mumbled. She tapped her fingers around her empty glass, and in an instant, the bartender appeared, pouring two shots into both of their glasses before sneaking back, slipping from the tense air as quickly as possible. Aimee continued, tipping the harsh liquor down her throat. “Why not just try to outbid him, honestly?”
Duchamp stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “I would, darling. But one false move, and I could lose my entire kingdom. Besides, I assumed this was a wonderful way to save both of our asses. We both know your father is a fool. And now, we can rise above him. Do what the adults are meant to do. What do you say?”
Aimee felt backed into a corner. She bowed her head, her brain buzzing. Beneath them, the boat stirred upon the sea, tipping them forward and back. “Did you know you’d one day be dealing in such treachery when you were my age?” she asked him, after a pause.
“I suppose I understood the territory that came with being a billionaire,” Duchamp said coolly. “And it’s up to you, my dear, to accept this world, or retreat. I heard your mother’s calling you back to the U.S. I suppose the two of you could discuss all of this over a Starbucks coffee, when it’s too late.”
Aimee swallowed. She shifted her fingers across her brow, sweat brimming along her forehead. “Mr. Duchamp. Your proposition is very tempting. I would be crazy to take it, of course, but it is tempting.”
“Dare to be crazy,” he murmured. “Dare to change the course of your life. Stop searching for dead-end hotel jobs, and trust me.”
“You’re going to have to give me a bit of time to think,” Aimee replied meekly. “I can’t give you an answer tonight.”
The moment stretched between them, and Aimee crossed her arms over her chest, waiting.
“I can give you until noon tomorrow,” Duchamp said finally. “A minute later, and the offer will be off the table. It will be too late. And I’ll be searching for other options. Know this, Aimee: I will get what I want in this; I always do. You can either help me while helping yourself, or allow your father’s business to fail, and ruin your life in the process.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking at her with a foxlike glint in his eyes.
Aimee forced herself to meet his gaze, to thank him. “You’ll have my answer tomorrow.”
She spun on one heel from the upper deck of the yacht, and descended the ladder as quickly as possible, toward the small boat that bobbed in the dark water below. She turned toward the grey-faced man and spoke three forced words: “Take me home.”
The boat zoomed from the yacht, humming back toward the marina. And as the engine revved, Aimee thought she heard slight laughter in the distance. She pictured Duchamp leaning over the side of his yacht, a cigar swinging from his mouth and smoke puffing high around his ears and salt-and-pepper hair. She imagined him laughing with menace as the mechanics of his plot clicked into place.
She closed her eyes, her hair swirling manically around her face. Her heart beat recklessly, jolting up against her rib cage. She turned her eyes toward her phone, where a text message from her father appeared on the screen:
Bonsoir, daughter. Breakfast tomorrow morning? Let’s talk about the future.
Aimee felt herself scoff as the boat teetered up against the marina dock once more. Her father knew nothing of the future—he had been canceled out by bigger players, like Duchamp.
Even so, she texted back an immediate “Sure,” hoping, abstractly, that her father might have an alternative plan to get them out of this mess.
But she wouldn’t hold her breath.
SIX
Aimee tossed and turned throughout the night, tortured by manic dreams of being lost in Seattle, of Enrico with other women, of Duchamp laughing maniacally as she thrust her suitcase into a taxi and fled Monte Carlo for good. She rose, sweating, at six a.m. and sat in the shower, cool water tricking over her skin, trying to find reason within her roiling mind.
She donned a simple yellow dress and slipped on some sandals, tipping a sunhat over her head and marching toward the breakfast place that connected to the Delacroix. She’d long sensed that other places didn’t accept her father any longer—they knew he couldn’t spare the funds for a simple, pancake breakfast.
Aimee chose a seat near the open window, inhaling the salty air and closing her eyes. Loose strands of her hair fluttered in the breeze.
The server, Marc, approached her, tilting his head. “Aimee?” he asked, jolting her back to reality. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Orange juice?”
“Oh, Marc, hi. I’d love a coffee,” she answered, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’m pretty out of it this morning.”
“It’s all right, Aimee,” Marc said. He went to fetch her drink and returned a moment later, gently setting the cup of steaming black liquid on her table. He paused before speaking once more, making the moment tense, awkward. “You know, I have a question for you.”
Aimee’s stomach ached as she blinked toward him. “Sure.”
“I heard a terrible rumor about the hotel,” he said, his voice quivering. “I heard that it might not make it a whole lot longer. That your father has lost all his money.” A fake smile was plastered across Marc’s face, but his eyes swam with fear.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Aimee lied, her voice catching. Her cheeks were blotched red. “Seriously. Don’t you think my father would have made an announcement if something so serious had happened?” She tried to muster up the confidence she’d honed in her receptionist years, but she felt dry, cracked.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Marc replied, his eyes flitting. “Are you waiting for him right now? Should I get you both the usual?”
“Better wait, Marc. I think he’s running a bit late.” Aimee turned her gaze toward the clock, noting that it was already ten minutes past their arranged meeting time. She put on her best fake smile, shrugging. “You know how it is when he stays out late. I guess when you own a hotel in Monte Carlo, you can afford to live whatever lifestyle you please.”
“And tough luck for the rest of us,” Marc agreed, turning back toward the kitchen, a dour expression on his face.
Aimee watched him walk away with sore, red eyes. She wished she could cry out to him, to tell him she was sorry, to warn him. She couldn’t save him. She couldn’t save any of them.
She lifted her phone from the table and typed a quick text to her father.
You’re late, Dad.
She stared at the phone for several moments, yearning for some kind of answer from the universe. Finally, her cell buzzed.
Sorry, darling. I have to cancel. Something urgent has come up at the hotel. Need a meeting with management. Will make it up to you soon. Love, Da
d.
Aimee slammed her phone back on the table, lifting her coffee cup toward her lips and draining it dry. She stood, her heart thumping, certain that her father must still be at Duchamp’s casino, Le Cercle du Roi, where he so often lingered, trying to recoup his losses. The anger made her muscles tense, her bones feel brittle. He was all but bleeding all over the table, wedging them deeper into trouble with each bet.
She jumped from her chair and marched out of the café to the beach, tossing her shoes and allowing the sand to slip through her toes. Her pulse seemed close to smashing through her skull. She took several deep breaths, staggering into them, trying to reorder her mind. She turned her attention to her phone, feeling she’d been backed into a corner, that she had no escape.
She dialed the number of Duchamp’s casino and was redirected to the owner’s private office the moment she gave her name. She cleared her throat as she waited, watching as tiny children ran across the beach, tossing balls, giggling without a care as they played. She had been a teenager here, kissing French boys on the beach, swimming recklessly beneath the docks. The world had opened to her, gleaming beneath the sun.
“Well, well. Aimee. I didn’t expect you to call before noon.” Duchamp’s voice was self-assured, harsh and nasty sounding over the phone.
Aimee bit her tongue, hard. “So you were sure I’d call.”
“Of course. The moment I saw your father at the tables this morning, I knew I’d hear from you. We can really count on him to destroy everything, can’t we? So. What do you say to my offer? You want to go through the specifics?”
Aimee’s voice was strained. “I accept your offer, monsieur. But I want this to be as seamless as possible. Tell me the steps I need to take, and then I want to be out of your life for good. Do you understand?”
“But of course, my dear. This is nothing if not a business transaction. I knew you’d see sense sooner or later.” He cleared his throat. “Now. This evening, a high-society ball is taking place near the city center. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
“Of course. The hotel is booked up with people coming into town for the ball.”
“Naturally. You don’t miss anything in this town, I imagine,” Duchamp said, clearly trying to please her, to placate her. “You will attend this ball this evening. And, as you might expect, our dear friend Enrico Fonti will also be in attendance.”
“And surely, he’ll already have a date for it,” Aimee murmured. “There’s no way I can intercept that.”
“Don’t worry about that for a moment,” Duchamp replied, a sneer in his tone. “We’ll take care of her. At any rate, Enrico probably doesn’t remember the girl’s name. She’s just another on a long list of flings he’s had since arriving in Monte Carlo. You, of course, know that all too well, even if you didn’t sleep with him.”
Aimee swallowed, her brain fizzing with anger at having such a private moment discussed in such a blasé way. But she trudged on. “So. You’re making sure his date won’t be there. And then what?”
“You’ll be there, my dear. Looking beautiful as ever. And you’ll become Enrico’s impromptu date, just like that.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Aimee said, leaning her head back. She felt the sun’s reassuring rays upon her cheeks, toasting her skin. “But these aren’t the usual circles I mix in—I don’t even own a single dress that could work for such a grand occasion.”
“Don’t you worry about that, either” Duchamp said, his voice overflowing with confidence. “I anticipated this very fact, and I’ve arranged for my people to bring something elegant for you—sized precisely for your body. They’ll arrive at your place at six p.m. Be watching for them.”
“And then what? I’m just supposed to force Fonti to take me up to his room?” Aimee whispered, anxiety fueling through her. “I was drunk last time; it wasn’t like I planned it.”
“Aimee, you’re a woman of the world. Do whatever you think is best to get what you want.”
The phone clicked as Duchamp hung up, leaving Aimee with a sour taste in her mouth—a mix of black coffee and disgust. She felt she was on a conveyer belt, being pushed to the next stage of her life without a moment to leap off. She’d stitch herself into a grand ball gown and fabricate a new persona—one that would woo Enrico and allow her to betray him.
***
Aimee hustled back to her apartment and, on her computer, closed the tab where she’d been searching for apartments in Seattle. That reality was over, cinched off, done. She paced around the room, too harried to eat, too nervous to take a nap, sipping anxiously on a glass of red wine, waiting as the clock ticked toward six.
The rap at the door came precisely as the clock struck. Aimee darted from the sofa and opened it, finding the crooked, grey-faced man from the previous day before her, holding a garment bag with two creaky hands. He held it out to her, wordlessly.
“Thank you—” she mumbled, but he was already heading back to the car that waited with blacked-out windows, leaving her alone with her humming thoughts, her anticipation, and the enormous, heavy ball gown. She heaved the bag onto her bed, then unzipped it, bit by bit.
When she first caught a glimpse of what was inside, she could hardly breathe. Air caught in her throat, and she sat down on the bed, her fingers tracing the subtle beading on the dark green, floor-length gown, the neckline of which would dive down her sternum, beyond her breasts, toward her belly button. She pushed her yellow sundress from her shoulders and went into the bathroom to scrub herself down, to curl her hair, to apply fresh makeup. When she’d met Enrico the week before, she’d been sloppy, post-shift, her eyeliner smudged and her curls winding haphazardly down her back. Tonight, the night of the ball, that kind of insouciance just wouldn’t do. Enrico would dismiss her with a condescending laugh, and he’d move on to the next woman—to one who actually belonged there.
But as she swiped foundation over her forehead and powdered blush over her cheeks, Aimee saw the emergence of a stunning woman in place of the tired hotel clerk she was used to viewing in the mirror. The light that filtered in through the window highlighted her fine cheekbones beneath her soft, tanned skin.
Excitement began to course through her and, if only for a moment, she fantasized about Enrico taking her back to his penthouse, throwing himself over her and kissing the tender skin of her neck, whispering sweet, Italian nothings in her ear as she wrapped her arms around his muscular back.
She stepped into the dress, zipping it up the back with one swift movement. The dark green made her hazel eyes glow, and she paired it with silver heels and her best jewelry—a matching earring-and-necklace set of silver stars, from her mother. She checked for any lipstick on her teeth before grabbing her purse and rushing out the door.
As was expected, a limousine awaited her, humming outside the door. She tapped toward it on her heels, hesitant. The grey-faced man appeared from the driver’s position wearing a chauffeur’s uniform, and he opened the door for her, gesturing.
“My lady,” he said, his tone sneering. His eyes didn’t meet hers even once; they kept darting around, making the air between them uncomfortable.
Aimee slipped into the back and tucked her dress beneath her legs, watching as the grey-faced man shoved the door closed and rushed to the front seat, whizzing them from the street corner toward downtown. She clung to her knees, her stomach tying in acrobatic knots as she watched familiar sights zoom past them.
As they neared the ballroom, Aimee was struck by a feeling that everything she’d known in her life, her very sense of self, was about to change. She was diving down head-first, unable to see the bottom, hopeful only that she would come up for air on the other side, with enough strength to follow through and save her father’s hotel.
SEVEN
They reached the venue, and the grey-faced man pulled up against the curb, slamming on the brakes, and causing the car to shudder to a stop. The jolt made Aimee gasp, and she put her hand to her mouth, staining her fingertips with red lipsti
ck.
The man made no apology; he only flung himself from the front seat and pulled Aimee’s door open. The orange-tinged sunset crept into the backseat, and Aimee blinked into it, accepting the doughy hand of her driver. With surprising strength, he pulled her from the vehicle and onto her teetering heels. He gave her a final, jolting nod, before gesturing forth, toward the entrance of the ballroom.
A long, thin red carpet descended from the ancient building, which was nearly castle-like, with large, deep-grey stones and flags flapping from the top in the gusty evening wind. Aimee hesitated, listening to the wheels of the limousine squeal as the grey-faced man spun away.
With no other option, she took tentative strides, following a long string of billionaires in tuxedos, all of them with scantily clad women on their arms. Their hair gleamed orange in the sunset, their perfume thick in the air around her. It was the very glamor Aimee had grown up surrounded by—the very kind she hadn’t been welcomed amongst. She lifted her chin higher, her nervous eyes darting around the scene. She had to find Enrico.
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