I give her a sharp look. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Please,” she says, lowering her voice and shooting a glance into the kitchen. “If you think your father has kept his hands to himself this whole time, you’re even more naive than I thought.”
Everything inside me stills. “He . . . With Gabrielle?”
Another roll of her eyes, which brings a spike of relief into my veins. “No. Jesus,” she says with disgust. “She was a child, Pascal.” But she leaves it at that and turns around, walking back into the kitchen. I catch a glimpse of Jolie in there, wiping down the microwave.
Contrary to what my mother thinks, I’m not naive. I have no doubt my parents’ marriage vows are as sacred as the ones I once held, and that goes for both of them. What they do is none of my fucking business. It does surprise me that it seems my mother was hinting at my father and Jolie being . . . together.
But that’s also none of my business and nothing I want to let occupy my brain. What I do need to concentrate on is the letter.
Which means it’s time to confide in Gabrielle.
The idea still puts me a bit on edge, even though she signed the contract, and I can and would sue the fuck out of her if she ever dared to open her mouth to anyone else.
There’s something about her that I don’t quite trust, and I’m not sure what it is. She’s not been very forthcoming about her past, but granted it’s only been a few days since she started working for me, and I really haven’t had the time to talk to her.
Why do you even want to talk to her anyway? A voice in my head speaks up. You’ve never given a shit about any of your maids before, or fuck, even your Dumont staff.
I don’t have an answer for that.
And it bothers me.
Movement catches the corner of my eye, and I glance upstairs to see Gabrielle standing at the top of the staircase, about to walk down it toward me.
“Stay there,” I yell at her and then go up the stairs two at a time.
I want to grab her arm and pull her with me, but the last time I touched her like that, she flinched like I was going to hurt her. Another reason why I want to know more about her, why she is the way she is and what made her that way.
So I walk down the hall toward my office and wave at her for her to follow.
I enter the room and sit down at my desk, telling her to close the door and sit down in the seat across from me.
She does so, sitting primly with her hands in her lap, still wearing her uniform, which I have no complaints about, not with the way it shows off her ass and plays into a million fantasies I’ve had, fantasies I’ve even acted out before. Women will wear anything you tell them to when your cock is big enough and you have enough money.
I take a moment to study her, the way her light hair is pulled back, showcasing a long, delicate neck. She’s got the kind of soft throat that makes me understand vampirism.
“Is everything all right?” she asks. The more curious she is about something, the larger her eyes get. Now they look at me like two polished gemstones.
“Not quite,” I tell her grimly. “I’ve been, well, dealing with something that I don’t want to. Perhaps it’s best to ignore it, but it’s the kind of thing that could blow up in my face at the same time.” She’s still watching me intently, so I reach into my pocket and pull out the envelope, handing it to her.
“What’s this?” she asks, and I reach into the drawer and pull out the first letter, placing it on the desk.
“I don’t know what this is. I was hoping you could tell me.”
Her eyes widen. “Me?”
“Maybe you can make sense of it,” I tell her. I lean back, my leather chair squeaking as I do so, and steeple my fingers together, watching her.
She looks over both letters and envelopes for a bit and then finally shakes her head before looking up at me. “I don’t understand. You must know what these are about.”
I press my lips together a moment and nod. “I have an idea, yes.”
“So? What is it? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say quickly, though the more I say that, the more I wonder if I did in some way.
I never wanted my uncle to die, and yet . . .
Gabrielle squints at me, and I remember to slip on my mask, even though I’m about to tell her everything.
Or almost everything.
“I think the person who sent these letters thinks that my father murdered Ludovic.”
Her brows shoot up. “Your father murdered his own brother?”
Careful, I tell myself. Be very careful right here.
“No.” I pause, composing my thoughts. “This is just what someone thinks.”
“And what makes you so sure of that? Why jump to that conclusion? Surely you’ve done many horrible things that would make someone want to blackmail you.”
It shouldn’t bother me that she said that, because it’s completely true, but it does anyway. “Don’t be so sure.”
“I’m more than sure,” she says, and for a moment I wonder if she’s talking about my cousin Olivier and the fact that I had a hand in blackmailing him for ten years. “You don’t get to the top without crushing people on the way up. Everyone knows that.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t argue with her.
“Look,” she says, placing her delicate hands on the papers. “I can help you, but you have to help me. And you’re holding a lot back, which makes me think that NDA was worthless. So why don’t you tell me the truth?”
“Why don’t you tell me the truth?”
She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling across her eyes that she quickly brushes back. “I’m not hiding anything. And this isn’t about me, not even a little. Tell me the truth, Pascal. Why do you think this is about your uncle? Has anyone told you they have this theory?”
I sigh and run my hand down my face, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. “Yes,” I say after a moment, my gaze absently sliding over the bookshelf. “My cousin Seraphine. She was convinced that my father murdered her father, that it wasn’t a heart attack. Poison or something, I don’t know. She was so convinced that she started to do a little spying on her own and then enlisted the help of her ex-husband and a private investigator.” I’m not too proud of the next part. I lick my lips, feeling dry. “But her ex-husband, Cyril, he’s a real piece of shit. He cheated on Seraphine and married her for money, so it was no surprise when he won nothing in their divorce. And he’s not the kind of man who likes his pride knocked around, so he went directly to my father the moment Seraphine contacted him.”
“Revenge,” Gabrielle says slowly, and those storm clouds roll in again, this time bringing disdain to her eyes, for my father, for my family, for me. “I’m going to guess this doesn’t end well, or else Seraphine would still be in Paris.”
“It ended as well as it could, thanks to me.” If no one is going to pat me on the back for what I did, I might as well. “It could have been a lot worse. Then of course Blaise had to get himself involved, since he and Seraphine have had this quasi-incestuous relationship with each other since they were teenagers.”
She raises her chin as if to say, Ah. “But they aren’t related.”
“Doesn’t matter. Blaise chose her, and he disowned us.”
“So he believed Seraphine.”
“Yeah. He did. Still does. He loves her.”
“And do you believe Seraphine?”
Our eyes lock for a moment; then I look away. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what everyone else thinks.”
She narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “Okay. But so far you’ve got Blaise and Seraphine who think your father murdered Ludovic. Anyone else?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Maybe Olivier, but I don’t see him acting like that.”
“And I take it you’ve talked to your brother?”
“I have. They didn’t send it. I believe them.”
“I do too. Seraphine seems like a smart wo
man; she wouldn’t bother with this.”
“Especially now that she’s pregnant.”
Her eyes light up. “She is?”
I raise a finger to my lips. “Part of your NDA. My parents don’t know. I don’t know if or when Blaise will ever tell them.”
“I’m assuming they don’t talk now.”
“You have to understand my father,” I tell her, and at the mention of those words, her eyes go even darker. “If you step out of line, if you betray him or the family name even a little bit . . .”
“You’re dead to him.”
I nod. “You’re dead to him.”
“And maybe you’re just dead in general.”
I don’t say anything to that, but I coax her with my eyes because I’m curious as to what she’s going to run with.
She taps her nails along the envelope. “Since you won’t tell me what you think, or what you know, about whether your father had Ludovic murdered or not, do I have permission to tell you what I think?”
“Please do. Entertain me.”
She gives me a bitter smile. “Before I do, let’s revisit that whole NDA thing when it comes to what we’re talking about staying between us.”
I have to admit, I rather like having a confidante. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever had someone I could confide in like this, even if this intimacy is all legally bound. “Agreed.”
“Because the last thing I want,” she says and then trails off, swallowing hard. Her eyes go wide and blank for a moment, as if remembering something.
“Gabrielle?”
Her gaze swings back to me, her jaw tighter, eyes harder. “The last thing I want is to get on your father’s bad side. So if you repeat what I’m about to say . . .”
“I won’t, I promise,” I tell her, and I mean it. I’ve noticed the way she stiffens up whenever his name is mentioned. She thinks she’s hiding it, but she’s not. And though I can be very cruel at times, though I can act without thought and never suffer any consequences, I would never tell my father anything that would make him angry with her. For one, he would insist I fire her, and I need her help. And for two . . . I don’t know. But it wouldn’t be good.
My stomach sinks with unease at the thought. Maybe she shouldn’t tell me anything, just in case. “On second thought,” I tell her quickly, “maybe it’s best we don’t say anything.”
Not to mention I live in fear that my office is bugged.
She frowns, on edge. “Why? Do you want me to help you or not?”
I exhale through my nose sharply and get up. “I think that speculating only gets people in trouble. Come to think of it, this whole thing is just silly. Let’s forget about it and move on.”
“What?” Her eyes widen as I go around the desk and put one finger to my lips to keep her quiet, the other holding out my hand.
She stares at my hand, hesitating, and then puts her hand in it.
It’s soft and small and warm against my palm, and I wrap my fingers around it, just tight enough. I pull her to her feet and then lead her out of the office and down the hall, pausing outside my room. The feel of her hand in mine is rather nice and distracts me for a moment.
“Where are we going?” she whispers, and when I open the door to my bedroom, she balks. I tighten my grip on her hand and give her a pleading look, trying to get her to just trust me.
There seems to be a war going on in her head until she finally nods.
I bring her in the bedroom and lead her all the way into the bathroom and then shut the door, locking it behind me.
When I turn around, she’s backed up against the sink, her hands gripping the corners, looking like a trapped deer. “What are you doing?” she says in a low, edgy voice.
“Gabrielle,” I say softly, holding up my hands. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Why are we here?”
“Maybe I wanted to do an inspection of your bathroom-cleaning skills.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t break her doe-eyed stare.
“Look,” I tell her, putting my hands in my pockets. “I think I’ve grown a little paranoid lately. Sometimes I think my office could be bugged. Maybe even my bedroom. But I guarantee no one would put a bug in here.”
“Who on earth would record you?”
My brow quirks up. She has to know.
The realization dawns on her face. “I see.”
“After what happened with Blaise and Seraphine, after my father almost had her killed—”
“He what?”
Ah fuck. Fuck, fuck.
Maybe I’ve said more than I should have.
“Never mind that.”
“Never mind? That’s your cousin we’re talking about. Now you’re saying he tried to have her killed.”
Well, down the rabbit hole we go. “At first he just wanted to scare her, so he says. Rough her up. I don’t know, maybe worse. Maybe I try not to think about it. But yeah . . . I don’t think he would have hesitated killing her to shut her up.”
Gabrielle is staring at me with such intensity that it makes my stomach curl up in knots. “I can’t believe you,” she says quietly, shaking her head.
“What did I do?”
“What did you do? What . . . You live here, Pascal. And he’s your father. You just told me that you think your father would have murdered your own cousin, and that’s enough to tell me what you think really happened to your uncle. So fine, admit it or not, but you know what he’s capable of, and yet here you are, living in his house, working for his company.”
“It’s my fucking company now,” I growl. “I’m the one stepping in, doing everything. He does nothing.”
“But in the end, it will still be his. Isn’t that why he murdered Ludovic? To get everything? To put himself at the top and you right below him? Right under his thumb.”
“Fuck you,” I sneer, my blood running hot. “I’m not under his thumb.”
“You can’t be that delusional,” she says snidely. “Or maybe you can. Maybe your ego is so out of control that it won’t let you accept the reality, that you’ve spent your whole life trailing behind him, begging your father to be proud of you, doing everything you can to be just like Daddy.”
I’m at her in a second, my hand on her throat, pressing the back of her head into the mirror while she gives a frightened cry. “You should know better than to say that,” I tell her, my heart raging in my head, pushing my hand against her windpipe until her eyes widen and widen, until I feel her fear pulse against my palm, fear that once excited me, fear that now disturbs me.
As quick as it came on, my rage subsides, the black cloud that took hold of my brain and soul lifts, and I realize what I’m doing. I lost my temper, as I do, but I lost it in the worst way and with the wrong person. My issues are with my father. They aren’t with her.
I quickly let go of her and turn around, not able to face her. I hear her coughing before she takes in a deep, wheezing breath.
“You just proved my point,” she manages to say, her voice raw.
I glance at her over my shoulder and see her rubbing at her throat, brows knit together, her hand clenched around the edge of the sink until her knuckles are white.
Shit.
Fucking shit.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, even though these words don’t come easy. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” she says, straightening up. “But it’s what you do. You’re a Dumont.”
And she’s right. I am a Dumont, and I’ve been a slave to my temper and wicked ways for a long time. It’s just never bothered me before.
It’s bothering me now.
It’s bothering me a lot.
I swallow the brick in my throat and take a step toward her. She backs up again.
“I’m really, really sorry, Gabrielle,” I tell her imploringly. “I didn’t mean to do that. It just . . . I lost control, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You can’t hurt me,” sh
e says, looking down at the tiles. “And believe it or not, I’ve had so much worse.”
Fuck. That makes me feel even more terrible.
“I’m really sorry,” I tell her again, and I reach out for her hand. She snatches hers away, holding it to her chest, warning me to stay away with her eyes that are full of fury.
We were doing so fucking well, and then I had to fuck it up.
Still, she didn’t have to say shit in the first place, shit she knew would piss me off.
Stuff that’s true, that I don’t want to admit is true.
Oh fucking hell, she was baiting me, wasn’t she?
I walked right into that one.
“You’ll make it up to me,” she says. “Then we’ll be even.”
“I guess you see my true colors now,” I tell her.
“I always have,” she says. “That’s the magic of being someone’s maid over the years, even if it was long ago. You see everyone’s true colors. You see the sides of them they try so desperately to hide. My advice for you, Pascal, is don’t be so offended. Own up to it. You know you’re no good, and I bet you’ve been just fine with it for a long time. You don’t have to change now because I’m here. You don’t have to lie to me. I work for you. I’m nothing more than that.”
I watch her for a moment, and I realize how right she is.
Still doesn’t make me feel any less defeated, like shit at the bottom of someone’s shoe.
“Okay,” I tell her quietly. “I won’t lie to you. I promise.”
“Good,” she says. “I know what you are, Pascal. There’s no use in denying it.” She clears her throat and straightens her shoulders. “Now that the pretenses are out of the way, let’s go back to the matter at hand,” she says in a clipped voice. “You want me to find out who is sending the letters, correct?”
“You don’t have to . . .”
“Oh, come on, don’t act like it no longer matters. It does. So while I do some sleuthing on the stamp and the postmark, maybe you can make a list of enemies for me, people who have wronged your father.”
“What makes you think it’s for my father and not for me?”
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