She blinks. “No reason,” she says quickly. “Just based on what you just told me. But yes, it could be for anyone at this house, even your mother, but let’s count her out for now. So if you think it could be for you, then it’s probably someone who thinks you had something to do with your uncle’s death. Think about your enemies, as numerous as they probably are, probably including ex-maids and -employees, if you treated all of them like you just treated me, and get back to me.” She opens the door to the bathroom and looks at me over her shoulder. “You should get ready for your date tonight. Her name is Aurelie, by the way, and you’re to send a car for her at six thirty p.m. All the info is in your agenda.”
Then she walks out of the bathroom and disappears down the hall.
Fuck. The date. The last thing I feel like doing today. I think I’d rather stay and drink myself silly. I am my mother’s son, too, after all.
I turn around and look at myself in the mirror, and it’s not the first time that I barely recognize myself. It’s not that I’ve physically changed at all. My eyes are still blue, brows are arched and black, my hair in need of a trim. It’s that I don’t think I know who I am anymore or who I’m trying to be.
I’m not sure I’ll ever know.
Not at this rate.
CHAPTER FIVE
GABRIELLE
Marine et Olivier, the text reads.
I stare at it for a moment, trying to figure out what Pascal is talking about. He should be on his date right now with Aurelie; why is he texting me these names?
Then I remember.
His list of enemies.
Marine was his ex-wife.
Olivier is his cousin.
I’m not sure what he did to both of them, but I’m assuming it’s something big if he thinks they might be the ones blackmailing him.
I text him back, What about your father? Do you know any offhand?
He texts back immediately, Too many to list. And I’m on a date, don’t you remember?
I roll my eyes at that and put my phone away on my bedside table.
It’s eight at night. He’s on a date; I should be off work completely, not checking my work phone. I’ve at least changed out of that wretched uniform and am sitting on my bed in leggings and a V-neck tunic that’s a little on the revealing side. I would never wear it around Pascal; his eyes linger on my body enough as it is. I most certainly wouldn’t wear it around the house, either, but Gautier isn’t expected until tomorrow night.
I’ve been trying not to think about it.
About what I’ll feel when I see him.
What I’ll say.
How I’ll act.
I’ve planned for this so many times over the last eight years, and each time I imagine it, it’s different, I guess depending on whatever I’m feeling at the moment.
I just need to hold it together the best that I can.
No matter what seeing him feels like, even if it makes me want to double over and vomit or burst into tears or run up to Pascal’s office and grab his gun and shoot Gautier in the heart, I have to pretend that the past doesn’t exist. I have to pretend that he didn’t break me, even though I know that was always his goal.
My mind swirls back to Pascal earlier today in the bathroom. The way he looked at me with such anger, pushed me back, pressed his hand to my throat—it reminded me so much of his father. And yet at the same time, I wasn’t afraid, because that anger came from a different place, and his touch was rough but not painful. He wasn’t trying to hurt me; he didn’t take any pleasure in it. He’s just used to letting his impulses guide him, as bad as they might be.
And it was exactly as I predicted. I didn’t mean to make him snap—that just came naturally—but the fact that he did snap was almost reassuring. It means he’s shaping up to be the man I pegged him to be. It’s one thing for someone to say they’re without conscience; it’s another to see it manifest.
Not that he wasn’t sorry about what happened. I know he was, and I guess if anything that was the most surprising part of the whole altercation. He regretted the way he acted. He was remorseful.
But he’s still Pascal, and I needed to see him with his mask off. I could tell all this week he’s been playing the part he plays so well, the joker, the trickster, everything is for fun, nothing is serious. I needed to see the side he hides when he’s trying to impress, the side the public gets, the side he believes sometimes. Like nothing can bother him when I know it does.
Now I feel we’re more equal, and if not that, at least I have a better handle on him. I need Pascal to be the easiest part of this whole job. Play the part of the dutiful maid, indulge his whims when it comes to the letters, be a sounding board for things he wouldn’t tell anyone because we have that contract protecting us both. I need to get that relationship sound—or as sound as it can be—so I can concentrate on why I’m really here.
A knock at my door snaps me out of my musings and not a moment too soon. My mind runs away on me at night, keeping sleep at bay, reliving horrors until I’m begging for sleep.
“Gabby,” my mother says from the other side. “Are you sleeping?”
She has no idea. I never slept a wink in this house back then—why should I now?
I get up and go to my bedroom door. She’s in her pajamas, silk. Probably Dumont, like everything is. There is no escape from them.
“Not sleeping,” I tell her; then I notice the teapot she has in her hand.
She gestures to the couch and says brightly, “I’ve made some tea. Kusmi. That’s still your favorite, right?”
“I haven’t had it since I left,” I admit.
“Oh, then you must have some now,” she says. “Come on.”
I’m not really in the mood to talk with my mother because, like she has all week, she’ll just want to talk about superficial stuff, deflecting anything deeper with a blank look and then a cheery smile.
But she’s part of the reason why I’m here.
I follow her out into our tiny living area and to the plush couch adorned with a copious number of pillows. The style in the house is different from what I remember—only my room remains untouched. Everything before was bare and drab, and now it’s all white and gold, with lots of ruffles and paintings and weird decor.
“Did you decorate this?” I ask, eyeing the walls as I sit down and she pours me tea.
“Me?” she says, looking around. “No, this is all Mrs. Dumont. She loves to come here and fix things up.”
Something about that makes me so sad. I watch my mom closely as I ask, “Do you like what she’s done with the place?”
My mother’s lips quirk for a split second, as if she’s unsure of whether to smile or not. Then she does, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, of course. She has such excellent taste.”
Hmm. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
“I’m sure she could decorate your room if you’d like,” she says. “We didn’t want to change it, in case you came back.”
I stare at her, puzzled. “You thought I would come back?”
After every fucking thing that happened?
She shrugs and blows on her tea. “Um, yes. Gautier always said you would return.”
Gautier.
The bile in my throat rises. “He said that?” I say softly.
“Yes. He said that you left because you felt ashamed for what you did, that it was a misunderstanding. All is forgiven, you see. That’s why you’re back here.”
No. No, no. I’m back here because I chose to be.
My heart is beginning to race, and my hands feel clammy. “I hate to break it to you, Mama, but I only decided to come here last month. I was going to stay in New York. No one had any idea I was coming here.”
She tilts her head side to side like a bird, considering what I said. “If you insist. Sure. But Gautier knew you would come back and you would want to work for the family again. What I’m trying to say is that it’s so good to have you home, where you belong.”
No.
This isn’t my home. This will never be my home.
And it shouldn’t be her home either.
I just don’t know how I’m going to convince her of that.
“What else did he say?” I ask cautiously.
“You can ask him yourself,” she says, and while I’m frowning at that, I notice that there is a third mug on the table.
And then a knock at the front door.
Oh my God.
I whirl around to check the door, and through the upper glass window, I see a darkened figure standing there on the other side.
“Who is that?” I cry out softly, hand at my chest.
“It’s the master of the house,” my mother says. “He came back early.”
The master.
Oh fuck.
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready.
My mom is in the process of getting up to answer the door when the door opens anyway and Gautier steps in.
“Jolie,” he says to my mother in a warm voice and with a stiff smile.
Then, as the door closes behind him with a loud click that sounds like the closing of a prison cell door, his eyes come to me.
The grin on his face widens, making him look like even more of a monster. He hasn’t changed much, just more plastic surgery on his face, making him look like someone took him apart and put him back together, just with a touch more evil this time.
“My Gabrielle,” he says in a rich voice. “You’re here.”
I freeze. I can’t breathe, I can’t smile, I can’t make a sound.
I can only stare up at him.
I can only hope that he truly believes what he told my mother, that I’m here because I wanted to return home, because I wanted forgiveness for the things he thinks I did. I need him to think that, to have no suspicions about me.
“You’re shocked to see me?” he asks when I don’t say anything, and he comes around the couch so he’s standing right in front of me, peering down at me. “Cat got your tongue?” His voice is lower now.
“I think she’s just surprised that you’re home early,” my mother speaks up. “Please sit down. I have tea.”
I still can’t move. I can only stare at him with wide eyes, while my heart and lungs and every part of me inside cowers and shakes with absolute fear.
The memories.
The memories.
“Ah,” he says, taking the seat right next to me, so close that I slide toward him on the cushion, my thigh pressing against him. “You must be tired from your first week at work.”
Run, run, run.
His smell, that awful cologne, fills my nose, and the flashbacks slam into my brain like bombs going off, like I’m reliving a war, a war that I lost.
His cruel, depraved touch.
The merciless glint in his eyes.
The way he got excited when I struggled.
The day I found out I was pregnant, knowing I couldn’t tell a soul.
Knowing I couldn’t keep his evil seed inside me.
The trip to the doctor, all alone, so alone, to get the abortion.
The shame.
So much fucking shame.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them loose.
I look away from his awful stare and let the shame run its course and the anger come back to fuel me.
Anger has been my friend for so long now.
“She is tired,” my mother fills in quickly when I don’t say anything, and she pours him his tea. “She’s not only cleaning up after Pascal, but she’s organizing his life for him too. I don’t know how you manage, Gabby; that’s a lot of work for one person. Always going above and beyond.”
I glance at her curiously, since this is the first time she’s said anything complimentary.
“Yes,” he says slowly, his eyes skimming over my face and then resting on my cleavage. “I was so surprised to hear what Pascal had you doing.” His eyes become more lustful, and then when he finally looks up at me, I see a smirk on his face, a smirk that tells me he thinks this is something we have, like this is some kind of secret.
This delusional motherfucker.
It’s enough to bring the marrow back into my bones and let the feeling return to my skin.
I move over on the couch as far as I can go and give him a hard look. “I was surprised too,” I tell him, and to my relief my voice is coming out clear and strong. “But I didn’t want to waste my business degree.”
And just like that, he seems bored. His eyes roam about the room. “Yes, I had heard from your mother that you were studying business. Seems to me quite a waste. You’re far too pretty for that.”
“Looks don’t last forever,” I tell him, hoping he feels the knife in that comment.
His eyes become slits for a second. Oh, he feels it.
“No, I suppose they don’t,” he says. Then he looks me over again. “Lucky for you, you’re holding up very well. Such a pretty, pretty thing you are. I’m almost jealous that my son gets to have you all to himself.”
My mother clears her throat, bringing our attention over to her. “Pascal needs her,” she says. There’s a hint of jealousy in her voice that devastates me. “If you ever need Gabby’s services, I’m sure I could—”
He raises his hand. “It’s fine, Jolie. Stick to making tea,” he says dismissively.
The way her face falls breaks my heart and scares me to the bone, because she’s that invested and in love with this monster, and the fact that he’s paying attention to me like this is making her hate me.
“Now, Gabrielle,” Gautier says, turning back to me with a sly smile, “we have so much catching up to do.” I am so tired of these Dumont men and their need to catch up. “When are your days off? Is Pascal more selfish than I am when it comes to the help?”
“Sundays,” I say quietly, pressing myself hard into the arm of the couch, as far away from him as possible, not liking where this question is going.
“Only one day?” he asks in mock surprise. “I should have a talk with my son. Sometimes I think he’s a bit of a bad seed, you know.” He picks up his tea and has a sip. “Perfect tea, as always, Jolie.”
Then, when it feels like I’ve been holding my breath forever, he gets to his feet. “Well, I better get unpacked. I came to see you right away, you know. I couldn’t wait. The moment I was able to take an earlier flight, I did, because honestly, Gabrielle, I didn’t believe you were here until I saw it with my own eyes.”
“But your tea,” my mother protests feebly.
“It’ll only keep me up,” he says to her. “You drink it.” He smiles down at me, and I swear I see fangs. “Keep your Sunday free. We need to talk. Perhaps a drive in the country. You’ve probably forgotten how lovely France is in the summer.”
I don’t say anything to that, I can’t, I just watch as he walks around the couch and opens the door. “See you in the morning,” he says and then leaves.
After the door clicks shut, all the air comes back into my lungs.
“You could have been a lot more appreciative,” my mother scolds me, picking up the pot of tea and Gautier’s mug and going back in the kitchen.
I’m tired of being so speechless this evening, but I really don’t know what to say, so I follow my mother into the kitchen, bringing her the other two mugs, my legs feeling weak and shaky.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, knowing I have to be a sweet girl if I want to win this. I wash the mugs in the sink. “I’m just tired, you were right.”
She makes a tsking sound. “He’s the master of the house. He’s the Dumont company now. After his poor brother died and then his son disowned him and moved, he’s been through so much, and yet he’s the one who has the whole company riding on his shoulders.”
Actually, Pascal does, I think. I happen to know that the trip Gautier took had nothing to do with business at all. Something private. I’m guessing a whore he can beat up and toss around.
He might be making fewer trips now that you’re back in the
picture.
My stomach burns at the thought.
No matter what, that can’t happen.
I can’t go through that again.
I won’t.
“It wouldn’t kill you to be nicer to him,” she goes on. “After all, he allowed you to come back.”
“It wasn’t up to him, it was Pascal.”
“And do you think Pascal has the final say in this house? At any rate, you should be on your knees, groveling for forgiveness. Blame it on being a teenager and being stupid and emotional, whatever you wish. But you attacked him and slandered him, and he is such a good, good man to let you back here to work in this place.”
I stare at her, trying to find something in her that is rooted in reality, the real one, not the one she’s created in her head for herself. “Do you really believe that?” I ask quietly.
She looks stunned, like I slapped her. “Of course I do. It’s not a matter of belief, it’s just fact. You were a very troubled girl, Gabby, though I suppose that was all your father’s fault. The things he would say to you were just awful.”
“Mama, he beat you until you were bleeding, black and blue.”
She gives me a stiff smile and pours the tea in the sink as she shrugs. “He did, but that’s why it was so magical, so wonderful, that Gautier happened to see me at the hotel that one day. He saw the bruises. He wanted to know who did this to me. He promised us freedom, that we could escape from your father. And we did. He is our savior, and you can never, ever forget it. I know I never will.” She pauses. “That’s why I’m still here.” Her gaze fixes me with a determination that’s unnerving. “That’s why I’ll never, ever leave.”
Then she turns away from me and starts to tidy up, even though there’s nothing to tidy, even though that’s all her life is now. Tidying up for the people she believes saved her when all they did was lock her up and throw away the key. Their trick was to make her think she deserved it.
“Good night, Mama,” I tell her and then head back to my room, my heart heavy with all the impossible things. I’m too exhausted and strung out to even change my clothes, so I flick off the lights and head right to my bed.
I get under the covers and lie back, trying to process what just happened and how hopeless it’s going to be to pull my mom away from the situation, when I notice movement outside the window.
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