“For one, I know you know who I am.”
“Of course I do.”
“No,” he says softly and gives my hand a squeeze. “No, not like that. More than that. You’ve seen me around. Don’t pretend.”
“I’m not pretending,” I say haughtily. “I’ve seen your face in the ads. I told you—that doesn’t impress me, and the perfume smells like ass.”
Another twitch of his lips. “You’re trying to be funny again. Worked on me the first time, but I don’t think it’ll work the second time. Sadie Reynolds, the American. A student doing her communications degree at the University of Washington who is backpacking around Europe.”
Holy. Shit.
Shit.
I breathe in deeply through my nose, trying to hide the fear that must be swimming in my eyes. “May I say, you seem very obsessed with me.”
“I am,” he says simply. “You’re a very beautiful woman, and I love beautiful things. I like to collect them and possess them and have them. And I don’t like to share. I’m just like my cousin. Just like Olivier.”
He knows. But of course he knows. He wasn’t stalking me for any other reason.
“It sounds like you might have some issues with your cousin,” I tell him, and finally rip my hand out of his grasp. “I don’t think your issues are with me.”
I turn and try to get out of there, to get swallowed up by the crowd of mourners, but Pascal calls out after me so softly it’s nearly carried away by the breeze. “That’s what you don’t understand. You are my issue now. The moment you decided to be with him was the biggest mistake you ever could have made.”
I stop. I freeze. I can’t move.
Is that some sort of threat?
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but it goes in shakily and comes out in a tremor. I need to keep it together; I need to figure out what this all means.
A hand goes to my shoulder, and I jump, gasping, expecting to see Pascal.
But an older woman dressed in black is beside me and whispers something sympathetic in French and keeps walking.
I whip around to face Pascal.
But he’s no longer there.
In fact, I don’t see him at all.
Okay, it’s over, you’re safe, I tell myself. Remember what Olivier said, and go meet him.
I take another breath, gathering some courage, and head out to the big oak tree at the corner of the cemetery near the gates. Farther down the street, people have gathered on the road, getting into limos and town cars, and there are rows of cameras and film crews trying to pick up every moment of the funeral.
With shaking hands, I check my phone and see a text from Olivier.
Be right there, it says.
I find I can breathe a little easier, and it’s not long before everyone in the family is filing out, along with the more important guests, and then Olivier steals away from the crowd and comes over to me.
Instinctively, I duck behind the tree.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says to me, his voice rough and broken. “Who cares what they record?”
The words are on the tip of my tongue, almost spilling out into the air:
I’m hiding from Pascal.
But I take one look at Olivier, and I know that Pascal is the least of his problems right now. In front of me is a broken man—eyes red, hair mussed, lips raw from chewing on them.
I put my arms around him and pull him into a hug. He’s reluctant at first, and I know it’s not because it’s me, but because he wants to keep being strong, especially here.
But then he relents and collapses into me, and I think he might break down entirely if not for the fact that a hired car pulls up beside us and gives a light honk.
Olivier pauses and pulls back, then ushers me into the back seat of the car. Once there, he leans back, undoing his tie, holding both hands to his face.
“You did good,” I tell him, knowing my words are feeble and mean nothing right now.
He shakes his head. “I should have said more.” He breathes in and out, his chest rising with ragged breaths, and then his hands fall away from his face. His lost and pained eyes seek me out. “I could have done more.”
“You did all you could. He would have been so proud. He is still so proud.”
He stares out the window. “I can’t even process this. I can’t. I don’t know what to do, you know?” Then he lapses into a string of mumbled French that I don’t understand, but that I certainly feel.
“I know,” I tell him, rubbing my hand on his leg, trying to comfort him. “It’s okay. Everything you’re feeling, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want to feel any of this. I just want to . . . turn it off. Like a tap. Make it stop. I want to be numb. I don’t want to feel anything.”
“You don’t want that either,” I tell him. “Trust me. That’s the void. At first the void seems like the easiest place to be because you don’t have to feel anything. No sadness. No pain. No grief. Sometimes anger, but it’s not even real anger. It’s weak. And then you no longer feel happiness or joy or creativity. Nothing.”
“I wouldn’t mind. I need that.”
“You would mind. After a while there, you would mind. You feel nothing in the void, but because you stop feeling, you stop processing, and you stop . . . being. You know? We all need to feel, even the bad things. It’s what makes us human. If you stay in the void for too long, you’ll start questioning your humanity. If you’re even a person. If you’re even real. If you’re even here. And when you start with those questions . . . then you’re in too deep.”
He stares at me, biting his lip for a moment before saying. “You talk as if you’ve been to this place.”
“I have. And I got out. I just know it’s not a place you want to be. But believe me, I’m going to do whatever I can to help you. To be here for you. You won’t face any of this alone.”
He grimaces and lets out a sharp sigh. “But I will. You won’t be here. You’re leaving in a day.”
I shake my head, smiling just a little. “No, I’m not. I’m not going anywhere.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m staying, Olivier. In Paris. With you. Even if you think it’s too much and too soon, I can stay at a hostel for a while, maybe get work under the table. I mean, I think I’d have to.”
“No,” he says, flinching as if I’d slapped him.
Not exactly the reaction I’d hoped to get.
I swallow my burning pride and try to make him understand. “I don’t want to leave you. Not now. And really, not ever. I can defer my studies to next year, it’s not a big deal.”
His eyes pinch shut, and now my cheeks are flaming with embarrassment.
“I know you’re going through a lot, and I don’t want to add to your problems,” I say quickly. “I just want to stay with you.”
He leans back in his seat, eyes focused on the ceiling. They’re so wild and raw, and yet I can’t read any of the millions of emotions that are rushing through them.
Eventually the words croak out, “You can’t be here.”
“Is it because of the whole Schengen visa? Because I can figure something out.” But I know he’s not talking about overstaying the visa.
“Please, you have to trust me on this.”
I open my mouth to say okay and give him a free pass because he’s grieving, but on the other hand . . . no. I’m tired of being hidden and being kept in the dark. He never even told me what his deal was on the night of the ball. So many secrets are being kept from me, all the time, from him, from Pascal.
“I can’t trust you on it,” I tell him. “Because I don’t want to be lied to anymore. I want the truth. Why can’t I stay? Why have you kept me hidden? What do your cousins want with me?”
He takes in a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes darting to the driver who is paying us no attention; then he leans in close to me. His eyes are dancing with hope and pain and fear, latching on to mine, a
nd I can’t look away.
“Sadie,” he says, in a very deep, low voice, the kind that gives me goose bumps, “I want you to stay here with me.” He takes my hand in both of his and squeezes it. “I do need you. More than you know. That isn’t the issue at all. The issue is . . . something I’ve never told anyone. Something I’m deeply, deeply ashamed of.”
This is a surprise. I squeeze his hand back. “You can tell me anything.”
His expression becomes strained. “You’ll think less of me.”
“I won’t. I wouldn’t. Please, Olivier, I want to trust you, and I want you to trust me, but I can’t, it can’t happen until we’re both honest. I’m being honest with you. I want to be with you because . . . I’m falling for you. In a bad way. And I can’t handle the idea of just leaving you, leaving us and all that we have a chance of becoming.”
He manages a small, sad smile and swallows. “I want to give us that chance too.”
“Then tell me your truth, please.”
He nods, his focus now on our intertwined hands. “When I was twenty years old, I made a foolish mistake.”
“We all make mistakes when we’re young. I think we’ll make them when we’re old too.”
“Yes, well. This was . . . bad. I fell in love.” I stiffen, not expecting that. “I fell in love with a woman who didn’t belong to me. We had an affair. I . . . I wasn’t thinking. She was older by five years, and she came on to me. She showed interest in me, and she made me feel special. And, of course, she was beautiful.”
I should be jealous about the way he’s talking about her, but there’s no love in his words, just bitterness, like he has a bad taste in his mouth that he can’t get rid of.
“But she wasn’t mine. She was someone else’s. She was Pascal’s wife.”
Oh. My. God.
This explains everything.
He glances at me anxiously, then looks away again. “Maybe I already hated Pascal, and I did it out of revenge. Our families had always been so at odds with each other growing up. Maybe I was just so taken with Marine and the way she came after me, doted on me, that it didn’t matter that she was his wife. They’d only been together for a short time, and she seemed so lonely that I figured . . . maybe I was doing her a favor. I was a fucking fool.”
“And Pascal knows,” I say.
“What makes you say that?” He frowns.
Because of everything that’s been happening.
“Because he must.” I give a little shrug, not wanting to get into it right now.
He studies me for a moment, then sighs. “I think so. Yes, he must. We’ve never discussed it. It was his father who caught us. He promised he’d never tell Pascal, that was all part of the deal, but who knows. So much time has passed.”
“What deal? You made a deal with your uncle?”
He closes his eyes. “Yes,” he whispers, “I made a deal. Signed with blood.”
“What was the deal? What did you agree to do? Isn’t that blackmail?”
“Yes, it’s blackmail. He’s been blackmailing me for ten years, and he’ll do it until the end of my life. Or, fuck, who knows now. I did it so that he’d never tell my father, and as far as I knew, he kept that end of the bargain. And now . . . my father is dead. Guess it doesn’t matter.”
“What was the deal, Olivier? What did you agree to?”
“I agreed to step aside from any company matters. I signed a contract that said in ten years I would have to relinquish all my shares of the company and give them to Gautier.”
“But you just said all of this happened ten years ago.”
He nods. “And so the deadline was just around the corner. And now . . .”
“Is that why you didn’t want to have anything to do with the Dumont brand?”
“Ten years ago, I had to make a decision that I would go in a different direction. I was never going to go into hotels originally. I was going to have Seraphine’s job, then my father’s. It’s what I wanted, it’s what my father had wanted for me. It was expected, it was needed . . . and I had to step aside. It’s been so long that I’m okay with it—I like being a hotelier, I like what I do, and I’m good at it. But I’ve never been able to tell my father, or anyone, that I didn’t step aside because I didn’t want it. I did it because I had to.”
This is blowing my damn mind. “You’ve had to live this lie all this time?”
“All this time.”
“And your fucking uncle. How dare he? How dare he blackmail his twenty-year-old nephew into doing that!” Suddenly I’m so full of rage I think I’m going to blow steam from my ears. That horrible man with the horrible eyes. “He could have lectured you, not threatened you, not extorted you.”
“I went along with it. I would have done anything for him not to tell Pascal or my father. I was so ashamed. I know it would break this family, shattering it more than it already was. And . . . Gautier . . . he doesn’t leave you a lot of choice. You understand? He’s not like us.”
“You’ve said that many times. Obviously, I see why.”
“No, I mean,” he says quickly, licking his lips as he positions himself closer to me, holding my hand tighter, “he’s a dangerous man. Okay? He was then, and he’s even more so now. He has friends in high places and low places. The mafia. Cartels. Russia. Who knows? You don’t get to his level of success by playing it nice.”
“But your father did.”
“He did by working hard and sticking to his guns. Gautier has done nothing. He’s only where he is because of who he was when he was born. My father was the oldest, the one primed for it. Gautier only took interest and was made cochairman because my father was too nice. Too loyal. Too trusting. And now . . .”
“Now?”
“Now Gautier will take over the company.”
“What about Seraphine?” I ask.
He shakes his head slowly. “The deal was that I step aside. I was the final obstacle, and I was removed. There are wills and documents that will say that I am the next boss, that I am taking over my father’s role. And I will have to publicly stand up and say that I am handing the keys to Gautier. There is no doubt that Pascal will then take over Gautier’s role, and Blaise will take over Pascal’s. Seraphine will stay where she is . . . if she’s lucky.”
“This is crazy. Olivier, you can’t let them do this. You can’t let them win.”
“We all know what will happen if I don’t.”
“No one will care? You think Pascal doesn’t know you slept with his ex-wife? He knows. You can tell. And as for Seraphine? Renaud? They’re family. Your real family. The good ones. They won’t care.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It is.”
“You don’t understand, it’s not just about keeping all of this a secret in order to spare myself from shame. It’s about power. I gave them power, and now it’s too late. If I don’t do this, there will be consequences. Dangerous ones. I told you who my uncle is connected to. Don’t for a second think he won’t retaliate. He knows about you, and I know that he’s going to go out of his way to make sure we’re driven apart.” He grows quiet. “Or worse.”
My mouth drops open. “What?”
“That’s what I couldn’t tell you. You have a mark on your back, a target, and they’re the ones holding the arrows.”
“You can’t be serious,” I say but then trail off because again it’s making sense. What Pascal said. It’s not just that he’s out for revenge, it’s that he wants what Olivier supposedly took from him. If Olivier slept with Pascal’s wife, then his uncle probably thinks he has a right to ruin our relationship the way that Olivier did his son’s.
“I wish I wasn’t, but that’s what my uncle told me, and I have no reason not to believe him. Why do you think I’ve never settled down?”
“Uh, because you’re young and hot and filthy rich. Why wouldn’t you have a different model for a different day?”
“Because that’s a stereotype that I play into. Because no one questions i
t. Because people expect it, even want it. But that’s not me. Sadie, that isn’t me at all.”
“He can try to fuck with your relationship all he wants, but if it’s a good one, it won’t crumble just because he’s gotten involved. What’s he going to tell me? You’re cheating on me? Is he going to set it up to have someone seduce you? Seduce me? Will there be staged photos leaked to the press? It doesn’t matter. I’m yours, Olivier. They can’t take that away from me.”
“And I’m yours, Sadie. More than you know.” He kisses me softly at the corner of my mouth, and suddenly I’m aching for this man, this broken and bruised man who not only lost his father but lost ten years of his life due to a lie he can’t shake. “But they will try to break us apart. And when it doesn’t work . . . I shudder to think what they might try next.”
I refuse to even entertain that thought. “You say they. So you think Pascal knows.”
“I’d never known for sure but . . . Okay, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this earlier, but I saw Pascal at the hotel in Cannes.”
I blink at him, my heart sinking deeper. “He was there?”
“I ran into him in the lobby. He wouldn’t tell me why he was there or how long he’d been there. I knew he just wanted to fuck with me. I didn’t know why, since he’s not someone I run into that often. I make fucking sure of that. But he was there, and . . . I had a feeling it may have had something to do with you.”
“I never saw him,” I say.
But that’s not quite true, is it?
The man at the window.
That hadn’t been an illusion. That had been him.
Tell him, my words cut across my head. Tell him about Pascal. At the ball, now at the funeral. Tell him.
But I can’t. I will, but not right now. He’s already dealing with too much. The fact that I know the truth is enough. Now I know what I’m facing, what and who I am up against.
It doesn’t scare me, as long as I’m with him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SADIE
Guilt is a tricky thing. Even when you have no reason to feel it, even when it has no purpose in your life, it finds a way to burrow into your heart, like a lost but determined worm. It just wants you to feel it, and once it’s lodged in there, it’s nearly impossible to get out.
Discretion Page 18
