Case in point: I’ve been warming up to calling my mother about the fact that I’m not getting on a plane out of Madrid today like I had planned. All this time, whatever guilt I felt about deferring my studies and not coming home was pushed to the side. I had more important and pressing things to focus on—basically, everything to do with Olivier. I felt good about the decision, strong on my feet.
But now that I’ve dialed her number and the phone is ringing, it’s like guilt is punching me in the stomach with every single ring.
You’re abandoning her.
She needs you.
You’re selfish.
She’s your mother.
I’m just about to hang up in panic when my mother finally answers.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Sadie? What’s wrong? You never call me.”
“Nothing is wrong,” I say quickly, not wanting her mind to run away with her. “I’m good. Really. Did I catch you at a bad time?” It’s so hard to know with her wonky work schedule and the time difference. It’s the early evening here, which means it’s the morning over there. Olivier stepped out to one of his hotels, so I figured this was a good time to call.
“No, I woke up a few hours ago. Been getting up with the sunrise. Always getting those extra hours before everything turns dark here in the Pacific Northwest. I really do think sunshine is medicine for the soul.”
Well, at least my mother sounds far more positive than I expected.
“So why are you calling, darling? What’s really going on?”
I take a deep breath through my nose and steady myself. Why is it that mothers are so strangely terrifying sometimes?
“I have some news.”
“You decided to stay.”
“What? How did you know that?”
She sighs. “Oh, a mother knows. She has feelings. She has a connection. She has dreams. And you were supposed to be on your flight a few hours ago, so . . .”
“Right. Well then, yeah. That’s the news. I’ve decided to stay in France.”
“You’re not even in Spain?”
“I never made it to Spain,” I say quietly.
“Okay. Who is he?”
“Wow, you are on a roll today.”
“I’m telling you, the sunshine sharpens my brain. So tell me who he is. I know you’re not skipping school on account of just wanting more time to lie around in the sun. That’s not like you. That’s not my daughter. You wouldn’t even think about staying if there wasn’t someone else involved, and I’m going to just assume it’s a man—though if it’s not, no judgment here.”
I laugh and look around Olivier’s apartment, so happy that I can finally share the truth of where I am and who I’m with.
Who has my heart.
“It’s definitely a man. His name is Olivier. He’s French.”
“Is he nice?”
“He is very nice. An old-school gentleman. You would really like him.”
“And so you’re with him where?”
“In Paris. In his apartment.”
“I see. And what does this Olivier do?”
“He owns hotels.”
A long pause over the line. My mother is obviously in shock. “Come again?”
“I said he owns hotels.”
“And he’s not lying to you?”
I chuckle. “No, he’s not lying. I’ve been in them. He’s the real deal.”
“Olivier what? What’s his last name?”
I hesitate to give it because of all the news around him lately, and there’s no doubt that she’s going to immediately Google him. “It’s Dumont.”
“Dumont . . . Dumont,” she muses. “Wait, I know that name. It’s like Chanel but for French people.”
“Mom, Chanel is French.”
“Yeah, but I mean, Chanel is everywhere, and Dumont, that’s just in France.”
“Well, they’re everywhere too,” I say. At least they will be after Gautier is done with them. “But, yeah, it’s mainly known here in Europe, and also the Middle East, Singapore, Japan, China . . .”
“You sound like you work for them now . . . Is he going to get you a job?”
“Uh . . .” I mean, it had crossed my mind, until I realized I would be working for his evil uncle, the very person I’m supposed to avoid, but I don’t feel right telling my mom that Olivier is my sugar daddy either. “Maybe. I might just get a job at a bookstore or something. Under the table, but I think Olivier can pull some strings.”
“Bookstore? Darling, he’s a hotelier. Work at one of his hotels.”
“I’m sure something will work out,” I reassure her. “So you’re not mad that I’m staying?”
“Mad? Not at all.”
“But I’m still throwing away a year of school for a guy I’ve only known three weeks. And I’m abandoning you.”
“Listen,” she says rather sharply, “we both know what it’s like to be abandoned, and this isn’t it. This is just you being a twenty-three-year-old student. Some do all their years in one go. Others quit. Others go back to it. What can you expect? You’re young and you’re discovering who you are and you’ve fallen in love.”
“I didn’t say I love him,” I tell her quietly.
“Oh, come on. You do. I can tell. You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”
“I barely know him.”
“You know him far more than you think you do. Sadie, dear, embrace it. Don’t worry about school, and certainly don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ve been doing great. I started going to that free counseling again, and I’ve made some friends at work. I think you going to Europe was the push I needed, and I think you needed it too.”
Tears spring to my eyes, teasing at the corners. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, and I’ll always miss you, but you need to do this. You’re a good kid, Sadie, and you’re smart, and you just have to trust yourself. I trust you.”
I’m about to turn into a blubbering mess when suddenly there’s a knock at the door.
“Uh, hold on, Mom, there’s someone at the door,” I tell her, and my heart is starting to race, the hair on my arms standing straight up.
“I better let you go then—”
“No,” I say sharply. “No, no, it’s okay. It might be Olivier. Maybe he forgot his key.”
Please let it be Olivier, please let it be Olivier.
I go to the door and look through the peephole, fully expecting to see Pascal standing there. If I let my imagination run away any further, he’ll be holding a gun.
But it’s not Pascal.
It’s not Olivier either.
It’s Seraphine.
Oh shit.
“Uh, Mom,” I say into the phone, “I’ve got to go. I love you, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I love you too.”
I hang up and then try to come up with some sort of story as I’m opening the door.
But the moment Seraphine looks me up and down, the story goes out the window.
I wasn’t kidding when I said Seraphine was gorgeous.
She’s tall, like nearly six feet, with long limbs and thick, lush hair and the biggest, most beguiling eyes. If I hadn’t known she’d been adopted by the Dumonts, I would now, since they’re all very white and French, and she’s of Indian or Pakistani descent, her accent a mix of Parisian and posh British.
“Who are you?” she says to me, brushing her heavy bangs out of her eyes.
Again, someone addressing me in English.
“How did you know I speak English?” I ask her.
She eyes me up and down. “Well, you certainly don’t look French. Is Olivier here?”
I shake my head. “He went out to the office.”
She sighs. “I was just there.”
“Not . . . that office. A hotel.” It’s then that I notice underneath her thick eyelashes and the bright-red lipstick, she looks ashen and worn. The poor girl. “I’m so sorry about your fa
ther.”
Her lip quivers, and she nods. “Thank you.” She tilts her head. “You were at the funeral. I saw you.”
“Just wanted to pay my respects.” I step back and gesture to the apartment. “He might be back soon. Do you want to come in? I know how to use the espresso machine now and wouldn’t mind the extra practice.”
She stares at me for a moment, looking lost, then she manages a smile. “Okay. Merci.”
She steps inside and closes the door behind her, and I go over to the espresso machine to try to tame the beast. It’s a bit awkward and nerve-racking to have her here, especially when I don’t know what to say about myself, but at least she’s got a rather gentle, calming way about her.
“What’s your name?” she asks me, walking slowly around the room and poking at Olivier’s stuff.
“It’s Sadie,” I tell her.
“Sadie what?”
“Sadie Nobody Important.” She stops and stares at me, and I fiddle with the machine. “Sadie Reynolds.”
“I saw your name on the invites for the ball.”
“Yeah.”
And then she stops at the feathered white mask hanging off one of the shelves. “And you were there. Wearing this.”
“That was me,” I say brightly.
“I see,” she muses and then comes over to the kitchen island, leaning against it, her bright-gold bracelets jingling against the marble. “You’re the girl.”
“The girl?”
“Yes. The girl I’ve been badgering Olivier about. The secret one, the one he’s been denying exists. You’re that girl.”
“Well, I hope you’re right, or else I need to have a talk with him.”
She lets out a weak laugh. “Yes, well. I have to say, it’s a relief to know that I’m right. I just don’t understand why he would hide you.”
I freeze, and she quickly goes on. “Not to say there is anything to hide. I’m just not used to his denial, which is why I was suspicious anyway. Normally, if I ask about a girl, he’ll tell me. They never last long. Oh shit, I am making things worse, aren’t I?”
“You’re not,” I assure her as I get the machine going with a noisy clang. “Olivier had his reasons.”
“What?” she yells over the noise.
I motion for her to wait a moment, and then I finally get the espresso pouring out perfectly, with a light coating of crema on top, just like Olivier taught me.
“Here you go,” I tell her, placing the cup in front of her.
She picks it up daintily. “Impressive. So what were you saying about reasons?”
“Just that Olivier had his.” I wonder how much to tell her and then realize it’s not my place to tell her any of it. She can’t know, or else she’ll see how it all started in the first place. “I think he just wanted to know if we had a sure thing before the paparazzi got wind of us.”
“And are you a sure thing?”
I shrug. “I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I just missed my flight back home a few hours ago.”
“So that sounds serious,” she says, taking a sip. “This is very good. I have a feeling you’ll be a bona fide Parisian in no time.”
I laugh. “I have to learn French first. You know, we weren’t properly introduced.”
She sighs. “I know, how dreadful are my manners, just assuming everyone knows who I am? I’m Seraphine.”
“It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve only heard nice things from Olivier.”
“Olivier says nice things about everyone, I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
“He’s a lot like your father.”
Her eyes grow noticeably teary, and she swallows loudly. “Yes, he is. I just . . . I don’t understand why Olivier is doing this.”
“Doing what?” I ask cautiously.
“You’ve seen the papers. It’s everywhere,” she cries out softly, looking both confused and disgusted. “He’s stepped aside. I mean, all this time he wanted as little to do with the company as possible, but we still thought—we still assumed that if it came to it, if father ever . . . died, that Olivier would take over. Out of love for our father, out of duty. But he’s just . . . he’s giving it up. Right into their fucking hands. It’s going to ruin everything.”
“It’s not his fault,” I tell her. I’m so automatically defensive over him that it takes me a moment to correct myself. “I’m sure he thinks your uncle would do a better job.”
Her nostrils flare. “My uncle. Oh, Olivier knows he won’t. He knows it. We all do. This is what my uncle wanted from the start. Now with everyone taking over . . . I don’t even know if I’ll have a job left. But that’s not even the point . . . this was all planned.”
“Planned?”
She finishes her espresso and pushes her bangs out of her face. “I don’t know. I’m upset. I’m not thinking right, I know this. And I’m so angry, I want someone to blame. I want to blame Olivier because it would be so easy for him to save us all, but he won’t, and that’s not like him at all.” She pauses and glances up at me, brows knit together. “Has he said anything to you?”
I try to keep my face blank. “About what?”
“About . . . Oh, this will sound ridiculous, keep that in mind, everything is so fucking ridiculous right now.” She taps her red nails along the table. “My father was in perfect health. He’d never had any health issues, let alone heart issues. He’d just had an annual checkup. And yet he had a heart attack, just like that, in front of everyone, and he just . . . I saw him, he was dead. So fast, it happened so fast, he was . . . gone. It didn’t seem right.”
“Death never seems right,” I offer feebly.
“It’s not that,” she says with a shake of her head. “I don’t know, maybe it is that. They ruled it as a heart attack right away, they didn’t question it. No one did. But I guess I do, and I wonder if Olivier does too.”
“But . . . ,” I say slowly, not wanting to overturn this rock, knowing what could be crawling underneath, “if it wasn’t a heart attack . . . what was it? Aneurysm?”
“No. If it wasn’t a heart attack . . . then I think maybe someone murdered him.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. “M-murder?” I repeat.
And yet the moment the word awkwardly leaves my mouth, there feels like truth to it.
Of course, murder.
How very fucking obvious who would have done it and why.
“I know it sounds . . . dumb,” she says with a nervous laugh. “Oh, it sounds so dumb just to say it, and I’m saying it to you, and I don’t even know you. But . . . I can’t help but feel that, deep inside me, that this whole thing was planned to get my father out of the picture, to make Gautier the head of the company, to give them all the control. To run our traditions and everything we’ve bled over into the ground.”
“So you think your uncle murdered his own brother?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Gautier is a horrible person, but I can’t really imagine him murdering his own brother. It seems too ghastly.”
“What about your aunt? His wife?”
“Camille? Oh, she’s a witch. But as nasty as she is, she’s not ambitious or conniving enough. To be honest, she lacks the brains.”
“So then it would be someone who would benefit . . . your cousins.”
Her lips press hard against each other, and she seems to wrestle with what she’s about to say. “That’s the only thing I can think of. And I don’t want to.”
“Would it be Pascal or Blaise?”
“You know so much about them.”
“I know a lot by now.”
She sighs. “You know what? I shouldn’t even talk about it at all. I mean, it’s ghoulish. It’s fucked-up. I’m essentially accusing a family member of murder, and that’s not a thing that’s taken lightly. Forget I said anything.” She gets out of her seat.
“You’re leaving?” I ask her. “You can’t just come here and bring up murder and then leave. Jesus.”
She gives me a tight smile. “I’ve s
aid too much, and I’ve burdened you with problems that aren’t yours.”
“But they’re your problems. Therefore, they’re Olivier’s problems. Therefore, they’re my problems.”
She raises a brow at me as she heads to the door. “You’re very sweet, you know that? I think you might be a little too sweet for this family.”
“But you’re from the good side,” I say to her as she opens the door.
She steps out into the hall and glances at me. “Good side, bad side. Sooner or later we’re all going to bleed into each other. And who knows what side will remain.” She gives me a short wave. “Tell Olivier I stopped by. Please tell him to call me. I need him now more than he knows.”
I nod. “I promise.”
And then she’s out the door, and I’m left alone again in Olivier’s apartment with an even bigger bombshell in my hands. I feel like if I put it down for one minute, it might just blow the whole apartment away.
Murder.
Is that really what happened?
When I saw Pascal, Gautier, and Ludovic leaving the study the night of the ball, right before Pascal came to talk to me, had Ludovic been given something by one of them? By both of them?
Did I witness a murder?
Or is everyone so desperate to find someone and something to blame, they’ll go for the easiest scapegoat?
A shiver runs through me, and I head right over to the door, sliding the chain across and locking the dead bolt.
I’m already in bed when Olivier gets home. It’s not even that late. It’s just that after Seraphine left, I felt that bed was the safest and most comforting place to be.
And let’s be honest—I’m exhausted.
Even ignoring all the talk of murder, which left me extremely on edge, my brain is finally processing what is really going on.
I missed my flight.
I’m officially staying here.
This is it.
I’m in it for the long run.
In a foreign country, where I don’t know the language, where my bank account is quickly approaching the negatives, I am here to stay.
Completely relying on Olivier, when in fact he’s the one who needs to rely on me. He needs someone to help shoulder the burden, so I’m shouldering his while dealing with my own shit.
Discretion Page 19
