Nothing quite like waging war on behalf of someone who isn’t alive to see it through.
It’s been six months since my father died in the middle of our annual masquerade ball, and nothing in my life has been the same since. Gautier took over his position; my cousin Pascal took over what should have been my brother Olivier’s role; and now my other cousin, Blaise, basically shares my job with me. Both Olivier and my other brother, Renaud, are in California; Gautier’s family practically ran them out of the country. My cousins act like my father was nothing more than a hindrance, and despite being family, I’ve never seen even a hint of remorse or sadness in Gautier’s eyes. You’d think he’d grieve the loss of his brother, but instead he’s acted like he couldn’t wait to step on his grave and take over.
And take over they have. Now I spend my days wondering how I’m going to survive this any further, because that’s what my job has become. Surviving. My role in the company has been diminished, and my father’s legacy has been snuffed.
The battle wages on and on, but I think I’m the only one fighting for the good name of the company.
Funny, because I’m the one with the most to lose.
Or I would be, if I hadn’t already lost what meant the most to me.
“And you said to collaborate was a sin,” Pascal says to me snidely, bringing me back to the discussion at hand.
I carefully take my eyes off Gautier and give Pascal a tepid look. The trick with Pascal is to act like nothing bothers you, because once my dear cousin finds your weak spot, he’ll exploit it to no end.
“What?” I ask.
“You did say that, didn’t you, Seraphine?” Gautier says, butting in with a smug smile on his face. The man is pushing sixty-five, and I know he’s gotten fillers in his face recently, which makes him look like a cartoon monster, with his bloated cheeks and narrow eyes. Just needs a pair of goat horns on his head and he’ll be complete.
I stare right back at him, that hatred filling me again. “I don’t think I used those exact words.” Gautier always wanted to bring on some famous collaborators the way that Louis Vuitton does every year for their bags and accessories, but my father and I thought it was tacky, a way of diluting the look of the brand.
His smirk deepens as he stares at me with his dark eyes. “Hmm. And yet our current sales are up sixty-five percent after our recent collaboration with Baptiste. Yet another thing you should be thanking me for, another smart move for the company.”
I know I should be happy that the company is doing well. The papers love to shout about the Dumont label still being a success, just as much as they like to predict its demise. But I’m hanging by a thread here. We could make all the money in the world, and it wouldn’t give me security, not when my uncle could let me go at any moment.
It makes me wonder why he hasn’t yet. It’s no secret that he hates me and has from the beginning. With my father gone, there’s nothing stopping him from firing me. He owns it all now; I have no say. My shares are there, but they aren’t enough to keep me here.
And yet I am here. He berates me day in and day out, ignores all my ideas and decisions that have made this company successful in the past, does what he can to make me feel as worthless and diminished as possible.
I glance at him as he goes back to talking about something else “amazing” that he’s done since he’s taken over the company, and all I want to do is get up and leave. I don’t have to listen to this, I don’t have to be here. Not with a man that I suspect may be more sinister than he lets on, a man I suspect of so many things I think about in the dead of night—things that make my heart cold.
But I know that’s what they want. Even now, as I quickly glance down the table at Pascal, he’s staring at me, rolling his tongue against his lower lip, looking like the smug bastard that he is. He’s just waiting for me to quit.
When I look over at Blaise across from me, he’s staring at me, too, though he averts his eyes the moment ours meet. I can’t figure him out for the life of me lately. Ever since I was young, I’ve painted him with the same brush as his brother. After all, that side of the family is borderline psychotic, and I’ve had enough close encounters with Blaise to know that he’s a crazy asshole like the rest of them.
Yet ever since my father died, it’s like he’s changed. When Blaise, Olivier, and I were involved in a car chase and subsequent crash not long after the funeral (yet another thing I think about in the dead of night), it came out that Blaise detests his brother and uncle, a fact that took Olivier and me by surprise. Though the Blaise I knew when I was younger had similar sentiments, I’d thought he secretly worshipped them.
And yet I don’t see any sign of him changing. I’ve had to work closer with him lately, and he still seems to regard me with the same amount of animosity as I regard him, and when it comes to his father and brother, he acts no different.
But I know some truths about Blaise from back when we were young, back when we had something like a friendship forming. Things between us cousins were . . . complicated. I just don’t think I can trust him, no matter what he says. I trusted him once before, and that didn’t end well.
With that thought, the meeting is over, and I head straight out of the boardroom toward my office. The entire workforce has gotten an overhaul in the last six months, and I barely recognize any of the people who work here. After Gautier took complete control, he started to let everyone go, week by week, until nearly all signs of my father had been erased. The only one who has stayed is Nadia, the receptionist, because a good receptionist is worth her weight in gold.
I’m almost at my office when I feel a presence behind me.
I whirl around to see Pascal, grinning with a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “What do you want now?” I snap at him, forgetting to play it cool.
His grin widens and he leans casually against the wall. Dressed head to toe in the Dumont label, all black, with sleek shoes, perfectly tailored pants, and a slightly unbuttoned shirt, he looks absolutely devilish. I know that most women would add “handsome” to the end of that sentence, since around the world they fawn over him like idiots, especially now that he’s the face of our men’s cologne. But I can’t look at him objectively. All I feel is disgust.
“You seemed a bit distant at the meeting,” he says. “Have a lot on your mind?”
“No more than usual,” I tell him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do.” I turn and keep walking.
He calls out after me, “These ‘things’ you speak of seem too much for you. Perhaps you’d like some help.”
I pause by my door and briefly close my eyes. I should just ignore him. He’s dangling some kind of bait.
“What kind of help?” I ask despite myself, slowly turning around.
He’s still leaning against the wall without a care in the world. He shrugs lazily. “Earlier you said that the beauty department needed some help.”
“Yes, and they do. But not me. We need to bring in more people to work under me.”
“That’s what you think because you’re too proud to admit that you’re drowning. I think you need someone to help show you the ropes, make sure you do things properly, the way they need to be done.”
My brows raise, along with my hackles. “What are you talking about?”
There’s a glint in his eyes that I don’t like. “I was talking with my father about this yesterday. I think perhaps it would be best if Blaise stepped in.”
“Stepped in?” I cry out, aware that people in the office can hear me. This is worth raising hell over. “And do what? Are you firing me?”
That fucking smirk again. “Firing you? No, no. That would be up to my father, anyway. It’s just that you and your father worked one way and we work another. If Blaise could teach you—”
“Teach me?” I repeat, my face growing hot. “What the fuck does he know about cosmetics and skin care? This has been my department for the last five years!”
“I know,” he s
ays quietly, his voice brimming with fake sympathy. “You started so young, when you didn’t really know better. Picked up so many bad habits.”
My eyes narrow and I stride toward him, sticking the sharp nail of my forefinger under his chin, wishing it were a knife. “You listen to me, okay? I know we don’t see eye to eye on most things, but let’s not forget we’ve been working together for the legacy of Dumont, and that’s not going to change anytime soon. I’ve always done the best job, even if you’re too proud to admit it, and I stand by our name.”
He raises a brow, keeping his chin up. “But it’s not really your family name, is it?”
I could fucking punch him for that. “Don’t you dare,” I whisper harshly, pushing my nail in deeper. “I took the Dumont name when my father and mother adopted me and brought me into the family. It’s legal. It’s official. It has been since I was nine. Sure, I don’t look like you, I might have a different accent, but I’m a Dumont. As far as I’m concerned, I always have been.”
“And as far as we’re concerned,” he says, removing my finger from under his chin, “you need help. Are you too proud to have your own cousin help you?”
“Eat shit,” I tell him and whirl on my heel, heading to my office, where I slam the door.
I go straight for my desk and plop down in the chair, my head in my hands.
This is so fucking ridiculous. Since they let so many people go to cut costs, the entire Dumont beauty department needs help, not me—and especially not from Blaise. He’s been trying to meddle in my business for the last few months, and I guess it makes sense why now. They want him to take over. I’ll slowly be pushed out.
That, or they want me to quit. That’s more likely.
I’m usually pretty good at keeping my head on straight. I have a short temper, but I try to keep my calm at work, especially since my father died and I know people have been watching me under a microscope.
But honestly, today is just another nail in the proverbial coffin.
Today is another reminder of how fucking alone I really am in this.
Both of my brothers are in California, working on their respective vineyards and hotels.
I’m divorced.
My father and mother are both gone.
I’m an orphan once more.
Surrounded by constantly circling sharks, wondering which one will try and pick me off first.
I let out a sigh that feels as heavy as my heart. I’ve been so good at keeping it together, but fuck it all. I need a drink.
“I hate to tell you this, but you look rough,” Marie says to me as she reaches for the bottle of Dumont cabernet sauvignon and pours me yet another glass.
I give her a wry smile and take the glass from her. It’s my fifth and yet it’s not enough. “Is it because I have wine stains on my teeth? I always told my brother Renaud that he needs to grow grapes that don’t stain your teeth.”
“It’s called white wine, Seraphine. And also, it’s your eyes,” she says, tilting her head sympathetically. Marie is a straight shooter and pretty low on sympathy for most people, so I should probably pay attention. “Plus, you’re so skinny. Are you even eating?”
“No less than the typical Frenchwoman,” I tell her.
Once upon a time I would have taken that remark as a compliment, but my appearance is the last thing I’ve been caring about these days. That, and apparently food.
“So do you want to tell me why you called me?” she says, taking a delicate sip as she folds her legs underneath her on the couch.
“I can’t invite my friend over for wine at my apartment?”
She shakes her head. “No,” she says emphatically. “You’re impossible to get ahold of these days and you know that. I’ve been trying to get you out for coffee, for shopping, for cocktails, and you always push it off and off. Or you don’t even text back or answer your phone. I feel like I’m dealing with a ghost.”
I give her a sheepish smile, feeling ashamed at my neglect. “I’ve been a shitty friend.”
She rolls her eyes and scoffs. “You aren’t a shitty friend. You’re just wrapped up in whatever you’re wrapped up in, and I’m honored that you reach out to me when you need a little unraveling. And so, well, let’s unravel you.” She pauses. “Is it Cyril?”
I cringe at the mention of my ex-husband’s name. “No. No, thankfully he’s disappeared for now.” I was embroiled in a long and bitter war with him over the divorce; despite the fact that he had cheated on me repeatedly, he still thought he had the right to all my money. He’s dropped it for now, but that doesn’t mean he’s not coming back.
“It’s your father,” she says quietly.
I nod, willing away the lump in my throat I always get when I talk about him. For some reason, I can think about him all the time, and the sadness seems to stay at a manageable level, but when I talk about him with someone else, I can start crying at the drop of a hat.
“It is my father,” I tell her. “I miss him. I wish more than anything that I could just ask him questions. You know, people always talk about how kind he was and a good man, but he was such a visionary, you know? So intelligent. So funny too. The two of us, we never lacked for words and stories when we were with each other, and I have so many things I want to ask him. I need his advice, badly. And there’s none to give.”
“It must be so hard, first losing your mother . . . ,” she says, pushing her blonde bob behind her ear.
I know most people don’t like to talk about the hard topics, but Marie only asks when she’s genuinely interested, so I know I have free rein to say whatever I want, even the stuff that other people might judge me for.
“It’s not just that,” I tell her. “Well, I guess it’s a lot of things. For one, work is getting harder. Now Pascal, my dipshit cousin, wants Blaise, my other dipshit cousin, to take over my job. They’re basically trying to get me to quit.”
“Wait, which dipshit cousin is the stupidly sexy one?” she asks.
I roll my eyes. “Neither.”
Which isn’t exactly true. When I was younger, my feelings for Blaise were a lot more streamlined and therefore a lot more complicated. But I’m not about to get into that right now with her.
“Okay,” she says, not discouraged. “I’m sure they’re both stupidly sexy. Your brothers are, too, you know. Runs in the family.”
I wince internally. Little comments like that bother me. Marie doesn’t mean anything by it, but it’s a reminder that my family isn’t through blood.
But it’s also a reminder that blood means nothing. Just look at both sides of the Dumonts, one side always ready to stab the other in the back.
“Anyway,” I say, glossing over it, “I’m not going to quit, but it’s obvious that’s what they’re doing. So, suffice to say, work has gone from a place of joy to a place of stress and anxiety, and now they think I need to be babysat.”
Marie gives me a tight smile before having a sip of wine. “I’m sorry. What a shame to have your own family turn on you like that, especially since you’ve been working together for so long. It wasn’t always so bad, was it?”
“No. No, it wasn’t. But my father was there. He was the buffer between us . . .”
“I see,” she says with a nod. She sighs. “Well, I can certainly understand why you called me and needed to polish off a few bottles of wine.” She looks around my apartment. “When was the last time you had anyone over?”
I shrug. I can’t remember. My apartment has turned into a comfortable nest, the only place I feel safe. I did a rush job of cleaning before she came over, but it is in a bit of disarray. Once upon a time I had weekly dinner parties here and went out to shows and for drinks with models and designers and celebrities alike, but now I can’t even imagine it.
As if she can hear my thoughts, Marie reaches over and, in a rare gesture of affection, puts her hand on mine, squeezes it, and says, “Grief takes a long time. It’s not a linear process. There will be ups and downs. But if you’re sliding backward,
Seraphine, then you might need to talk to someone. You might need to get some help. Don’t be too proud to ask.”
I give her a sweet smile in return, though it falters with what I’m about to say. “You’re right. I do need help. But not from a doctor or a psychologist, though you may think otherwise once you hear what I have to say.”
She removes her hand and stares at me, urging me to go on. I take in a deep breath. “Promise me you’ll keep this between you and me?”
She nods, her thin brows flitting together in concern. “Bien sûr. Of course.”
“I think my father was murdered.”
CHAPTER TWO
BLAISE
Sixteen years ago
Paris
It’s an odd feeling to know that nobody loves you.
This isn’t a sob story. I couldn’t give a shit.
But what bothers me are the lies. If my family could admit the truth, that they’re only legally obligated to have me around, then I could finally breathe. Maybe I’d know what it’s like to be happy. You can’t be happy when everyone around you is constantly pretending, when you know they’re wearing masks, when you’d do anything to tear that mask off their face and tell them that you know the truth, you know how they really feel.
Today is my birthday. Other than Christmas, it’s the worst day of the year. It’s the middle of June, and it’s hot as always, and yet it’s the coldest, wickedest day.
Today they all pretend to love me even more. They turn up their game, they lay it on thick. They shower me with half-hearted attention and all the presents I could ever want. When I was younger, I used to wish on my birthdays for them to just actually love me. But as I got older, I realized how sad that was for a young boy. Love? Who needs that? Today I turn thirteen, and I’m over that shit. Over needing love. I’m afraid that what I really want—to expose the truth—will be the very thing that will hurt me more than anything.
My parents are tricky. My brother, Pascal? Even more so. To poke through their lies would really mess things up, and even though they’ve made it very clear that it’s a unit of three, with me on the outskirts, I have no business rocking the boat.
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