Discretion

by Halle, Karina

  But the texts weren’t delivered, and the emails were never responded to.

  I can’t tell if he’s mad at me—I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t know the whole story—or if he’s okay. I wish I had Seraphine’s phone number so I could check in on him that way.

  I know I should start making real plans. Figuring out if I can still go to school, albeit a week late. If not, if I can pick it up next semester. Or maybe—maybe even transfer schools. I don’t want to set foot in Europe for a while—in fact, I don’t even think I’m allowed to go back anytime soon. But maybe somewhere in the US. I don’t want to leave my mom again, and yet as I stand here in the kitchen, sipping the lukewarm coffee, this doesn’t feel like home either. I feel like I won’t be the person I need to be until I’m somewhere else, whether it’s a place that’s near or far.

  And yet, even with that realization giving me some purpose and some strength, I know that no matter where I am, my heart won’t be with me.

  I left it behind in Paris.

  Back in that apartment.

  With the person it belongs to.

  The person who deserves it.

  The person who needs it.

  The heartache comes at me so fast, I barely have enough time to react.

  One minute I’m holding the cup of coffee.

  The next minute I’m buckling, the cup falling to the floor and smashing to pieces.

  Of course, that reminds me of Olivier too.

  That very first morning.

  After he saved me.

  He saved me in so many different ways.

  And now it is my turn to save him.

  I let out a garbled cry, the kind of violent sadness that overtakes your whole body, makes your heart and your guts and your lungs feel like they’re being ripped in half. I cry, and I sob, and I’m on my knees now, hands covered in spilled coffee, tears falling from my eyes and onto the sticky tiles.

  This wasn’t what it was like with Tom.

  That was just a scratch.

  This is a full-on gash, created by the sharpest blade, slicing me from head to toe until I wonder if I was ever whole at some point.

  I don’t know if I’ll be whole again.

  I don’t know if you ever get your heart back into one whole piece after you’ve given it to someone else.

  I stay on that floor for a long time, long enough that the cat is curious enough to come and investigate me. Kismet nuzzles my head, then starts to lap up the coffee before he saunters off, looking disgusted.

  It brings me back to life a little, just focusing on the cat, and on the fact I’m lying on the kitchen floor, the same floor that’s been here since I was a young girl, when my mother and I moved from Wenatchee, abandoned by my father to fend for ourselves. In a way, it’s almost full circle, only I’m the one who left.

  At first I don’t hear the knock at the door. My brain kind of processes it as background noise along with the loud whir of the fridge.

  But then I hear it again. Loud and commanding.

  I slowly ease up to a sitting position, listening.

  One by one, the hairs on my arms stand up.

  My nerves are razed.

  Adrenaline is buzzing somewhere back in my primal brain.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, I think to myself. Relax. It could be the postman, a neighbor, a Jehovah’s Witness. Anyone.

  I get up, wishing I wasn’t shaking. I slowly and carefully make my way out of the kitchen, careful not to step on the broken ceramic; then I think better of it and grab a knife from the drawer.

  Holding it at my side, I sneak past the cat, who watches me with wide eyes.

  If it really is no one, just a normal person, I’m going to look like a crazy woman, with my bedhead and tears and red eyes and coffee-stained pants, wielding a knife.

  God, please let it be a normal person.

  The knock happens again, the door almost shaking, and my heart ricochets into my throat, making it hard to breathe.

  I peer through the peephole, but it’s always been so rusted and marred with scratches, all I can see is the tall silhouette of a man.

  Oh my God.

  I’m afraid what might happen if I don’t answer the door. I think maybe I should put down the knife and get out my phone and get 911 on the ready.

  I’m about to do that when I hear a booming voice. “Sadie?”

  I can’t hear it clearly, and even though it’s familiar, I don’t think Pascal or Gautier would announce themselves before they murdered me.

  Still, I grip the knife harder and open the door.

  I almost drop the knife.

  A worn-out, disheveled, and desperate-looking Olivier is on the other side. His shirt is dirty, his hair is a mess, his eyes are haunted.

  But when they look at me, really look at me like I’m looking at him, they come to life again.

  “Mon lapin,” he whispers hoarsely. “It’s you.”

  “Olivier,” I cry out, my breath returning to me, my body reeling from shock. “What are you doing here?” I drop the knife and instinctively throw my arms around him, and he holds me tight, so tight that I can’t breathe.

  But I don’t need my breath now that I’m with him.

  “I was so worried about you,” Olivier says into my neck, his voice breaking. “You have no idea, the things I thought.”

  “I’m so sorry I had to leave like that,” I tell him. “I didn’t have a choice . . . Pascal . . .”

  “I know,” he says, pulling away, his eyes full of fire as he cups my face. “Blaise told me everything.”

  “Blaise? And you trusted him?”

  “Let’s just say that Blaise is no more a fan of his father or his brother than we are. I don’t trust him at all, but I do trust what he told me. That Pascal threatened you . . . and I knew you would have done anything to protect your mother. And me.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” I explain, holding the door open for him to come in. “I couldn’t risk it.”

  “I know,” he says, stepping inside and looking around. “Is it odd that I pictured it this way?”

  “I don’t know what that says about me,” I say. “How on earth did you even find me here?”

  “You aren’t so hard to find.”

  “Oh, really? Because I recall you once saying that you knew nothing about me, that I was practically untraceable online.”

  “That may have been my way of making you talk,” he says with a smirk. “It sort of worked.”

  “Don’t tell me you have access to French spy networks.”

  “I might,” he says. “I also might have access to a little something called Google.”

  I laugh. I laugh because he’s here, and it’s so amazing and impossible that he’s here.

  He’s here.

  “How did you even get here?”

  “An airplane,” he says, pulling me toward him. “The same kind you took.”

  “Oh, was yours bought by Pascal too?”

  His grip on my arms tightens, and Olivier’s eyes grow hard. “I need you to tell me everything that happened. Did he hurt you? Did he”—his voice breaks in anger—“do anything to you?”

  I shake my head. “No. I mean, he’s an asshole and a creep and a fucking pervert.”

  “Pervert?” he asks sharply.

  “Are you surprised?”

  “What did he do to you?” he grinds out. He looks like he’s ready to throw the armchair across the room.

  “Calm down,” I tell him. “He didn’t do anything. He just . . . he’s lewd. And he may possess a video of us having sex, and he may have jacked off to it more than a few times.”

  Olivier’s eyes narrow into green slits. “What?” he hisses.

  “I saw the video. It’s, um, hot—us against the glass at your hotel. But it’s nothing you should worry about . . . or perhaps maybe the next time you see him at the office, you can confiscate his phone.” As if there isn’t a chance it exists on some online drop box. I try not to think
about it.

  “What a sick fuck,” he swears. I can see veins throbbing in his temples. Jeez, I probably shouldn’t have told him that.

  “Yeah, but on the plus side, we did look pretty hot,” I manage to say, but he doesn’t return the humor. “So I guess he’s going to deserve a punch or two in the face when you get back?”

  “I’m not going back.”

  I stare at him blankly. “What?”

  “I said I’m not going back.”

  I look him up and down. “You don’t even have any luggage.”

  “The moment Blaise told me, the moment I saw the note you left, I had to come. I went right to the airport and got the first flight out. I told Seraphine there was a chance I wouldn’t come back for a while.”

  “How long is a while?” I ask, both hopeful and afraid to hear the answer.

  He chews on his lip for a moment as he gazes at me, perhaps feeling the same way I am. “As long as it takes. Maybe years.”

  “Years?” I practically spit out.

  He shrugs. “No pressure. But I figured now was as good a chance as any to finally get that hotel in Napa Valley going. At Renaud’s vineyard.”

  “You’re kidding me?” This feels all so precious and fragile, I’m afraid to question it in case it breaks, but . . . “You’re not going back home?”

  He shakes his head. “Things are fucking crazy back there. I don’t want any part of it.”

  “But Seraphine! She’s your sister.”

  His face falls at that, and I immediately feel bad for the guilt trip.

  “She is my sister, but she’s a big girl. She wanted me to come after you. She wanted me to go.”

  “But the company . . . they’ll eat her alive.”

  “She can fight back. She will fight back.”

  “But . . .”

  “I know,” he says with a sigh, running his hand down his face, “but it is what it is. And I don’t think she’s as alone there as you think.”

  “But this way they win. You could take over, protect your family name.”

  “Like it or not, the family name is Dumont. If Gautier wants to ruin it or make it rise into the next century by adapting to the times, that’s on him. It’s not on me. Look, I am not cut out for it. Maybe I was at some point, but I’m damn good at what I do now, and I like it. And I think cutting my ties with Paris for the time being might be the best idea I’ve ever had. Didn’t you feel the same way when you left here?”

  I nod slowly. I guess Olivier’s only worked and worked and worked. Maybe this is his time to be someone else.

  “I didn’t like the person I was in Paris, and it wouldn’t have gotten any better, only worse,” he says. “You know it. We had the odds against us the moment we stepped foot in the city; we were never able to capture what we had at the beginning.”

  “Don’t all relationships go that way?”

  “Maybe if you accept it and give up on them. But I’m not going to give up on us. I’m not going to give up on you. We deserve better than that, mon lapin.”

  I’m smiling and crying all at once, floored by happiness, my body shaking from the transition from pure heartbreak to fear to suddenly having everything I ever wanted.

  “And,” Olivier goes on, “I hope you’ll come with me. To California. Maybe you could finish your studies in San Francisco. Or do whatever you choose to do. I just want you with me for every single step of this new life.”

  “Of course I’ll go with you,” I whisper to him, my voice choked, standing on my toes to give him a soft kiss. “And I’m honored to be part of any life you choose, but . . . aren’t you still worried about the life you’re leaving behind?”

  He nods. “I am. There was a lot that happened before I left, more than you know.”

  “So what happened with Seraphine? Did you hear what she had to say about her theory?”

  “Oui,” he says slowly. “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  “Yeah, well, I talked to Pascal about it.”

  He cocks a brow. “You talked?”

  “A lot of things were said. But honestly, as horrible as he is, I’m not sure he did it.”

  “I don’t think so either. Which leaves my uncle . . . and I know to never put anything past him.”

  “So what are you going to do? You can’t investigate when you’re over here.”

  “I can’t investigate anything. I’m not the police. And, well, let’s just say I’m not sure the police are on our side. I think they’re on their side.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” he says smoothly, which of course makes me suspicious. I’m sure whatever it is, is something for me to worry about. But I know that I’ll take baby steps with Olivier now. After all, we have all the time in the world.

  But still . . .

  “So when you said that Blaise told you everything, what exactly did he say?” I ask.

  “Just that Pascal might have interfered with you. Oh, and that I was set up.”

  “By Marine and Pascal?”

  His jaw clenches and he looks away. “Yeah. What bothers me the most about all of that is I should have seen it coming. I should have known this was all set up from the start. I was just so young. Just a young, stupid fuck.”

  “And you were in love. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “No,” he says, his hands trailing through my hair, gripping me by the neck. Possessive. The way I’ve needed him. “No, I wasn’t in love. I know what love is now, Sadie, and it lives in you. It’s why I’m here. Because you’re here. Because you’re mine as much as I’m yours.”

  I can’t help but grin. “Look at you, being all romantic.”

  “I’m always romantic,” he says, kissing my neck. “Because it’s impossible to be anything but a lovestruck slave around you.” He rests his forehead against mine, breathing in deep. “Tell me I did the right thing in coming here. Tell me you want this. That you want me.”

  Oh God. Doesn’t he know by now?

  “I only left because I had to,” I tell him. “Maybe Pascal is full of empty threats, but maybe he’s not. I don’t know. There was no time to decide.”

  “I know. You had to protect what you love. And that’s why I followed. Because I love you. And I will always follow you.”

  “And I will follow you. To Cannes. To Paris. To California. Every step of the way. I love you.”

  We kiss. Long, deep, sweet, brimming with all the emotions of the past few days, spilling out with lust, with love, with longing.

  We kiss and kiss until I feel the cat twining around our legs.

  “Whose cat is that?” Olivier asks when he breaks away, watching as Kismet winds around us, purring contently.

  “My mother’s. Who I guess you’re going to meet later today.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “She’s working a double shift and will be home late, but, boy, is she going to be surprised to see you.”

  “What did you tell her about me?”

  “Well, I only said nice things, of course.”

  “Even though you came back early?”

  “Yes, well, I know she wanted things to work out between us. I think moms have an instinct for young love, or at least they like to give you advice and pretend they do,” I say with a chuckle. “In the meantime . . . pizza?”

  “Pizza? For breakfast?” He shrugs. “I guess I am in America.”

  I hit him across the chest. “Hey! It’s leftovers, and I’m going to assume you’re on Paris time, and you look like you haven’t eaten a thing. So, pizza?”

  “Lead the way.”

  I take him over to the kitchen, and he eyes the broken coffee cup on the floor.

  “Were you practicing your Hitchcock this morning?”

  “Something like that,” I tell him, opening the fridge and pulling out the pizza, then heading straight for my bedroom.

  “Where are you
going?” he asks, following me. “Don’t you want to heat that up?”

  “Cold pizza is the American way,” I tell him, and once we’re both inside, I close the door and gesture for him to get on the bed. “Take off your shoes, get on the bed.”

  “This is very bizarre,” he says as he slips off his shoes. “Is this how you all eat breakfast?”

  “No,” I tell him, climbing on the bed with him. “I just knew I’d ravage you after I had a few bites, so I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone.”

  He grins at me. So damn beautiful. “Ravage me?” he asks, brows raised. He takes the pizza box out of my hands and tosses it across the room. “The food can fucking wait.”

  Olivier pounces on me like an animal, and I let out a loud yelp and dissolve into giggles as he proceeds to attack me from head to toe with kisses, his hands trailing all over my body.

  I feel nothing but relief with him on top of me.

  I feel nothing but butterflies in my chest and love in my heart.

  I let myself be ravaged by my Frenchman—mind, body, and soul.

  EPILOGUE

  OLIVIER

  Six months later

  “Bon matin,” I hear Sadie whisper in my ear.

  I push the fragments of my dreams aside and slowly open my eyes to see soft sunlight spilling in through the windows. The light here in California is so similar to the light in the South of France, especially in winter. It’s pale, and it glows, just enough to give you warmth, enough to keep your spirits lifted.

  But the light isn’t the only thing that keeps me up.

  It’s Sadie.

  My dear, beautiful Sadie, lying on her side in bed with me, positively angelic in this light, in every light.

  When I decided to come to America and start over with her, in what she would call a ballsy move, I knew it would be a risk. I knew it would be a challenge. But I didn’t for a moment think it would be a regret.

  It hasn’t been. It was worth it ten times, no, a million times over to take that leap with her and focus on creating a life together.

  At the moment, our life is just starting to settle down, find its footing, put down roots.