For once in my life, I’m not sure that’s who I want to be.
And yet I can’t see myself becoming anyone else.
Once at the office, I sink into the strife and hustle. It’s been nearly a year since Ludovic’s death, and though all the staff is new—save the receptionist—it’s taken this long for the company to really hit its stride. In some ways it’s true of the world. Ludovic was revered and admired for sticking to his morals and ideals when it came to the Dumont label. He was against collaborations with artists, against online shopping, against sales. He held true to tradition no matter the cost.
The moment my father and I were able to take over, we changed it all up. We shook every part of this company loose and made it so that it could compete in this century. Ludovic’s tenacity and old-fashioned leanings may have been quaint, but we were finally able to bring the brand to the next level.
Sales are up, across the board and in every sector. Sure, I know we take a hit when it comes to our twice-yearly sales, and die-hard fans have complained that the brand is more accessible now, no longer so exclusive. Some have even said we’ve sold out.
But selling out just brings in money, and in the end, that’s all that matters with our family. Money is our legacy. Greed is our strength.
And getting what I want is where I really shine.
Currently what I want is a new fucking maid, so when noon rolls around and Gabrielle hasn’t shown up to the office, I get a bit pissy. I text my mother to talk to Jolie, berating myself for not getting Jolie’s contact info myself; then once I discover where Gabrielle is staying, I head on out of the office.
Of course there’s a chance she could be on her way over to see me and is running late, but texts to Gabrielle’s cell aren’t going through (maybe because she still has a New York number). I only have her hotel.
Surprisingly, she’s staying at a nice one. Not the Dumont brand, of course, owned by my cousin Olivier, but definitely not the hostels or cheap hotels I’d expect to find her in. I figured someone who came back in need of work wouldn’t have the extra money to spend.
Even more of a surprise is that I recognize the girl at the front desk.
Her name, however, escapes me, but those plush, dick-sucking lips do not.
“Pascal,” she says to me, giving me a beguiling smile and a fluttering of fake lashes. “Long time no see.”
I quickly glance at her name tag. “Hello, Aurelie,” I tell her. “I have a favor to ask you.” I lower my voice and give her the eye, the one that hints at promises I’ll never keep.
“A favor?” she asks brightly. She eyes the other front desk crew, who are trying not to pay attention to us or, should I say, to me. Since I’m the face of the Dumont men’s cologne, I have quite the recognizable mug. She leans in and whispers, staring up at me through her lashes, “Why should I do you a favor when you never called me back?”
Whoops.
I grin at her. “You can’t blame me for being busy.”
She straightens up and purses her lips. “Mm-hmm.”
Maybe getting a favor out of her will be harder than I thought.
Luckily, I know how to bargain.
“Listen, how about I take you for dinner on Friday night,” I tell her. “You get to pick the spot.”
Her face lights up, and I go on. “I’m sure you get a great discount at this hotel, too, but where I’ll end up fucking you will make this place look like a dump.”
Her eyes widen at that, and she bites those juicy lips of hers. My erection springs to life, pressing against the front of my dress pants. Another sign of how badly I need to get laid.
I can hear the murmurs of the staff and guests, who probably overheard me, but I don’t really care. I turn my charming smile to them, too, just to let them know exactly how I bargain.
They look away, blushing, and I eye Aurelie expectantly. “So about that favor?” She swallows hard and nods, and I lean in closer, my breath on her ear. “You have a guest staying here,” I whisper. “Gabrielle Caron. I need to know what room she’s in.”
She stiffens and pulls back enough to give me a look. A jealous one.
“Don’t worry, she’s an ex-employee. A maid,” I clarify. “She’s here visiting her mother.”
“A maid and she’s staying here?” she asks quietly, a wash of disdain on her face.
I shrug. “Perhaps she’s cleaning the rooms to pay for it. I don’t know. But I did have an appointment with her today, and she never showed up, nor is she answering her phone. So if you could . . .”
Aurelie seems to think about it for a moment and then nods. “Okay. But I could get in trouble for this.”
I lean in closer again, grazing her earlobe with my lips. She smells like vanilla, and if I remember correctly, that’s exactly the way she likes her sex. Oh well.
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
She lets out a shaky breath and checks for Gabrielle on her computer.
“Room 512,” she says quietly.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“And dinner?” she asks, her tone anxious.
“I’ll call you,” I say and then head through the spacious lobby toward the elevators. I probably will keep my word, but Friday is days away, and I’m going to need to fuck someone before then.
Naturally, after that exchange, I start thinking about Gabrielle. She would most likely be twenty-five now. When I think back to the way she was back then, I have a hard time seeing her as anything beyond the age of thirteen. Even though she was around eighteen when she left, I can only see her as something blank and disposable.
I get to her floor, find her room, and knock on it.
I wait.
Hear nothing.
Knock on her door again.
Press my ear against it.
For some reason I have this insane image of a room filled with blood, with a body on the floor, blonde hair spilled out and sticking to it.
The door opens an inch, caught by the chain lock.
The biggest, most intensely blue eyes stare back at me. They stare at me with such ferocity that I’m momentarily stunned. I’ve forgotten why I’m here or even where I am.
“Can I help you?” she says, and it takes a moment to realize that this is not only an actual person—not some nymph or princess from a fantasy, her white-blonde hair spilling around her in waves—but that it’s Gabrielle.
It has to be.
“Gabrielle?” I ask.
“Pascal Dumont,” she says coolly, eyeing me up and down. “What are you doing here?”
I frown. “Well, we had a meeting at noon, and when you didn’t show up at the office and didn’t answer your phone, I decided to track you down.”
Her eyes narrow just a bit, just enough to break the spell. I swear she was fucking hypnotizing me. “Is stalking something you do for fun? What if I didn’t want to be tracked down?”
I blink at her. “Excuse me? We had a meeting.”
“No,” she says. “You tried to set up a meeting with me through my mother, who of course agreed on my behalf. The truth is, I don’t like you and have no desire to work for you or the Dumont name, in any shape or form. Have a good day.”
Then she closes the door in my face.