But now, my father is dead.
And there’s only me left to fight his battles.
Battles that I’m slowly but surely losing.
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.”