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.
And so I don’t say anything. But I’m afraid one day I will.
I’m also afraid I won’t.
That I’ll live my whole life without ever telling them how I really feel and what I really know.
All this money, all this luxury, all this power that’s built into the Dumont name and legacy is all fake. My family has done horrible, wicked things to get to where they are.
The sad thing is, I’m no better than them, and I don’t even want to try. I’ll cheat and lie and steal and blackmail my way to the top too. I’ll just be a little more honest about it. I might be young, but I’ve seen enough to know age doesn’t excuse anything.
There’s a knock at the door. My room is large, and the sound echoes across the wood floors and cold stone walls. I live in a stupidly large maison on the outskirts of Paris. It’s practically a castle, which isn’t unusual for a family with a lot of wealth. It used to be my great-grandfather’s and then his son’s, passed down from generation to generation just like the Dumont business. It probably should have gone to my uncle since he’s always been more of a family man, but I’m told my father snatched it out from under his nose.
Just as well. There’s nothing you could do to make this place seem warmer.
The knock resounds again, and I turn away from the windows where I’ve been staring out at the backyard, watching the servants set up for the party. “What?” I ask.
The door opens, and my mother pokes her head in. It’s early, but she already looks like she’s been to the salon, every strand of her hair perfectly in place, every particle of makeup perfectly applied. Jewels and gold drip from her ears and around her neck. She’s never been your typical Frenchwoman who is careful about showing off her wealth. Instead, she wears her money and stature with pride, a gaudiness that other people make fun of her for, but she clearly couldn’t care. “If they think I’m tacky, fuck them! They’re only jealous.” I’ve heard her yell this at my father often, usually on a bender after too much gin and champagne.
“You’re not dressed,” she says to me. I’m still in my pajamas. I’ve been awake for hours but haven’t actually gotten out of bed.
I shrug. “It’s my birthday,” I remind her. “Figured I could do what I want.”
She cocks a penciled brow. “Blaise, it may be your birthday, but you do have company coming over soon.”
I groan, running my hands over my face. “It’s nine a.m. on a Saturday. My friends aren’t coming over until later.”
“Yes, but your uncle, aunt, and cousins are coming over for lunch, and you know you can’t afford to look like a slob in front of them.” There’s a glint of cruelty in her eyes. It’s not unusual for her to start my birthdays—or any day—drinking, and it’s especially not unusual for her to start getting mean. But I already feel like today is different. Perhaps age thirteen is when they throw you to the wolves.
Might not be a bad thing, I think to myself. As long as the stupid charade is thrown away with me.
Besides, it’s a known rule in this house that we must look better than my uncle’s family at all costs. “Just give me a bit, okay?”
She narrows her eyes at my tone but pastes a smile on her face, which stretches tightly. “Take all the time you need. It’s your birthday, after all.”