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  I sit down on the couch and dial, even though it’s late here and even later in Dubai. It rings and rings, and I’m prepared to hang up when Blaise finally answers.

  “What do you want?” he asks in a tired voice. I must have woken him up.

  “Is this how we’re greeting each other now?” I ask.

  Silence. Then: “What do you want, Pascal?”

  Blaise and I were never close. I used to think that maybe we were, if only because of proximity. We’re brothers and we’re close in age, but that’s about the extent of it all. The distance between us only became more apparent in the last year, and ever since he left for Dubai, it’s almost irreparable. Not that I care much. I wouldn’t have gotten that far in my life had I cared about people like I should.

  “I got a letter,” I tell him.

  More silence.

  I go on. “I believe Seraphine sent it.”

  He clears his throat. “A letter? What does it say?”

  “Ask Seraphine if she knows. She’s there in bed with you, isn’t she?”

  “What does it say, Pascal?” he repeats, and I can hear Seraphine in the background saying my name in surprise.

  “It says, ‘The world will know what you’ve done.’ Did Seraphine send it or not?”

  He lets out a sour laugh. “I don’t even have to ask her to know she didn’t. You think she’d start acting out I Know What You Did Last Summer?”

  His laugh irks me. “I know the note is theatrical,” I tell him stiffly. “Which is why I figured it was her.”

  “What is going on?” I hear Seraphine say. “Are you talking about me?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” Blaise tells her. “Pascal received a letter, he thought it was from you. Something vaguely threatening. Perhaps someone else out there thinks he had something to do with your father’s murder.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it,” I remind him carefully.

  “And yet you’re not disputing my choice of words. ‘Murder.’ How is it living in that house of horrors, knowing full well what our father is capable of? How does that sit with your conscience?”

  “You know I don’t have one,” I tell him, refusing to even let his words sink in.

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “So you swear you or Seraphine didn’t send it?”

  “I’m not swearing anything to you, brother, but it’s quite obvious that Seraphine didn’t send you a letter. What good would that do?”

  “No good, unless it was meant for our father.”

  “Is it addressed to you?”

  “It’s addressed to the Dumonts,” I tell him, staring at the address on the envelope. It’s typed, and the stamp is from France.

  “Then it’s probably for Father, not you,” he says, yawning. “Looks like the truth can’t stay buried for long. Good luck with that. If I were you, I’d take those letters as a sign to leave.”

  “So I can do what you did, take off to another country? Like a coward?”

  “Goodbye, Pascal,” he says, and before I even get a chance to ask how he is, how the baby is, he hangs up on me.

  It’s just as well. The less I know about them, the better.

  I hang up, even more disturbed than before. I knew it wasn’t Seraphine, and yet I’d hoped it was her, just so I could forget about it.

  What I need to do is try to find out where the letter came from. When I came home from work, it was on the floor with the rest of the mail, spilled out on the tiles beneath the mail slot. My mother and father were out for dinner at the time, so they hadn’t seen it.

  I have to wonder if perhaps there had been a letter prior to this one. If so, then either my mother or father would have opened it and yet not said anything to me.

  I should ask Charlotte. The thought flits across my mind.

  But Charlotte, my personal maid, quit two weeks ago in a fiery rage. Something about me being cruel and careless, which is an odd accusation considering she’s someone I’ve rarely given more than a second thought to. She was just a maid.

  Unfortunately, she was someone I do need in my life. With Blaise and Seraphine no longer working for the Dumont brand, I’ve been entrusted with all the new hires, making sure everyone and everything is working smoothly. As much as I hate to admit it, if I’m the backbone of the company, then Blaise and Seraphine were crucial organs the label needed to survive.

  As a result, I’m working long hours, and I need someone to tend to my every need when I come home. For the last year, that’s exactly what Charlotte did, and though in hindsight I can see she was crazy and emotional, she at least knew how to do her job.

  My problem is I’m picky and I’m busy, so there isn’t a lot of time for me to find a suitable candidate. It has to be someone discreet and professional, who won’t burst into tears if I hurl a few insults her way when she’s behaving like an idiot. That’s not always easy to find.

  Though it’s late, I go out into the hall and walk down it toward my mother’s room, portraits of Dumonts staring down at me from the walls. Blaise used to say he felt judgment in their following eyes, but I like to think they’re just envious.

  The door to my mother’s room is ajar, and I lightly rap on it.

  There’s no response, so I push the door open and peer inside.

  She’s on her couch, eyes closed, head back, an empty bottle of gin beside her, the TV illuminating her in shifting shades of light.

  It’s not unusual to find her passed out like this, and I’m not about to wake a sleeping beast. I start to close the door when suddenly she sits upright and says, “What is it, Pascal?” while staring right at the TV.

  My mother can be motherfucking creepy.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you,” I tell her.

  “You’re my son. I can feel your presence from a mile away,” she says and then finally looks at me. Still creepy. “Come in. What is it?”

  I step inside her room. I’ve never found it odd that my parents have had separate bedrooms for as long as I can remember. Her room is all white walls and gold accents, with gaudy art and even a statue of the Venus de Milo beside the bathroom. She has everything she needs in here, and the best part, to her, is that it doesn’t contain my father.

  “I’m going to need your help,” I tell her, wincing inwardly for muttering those words. My mother is no different from my father, and any admittance of weakness signals their predatory instincts.

  She cocks her head at me and sits up straighter, as if she has someone to impress, never mind the fact that she has mascara smudged underneath her eyes. “My help?” she repeats. “Whatever for?”

  “I need a new maid. Charlotte quit two weeks ago.”

  “I’m aware. I had to drive her to the train station, tears running down her face. What did you do to her?”

  “I didn’t do anything. She just couldn’t handle pressure.”

  She raises her brows.

  “It’s true,” I go on. “And I don’t have the time to find anyone suitable. I’ve been too fucking busy now with Blaise and Seraphine gone. The new hires are of piss-poor quality.”

  “You hired them.”

  “And they were the best of the lot. Now I need you to find me someone who I can depend on, who can handle working for me, who can take shit and thrive on it. Someone smarter than your average maid. Someone who can handle more than just wiping piss off my toilet seat and making the bed.”

  Her upper lip curls in distaste. “Really, Pascal.”

  I shrug. “At least I’m honest about it.”

  She frowns, her nostrils widening as she inhales. I’m surprised that part of her face can even move, considering the amount of Botox she has injected in there.

  “As it so happens,” she says slowly, with a touch of smugness in her eyes, “I do know of someone who would be perfect for you. Perfect for this family.”

  I give her an expectant look to go on.

  “Gabrielle.”

  Though the name is instantly f
amiliar, I have to rack my brain for the meaning.

  “Gabrielle Caron,” she goes on, though the last name means nothing to me. “Jolie’s daughter.”

  Jolie. My mother and father’s maid, who has been with the family for the last twelve years. I’d almost forgotten that Gabrielle had been living in the servants’ quarters with her mother until some years ago, when she suddenly disappeared.

  “She’s here?” I ask. “How do you know?” I certainly haven’t seen her around, but then again, I’ve been at the office most of the time.

  “Jolie told me the other day.”

  “And is Gabrielle here to get her job back?” I was seventeen by the time Gabrielle came to live with her mother. I’m guessing she was around twelve or thirteen at the time. A gangly-looking girl with big teeth and even bigger eyes. Kept to herself. I rarely saw her much until she was sixteen and started working alongside her mother. I remember liking her, as much as I liked anyone. At the very least, she did what she was told and always had a warm yet professional demeanor about her. She became my father’s personal maid for two years. Seemed to handle it well, perhaps because my father always acted rather fond of her. Then one day she left, never to return.

  Until now.

  “I’m not sure why she’s back,” my mother says. “But Jolie says she’s been studying in New York all this time. Business, I think. She was a smart girl, if I remember.”

  “I don’t remember much of what goes on with the staff,” I say, “but I do know that she was working for us full-time when she should have been in school. Her mother was never smart enough to teach her anything, so she’s really just a dropout. Business school in New York sounds like a stretch.”

  My mother yawns and gets to her feet, clutching her silk robe. “You asked me to find you someone, and I just gave you an option. I’ll ask Jolie tomorrow.”

  “I’ll ask,” I tell her. “And I’ll put Gabrielle through a proper interview.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m going to bed.”

  Her walk to the bedroom is a mix of drunken staggering and the overcorrection of that, causing her to sway with her head held high. Once she’s in her room, I hear the pop of a cork and assume she’s having another nightcap.

  I shake my head, and for a brief instant, I feel something like pity for my mother. To have everything and find alcohol the only way to enjoy it. To waste a life like that.

  But those feelings never stay long for me. I turn to head back to my room, and they dissolve like dust behind me.

  I wake up the next day with an erection the size of a skyscraper. I can’t remember my dreams, but images flit through my mind, me balls deep inside some leggy blonde up against the wall of my office. It makes sense; I’ve been so busy lately in the office that I haven’t had time to get off.

  I’ll fix that tonight, I tell myself. Scroll through my phone and find a model who knows how to give me a good time. I should do something about my erection, too, but as my mind latches on to all the things I need to do today, it fades in an instant.

  There’s work, of course, but then there’s Gabrielle.

  I hate hiring people, and I’m already doubting she’ll be good enough.

  I take a shower and get dressed, a sharp black Dumont suit with an ice-blue tie that I know brings out my eyes. I might have to be a bit charming today, so it can’t hurt.

  Then I head downstairs, swinging by the kitchen where Jolie is making the morning espresso for my mother. My father has most likely left for work already. He can’t afford to be outdone by me. Always the first one in the office these days, though I’m more than certain he’s not particularly doing anything. I’ve been carrying the entire weight of the company’s changes.

  “Jolie,” I say to her as I adjust my cuff links. She looks up from her duties with surprise. I rarely address her, nor pay her any attention.

  I’m sure I would have when she was younger. I suppose she’s still an attractive woman, if she wasn’t so thin and didn’t look so hardened. She’s tall, with frizzy blonde hair that never seems tame despite it being tied back, but her eyes always vacillate between eerie blankness and pure anxiety, as if she can’t choose which state to live in.

  “Yes, Mr. Dumont,” she says, standing at attention.

  “It’s Pascal,” I tell her. I hate being called Mr. Dumont.

  She just nods curtly and waits for me to go on.

  “I heard your daughter was back in Paris,” I tell her.

  A tight smile comes across her face. “She is.”

  “Is she here to work? Because I might have a job for her.”

  Her expression doesn’t change. Perhaps she was waiting for someone to ask, or maybe my mother already said something to her.

  “I can’t speak directly for her, but I think that would be wonderful,” she says.

  I nod and flip through my phone to check my schedule. “Where is she staying? Would she be able to come by the office at noon?”

  “I believe she is in a hotel.” She pauses. “She did not think it right to stay in the guesthouse with me. I can text her and let her know. Your office at noon.”

  “You do that. Thank you.”

  After that, I get in my Audi and drive to work. Traffic can be hellish, and we live quite a bit outside Paris, but I don’t mind the time in the car when it’s just me and I can think.

  Naturally, my mind goes back to the letter.

  It goes to my father.

  It goes to what Blaise said last night: How is it living in that house of horrors, knowing full well what our father is capable of? How does that sit with your conscience?

  The truth is, I don’t let myself think about it. That’s how I get through it. That’s how you can get through anything in life, no matter how horrific, immoral, or appalling. Just don’t think about it.

  Pretend it doesn’t exist.

  Pretend that there is no truth.

  And yet . . . I can feel something stirring inside me, sinking through my veins like black oil. Maybe it is the truth. Maybe it’s the realization that as the days tick on and the closer I work with my father, the more I become my father.

  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 sta
ying 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.”