balks. I tighten my grip on her hand and give her a pleading look, trying to get her to just trust me.
There seems to be a war going on in her head until she finally nods.
I bring her in the bedroom and lead her all the way into the bathroom and then shut the door, locking it behind me.
When I turn around, she’s backed up against the sink, her hands gripping the corners, looking like a trapped deer. “What are you doing?” she says in a low, edgy voice.
“Gabrielle,” I say softly, holding up my hands. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Why are we here?”
“Maybe I wanted to do an inspection of your bathroom-cleaning skills.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t break her doe-eyed stare.
“Look,” I tell her, putting my hands in my pockets. “I think I’ve grown a little paranoid lately. Sometimes I think my office could be bugged. Maybe even my bedroom. But I guarantee no one would put a bug in here.”
“Who on earth would record you?”
My brow quirks up. She has to know.
The realization dawns on her face. “I see.”
“After what happened with Blaise and Seraphine, after my father almost had her killed—”
“He what?”
Ah fuck. Fuck, fuck.
Maybe I’ve said more than I should have.
“Never mind that.”
“Never mind? That’s your cousin we’re talking about. Now you’re saying he tried to have her killed.”
Well, down the rabbit hole we go. “At first he just wanted to scare her, so he says. Rough her up. I don’t know, maybe worse. Maybe I try not to think about it. But yeah . . . I don’t think he would have hesitated killing her to shut her up.”
Gabrielle is staring at me with such intensity that it makes my stomach curl up in knots. “I can’t believe you,” she says quietly, shaking her head.
“What did I do?”
“What did you do? What . . . You live here, Pascal. And he’s your father. You just told me that you think your father would have murdered your own cousin, and that’s enough to tell me what you think really happened to your uncle. So fine, admit it or not, but you know what he’s capable of, and yet here you are, living in his house, working for his company.”
“It’s my fucking company now,” I growl. “I’m the one stepping in, doing everything. He does nothing.”
“But in the end, it will still be his. Isn’t that why he murdered Ludovic? To get everything? To put himself at the top and you right below him? Right under his thumb.”
“Fuck you,” I sneer, my blood running hot. “I’m not under his thumb.”
“You can’t be that delusional,” she says snidely. “Or maybe you can. Maybe your ego is so out of control that it won’t let you accept the reality, that you’ve spent your whole life trailing behind him, begging your father to be proud of you, doing everything you can to be just like Daddy.”
I’m at her in a second, my hand on her throat, pressing the back of her head into the mirror while she gives a frightened cry. “You should know better than to say that,” I tell her, my heart raging in my head, pushing my hand against her windpipe until her eyes widen and widen, until I feel her fear pulse against my palm, fear that once excited me, fear that now disturbs me.
As quick as it came on, my rage subsides, the black cloud that took hold of my brain and soul lifts, and I realize what I’m doing. I lost my temper, as I do, but I lost it in the worst way and with the wrong person. My issues are with my father. They aren’t with her.
I quickly let go of her and turn around, not able to face her. I hear her coughing before she takes in a deep, wheezing breath.
“You just proved my point,” she manages to say, her voice raw.
I glance at her over my shoulder and see her rubbing at her throat, brows knit together, her hand clenched around the edge of the sink until her knuckles are white.
Shit.
Fucking shit.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, even though these words don’t come easy. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” she says, straightening up. “But it’s what you do. You’re a Dumont.”
And she’s right. I am a Dumont, and I’ve been a slave to my temper and wicked ways for a long time. It’s just never bothered me before.