out into our tiny living area and to the plush couch adorned with a copious number of pillows. The style in the house is different from what I remember—only my room remains untouched. Everything before was bare and drab, and now it’s all white and gold, with lots of ruffles and paintings and weird decor.
“Did you decorate this?” I ask, eyeing the walls as I sit down and she pours me tea.
“Me?” she says, looking around. “No, this is all Mrs. Dumont. She loves to come here and fix things up.”
Something about that makes me so sad. I watch my mom closely as I ask, “Do you like what she’s done with the place?”
My mother’s lips quirk for a split second, as if she’s unsure of whether to smile or not. Then she does, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, of course. She has such excellent taste.”
Hmm. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
“I’m sure she could decorate your room if you’d like,” she says. “We didn’t want to change it, in case you came back.”
I stare at her, puzzled. “You thought I would come back?”
After every fucking thing that happened?
She shrugs and blows on her tea. “Um, yes. Gautier always said you would return.”
Gautier.
The bile in my throat rises. “He said that?” I say softly.
“Yes. He said that you left because you felt ashamed for what you did, that it was a misunderstanding. All is forgiven, you see. That’s why you’re back here.”
No. No, no. I’m back here because I chose to be.
My heart is beginning to race, and my hands feel clammy. “I hate to break it to you, Mama, but I only decided to come here last month. I was going to stay in New York. No one had any idea I was coming here.”
She tilts her head side to side like a bird, considering what I said. “If you insist. Sure. But Gautier knew you would come back and you would want to work for the family again. What I’m trying to say is that it’s so good to have you home, where you belong.”
No. This isn’t my home. This will never be my home.
And it shouldn’t be her home either.
I just don’t know how I’m going to convince her of that.
“What else did he say?” I ask cautiously.
“You can ask him yourself,” she says, and while I’m frowning at that, I notice that there is a third mug on the table.
And then a knock at the front door.
Oh my God.
I whirl around to check the door, and through the upper glass window, I see a darkened figure standing there on the other side.
“Who is that?” I cry out softly, hand at my chest.
“It’s the master of the house,” my mother says. “He came back early.”
The master.
Oh fuck.
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready.
My mom is in the process of getting up to answer the door when the door opens anyway and Gautier steps in.
“Jolie,” he says to my mother in a warm voice and with a stiff smile.
Then, as the door closes behind him with a loud click that sounds like the closing of a prison cell door, his eyes come to me.
The grin on his face widens, making him look like even more of a monster. He hasn’t changed much, just more plastic surgery on his face, making him look like someone took him apart and put him back together, just with a touch more evil this time.
“My Gabrielle,” he says in a rich voice. “You’re here.”
I freeze. I can’t breathe, I can’t smile, I can’t make a sound.
I can only stare up at him.
I can only hope that he truly believes what he told my mother, that I’m here because I wanted to return home, because I wanted forgiveness for the things he thinks I did. I need him to think that, to have no suspicions about me.
“You’re shocked to see me?” he asks when I don’t say anything, and he comes around the couch so he’s standing right in front of me, peering down at me. “Cat got your tongue?” His voice is lower now.
“I think she’s just surprised that you’re home early,” my mother speaks up. “Please sit down. I have tea.”
I still can’t move. I can only stare at him with wide eyes, while my heart and lungs and every part of me inside cowers and shakes with absolute fear.
The memories.
The memories.
“Ah,” he says, taking the seat right next to me, so close that I slide toward him on the cushion, my thigh pressing against