He grimaces, looking uncomfortable, which is pretty rare for him. “I don’t really know. He said you were a troubled child. Unseated by some deep trauma that happened to you but you wouldn’t talk about.”
A sour laugh escapes my lips. I can’t help it. Oh, that is fucking rich. Of course he would spin it that way.
“What else did he tell you?” I ask once I’ve composed myself. I’m waiting to hear about the corkscrew stabbing.
“That’s it . . . Is there something more?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
I tilt my head as I stare at him. “Why does this matter to you?”
“Because I don’t share.”
My brows shoot up. Oh, of course he doesn’t.
And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, those words do something to me. They give me the same kind of thrill in my core as the reckless driving did.
“Because you’re mine,” he adds.
“I’m your employee,” I point out.
“And you’re mine. Whether you like it or not, you chose to work for me. You chose me, Gabrielle. You didn’t have to.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“We always have a choice. We lie to ourselves all the time and tell us that it’s fate or it’s destiny or it’s in our blood. That who we are is predetermined by someone else. But that’s not true. It’s all a lie. We always have a choice. And you chose me.”
I turn away and put my attention on the road. I don’t like the way he’s laid it out for me, though it seems he’s the one who should be following his own advice. “I work for you, Pascal. Nothing else.”
The lesser of two evils.
He just might be a lot less than I bargained for.
Regardless, I have to keep this a good relationship. I have to keep Pascal on my side because he’s the only ally I have in that house. So if he wants to claim me as his, then fine. And I’m fucking relieved that he doesn’t share.
“So what was the business, then?” he asks after a few minutes have rolled past. We’ve left the country roads behind and now are zipping along the highway heading into Paris, the smog getting thicker the closer we get. “What did you find out about the envelopes?”
I’m grateful to change the subject even though it feels a bit like walking on thin ice.
“Well, first I looked into the stamp and postmark,” I tell him. “Both postmarks were from Paris, in the eleventh arrondissement.”
That’s a lie, though. The first postmark was from Paris. The second postmark was from Saint-Nom-la-Bretèche, the nearest town to the Dumont chateau.
“That doesn’t tell us much,” he says.
“No, it doesn’t,” I tell him. “And the ink and the paper are all pretty standard, and the stamps are of the new circulation. Which means if you really want to investigate this, you need to tell me why you think your ex-wife or cousin would be trying to blackmail you. I remember Olivier,” I add. “He’s a nice guy. Different side of the family, I suppose. I really don’t see him doing that, but you did tell me he’s your enemy, so let’s start with him. What happened?”
“I blackmailed him,” he says. He says it so simply, like he just told me what he had for breakfast.
“You blackmailed your cousin? Why? When?”
He stares straight ahead for a moment, then changes lanes to speed ahead of someone. “I was young. I was . . . I don’t know. I followed orders, but I thought they came from me.” He frowns. “I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
“What orders?”
“My father had an idea. A long con, if you know the term.”
Do I ever.
He clears his throat and kneads the steering wheel lightly as he overtakes the vehicle and then cuts in front. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asks.
I shake my head and wait patiently as he lights up a cigarette, putting the window back down halfway. The air whips the smoke out of the car as he puffs back. I find myself focusing on his lips for a moment until I remember what I’m waiting for.
“My father wanted to make sure that we ended up with the majority of the company,” he says, smoke falling out of his mouth. “We had shares. My cousins, Renaud, Seraphine, and Olivier, had theirs. Olivier had the most. At the time, I was married to Marine, and my father thought it would work if we could