of champagne and hands it to me. “How about I’ll spare you from mine if you tell me yours.”
“Deal,” I say, clinking the glass against his.
The private jet is everything I’ve seen in the movies and from a select few lucky influencers on Instagram. It’s narrow, lined with shining wood, with plush cream seats and a smiling hostess who caters to your every whim. This particular hostess looks like she could be a model, and she seems to be awfully chummy with Pascal. I have zero doubt that he’s slept with her, and for once, I feel a pang of jealousy in my belly.
I don’t like it.
Jealousy is a foreign and most unwanted feeling.
And that feeling definitely wasn’t part of the plan, not even a little.
Makes me wonder how I’m going to get through this. I’m here for a reason, or at least two, and neither has to do with Pascal.
I need to get my mother out of the house. This is a long shot, but I know I have to try. I know she seems happy there, I know she thinks she’s happy there, but I have no doubt that Gautier treats her like a toy, that she’s got an extreme case of Stockholm syndrome and she’ll never truly be safe or free until she leaves.
That’s my first priority, and in some ways, that’s the trickiest one. All this time I’ve been gone, I’ve been fixated on how to get my revenge on Gautier. I’ve fantasized about his death. I’ve planned so many different ways. Poison. A gun. Stabbing him while he sleeps. Compared to convincing my mother to leave, it all seems easy.
But as much as I’ve thought about it, my mother will have to come first. If I can convince her to go, if I convince her of what a monster Gautier is, then I won’t have to kill him at all. Sure, there will be no justice for what he did; he’ll get to keep on living, free, since there’s no way anyone would convict a man of his wealth and power over the word of an unstable and lowly maid.
However, if my mother won’t come with me, then I have no choice.
I can’t live my life knowing she’s there in his clutches.
If she won’t go, I’ll have to make sure he goes.
And with a man like Gautier, there’s only one way to do that.
Thoughts like that have me wondering if perhaps I’m a little unhinged.
I glance over at Pascal, who is sitting across the aisle, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring out at the clouds.
Maybe I’m not much better than he is.
What a terrifying thought.
My first impression of Mallorca is that it’s an absolutely magical island. If Pascal keeps calling me a sprite, then perhaps this is where I come from, born of the clear aquamarine water that seems to beckon me from each winding turn the car makes as we drive toward his villa.
We’re in a rental Mercedes convertible, and the top is down, and the sun is just starting to set behind us, turning the blues into golds.
I close my eyes and take my hair out of the bun and let the wind whip it around into a blonde tornado. I laugh, I smile. I soak it all in. This feeling of freedom I’ve never had before.
When I open my eyes, Pascal is staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask, but I’m unable to stop grinning.
“Nothing,” he says after a bit. “I’m just admiring the view.”
I look to the right to see stark cliffs dipping into the sea with sailboats plying the waters. The view is beautiful, but I have a feeling he may have been talking about me.
My heart does a skip and a jump, and I try to knock that feeling away the best I can, but the freedom of this island and the open air are infectious.
So I let myself enjoy the compliment. I ignore the fact that Pascal is a smooth talker, that this is part of his shtick. I know he wants me, and I know exactly in what way. It’s a way that could fuck things up for me royally.
Eyes on the prize, I remind myself, but those thoughts drift away with the sea breeze.
It’s not too long before we pull down a narrow gravel road, the car bouncing between olive groves until a sprawling ochre villa appears, the sea behind it.