Though he didn’t deserve the excessive funeral of his dreams, and we are putting it on with as little pomp as possible, it drew the attention of people all around the world. Except that it wasn’t in the way he wanted. People are here because my father is now notorious.
He was a killer.
He was a rapist.
He was an abuser.
And he is dead, slain by his own son.
I guess that makes me just as notorious as he is.
For once, I don’t mind the comparison.
He also succeeded in outdoing his brother’s funeral, but for the same reasons. While Ludovic’s funeral was full of people who actually mourned him for his kindness and generosity and vision, Gautier’s is full of those who look upon him with shock and disdain.
I’m going to guess, though, that no one is really all that surprised.
Regardless, it’s been a hell of a week. In some ways the best week of my life, in others, the worst week.
When I saw Gabrielle get shot, I swear my whole entire world disintegrated. I thought I had lost her. I thought I’d crawl out of that house with blood on my hands and a missing piece of my heart, never to be whole again. Never to truly live again.
But I kept Gabrielle alive.
Then the medics took over.
It was only when she was in the hospital and the doctor pulled me aside to tell me she was going to make it, that the bullet hadn’t hit any arteries or organs, that I finally breathed.
And then the doctor told me the news that would change my life even further.
That Gabrielle was pregnant.
And the baby was safe.
Obviously, I had no idea, and I don’t think she had any idea either. We hadn’t used a condom that first time, but after that, we were pretty careful. Normally when I sleep with a woman, I am adamant about using a condom, even if they say they’re on birth control, because I can’t risk it. I don’t want the chance of an STD changing my life, and I also don’t want a purposeful pregnancy. There are so many women out there who would love to have a bastard son of Pascal Dumont, just to get a foot in the door, to take my money, to mooch off the brand.
But with Gabrielle, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind at all.
She isn’t like them.
She isn’t like anyone I know.
She’s going to make me a father, and the feeling . . . it’s indescribable. It’s something I rarely even thought about, and when I did, I’d dismiss it with a sneer. I wasn’t fit to become a father, I didn’t want to become a father, there was no woman alive who would ever make me want that.
But with Gabrielle, I knew. When the doctor told me, I knew.
This is what I’m supposed to be.
This is how my life is supposed to go.
I won’t give this child the life I had; I’ll give it one full of love and devotion and strength. I’ll be able to change my legacy into a legacy of good, put light into the darkness in my bloodline, start again.
I glance down at my Gabrielle, the mother of my child, by my side and give her hand a squeeze.
We’re standing in the funeral home in Paris, the same one that I was in for my uncle. Despite everything, their graves will be beside each other. I like the idea of Ludovic in heaven smiling down on my father in hell. Two brothers, two different destinies.
Gabrielle looks up at me and gives me a small smile. I didn’t want her to come to the funeral at first. She only got out of the hospital two days ago, and now that she’s pregnant with my child—my child—I wanted her to take every precaution.
But Gabrielle is still stubborn, even after almost dying. I have a feeling she’ll be exponentially more stubborn as a mother. She insisted she come with me. Not just to give me moral support, because we both know people are going to judge the fuck out of me for what I did, no matter the proof, no matter that my father deserved it and it was a matter of our lives or his. But she wanted closure too. This is what she wanted for so long, and to deny her the chance to watch my father’s coffin get lowered into the ground would be cruel.
Of course, Gabrielle needs help. She’ll get the help. We both know