Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ANTOINE
T he TV crew gives up and leaves around midnight, deeply underwhelmed. Considering it’s a five-to-six-hour drive back to Paris, everybody’s staying in Dordogne overnight. Laura and I will crash here, on the sagging sofa bed in Yann’s guest room. The TV crew will sleep more comfortably at a hotel in Cahors.
The moment Laura turns on the shower, Henri, Gigi and I step out onto the balcony. Henri slides the door shut behind us. We huddle close, and keep our voices hushed against the backdrop of a starry, fragrant summer night deep in rural Dordogne.
“I was in Pombrio this morning,” Henri informs me. “Adam has some info for you.”
I don’t ask why he hasn’t called me himself, well aware that Adam von Dietz prefers to keep calling and texting to a strict minimum. Kurt may breach even the secure lines.
“Good news, I hope?” I squint, trying to read Henri’s expression in the dark.
“A mixed bag,” he says. “MESS found no music boxes or heirlooms at any of the Yang-related locations. Zip, zilch, nada.”
“I already knew that.” I lean against the rail, the metal cold under my palms.
“Cheer up, there’s good news!” Gigi comforts me. “It looks like MESS pulled off a successful decoy operation. They’d planted some false intel in Portugal and let Kurt’s agents uncover it. As a result, most of his goons, including Lino whom you met in Sardinia, are now chasing shadows between Lisbon and Porto.”
“What if he’s playing 4D chess?” I ask.
Henri tut-tuts. “Kurt doesn’t have unlimited resources. For now, we have him dancing to our tune.”
“I’m just surprised he fell for our decoy this time, after outsmarting us so many times before,” I say. “The guy’s as sharp as a whip.”
A smirk plays on my little brother’s lips. “MESS has learned not to underestimate him.”
“Disappointing as it may be,” Gigi adds with a pat on my shoulder, “you’re not Kurt’s top priority at present, Antoine.”
I glance between them, sensing there’s more. “Is there something you haven’t told me yet?”
“We’ve kept the best for last,” Gigi admits.
Henri leans in and lowers his voice. “There’s a reason Kurt isn’t at his best. Turns out, our altercation six weeks ago traumatized him more than we suspected.”
“A MESS analyst just dug up some interesting info,” Gigi jumps in. “She discovered that Kurt had a heart attack. A mild one, but enough to knock him down a peg.”
I process that, my mind racing. “When?”
“Just a couple weeks ago,” Henri says. “He went to great lengths to hide it, but we know he had surgery in Zurich and is now resting, doctor’s orders.”
I stare at him. “Is this certain?”
“Beyond a shadow of a doubt,” Henri replies. “Adam made sure the analyst’s discovery was confirmed by other sources before announcing it to the royals and the prime minister.”
“Six weeks ago, a small army of Kurt’s best men failed to snatch the sixth key from Henri and me,” Gigi says. “Worse, he let himself be captured, and barely escaped execution. It must’ve been eating at him.”
I gaze up at the night sky and picture the powerful mega-billionaire Kurt Ozzi, would-be ruler of the world, laid up in a clinic—hindered by his own body. The ironic torment of his predicament would make him almost sympathetic if it weren’t for his crimes against our royal family and his ambition to destroy Mount Evor.
“A word of caution,” Henri says, interrupting my thoughts. “Kurt is tough cookie, heart attacks notwithstanding. He’s wounded, but not out.”
“I’ll never underestimate the man that nearly had you killed,” I assure him.
Behind us, the bathroom door opens. I peer through the glass and see Laura padding to the guest room.
“We should head back in,” I say, pushing off from the railing.
Gigi and Henri exchange an amused, conspiratorial look.
It’s not like you think , I itch to say.
I’m not in love with Laura. The social, financial, and cultural gap between us is too great. To use her favorite buzzword, we literally belong in different worlds. Granted, she’s not the mindless bimbo I imagined. To my surprise, she turned out to be a sweet, sexy, genuine little thing with undeniable artistic ability and a sense of humor.
But that doesn’t change the fact that only someone like Celeste has a place in my future. Marrying an Evorian lady of quality is what is expected of me. I, the next Count de Bellay, must choose a life partner who’s my equal. I owe this to my ancestors as well as to my yet unborn descendants.
Of course, one could argue that I don’t have to carry that burden around. Henri, for instance, never did.
But I’m different. I’m the older brother—the firstborn son. That burden, that pressure is part of who I am. Significantly, it didn’t diminish even after Henri, the anti-royal prodigal son, slayed the dragon for the Crown and won the princess. If anything, it has only grown since then. And so, I’m going to “pull a Darrel.” Like our fifth key seeker, Darrel Vlovsky, I won’t be marrying my Key to the Key.
You already married her, idiot.
Yes, yes, but this sham marriage doesn’t count. I’ll have to get a divorce because I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants. Laura and I consummated the union, which made a swift annulment impossible. But that’s all right. Most WAFS couples end up divorcing. They’re almost expected to. We all signed a prenup, so the divorce shouldn’t be too messy or painful.
And, as soon as I’m free, I’ll resume my courtship of Celeste.
I open the balcony door, and the warmth of the apartment envelops me at once. What a contrast to the pleasant coolness of the night! Of course, there’s no AC here. The French have a problem with air conditioning, and it’s not for environmental reasons.
I say good night to my brother and his fiancée. They go straight to the master bedroom and close the door.
On my dash to the guest room it occurs to me that what Henri and Gigi find amusing may not be my ridiculous TV marriage per se. Rather, it’s seeing me in this freakish, unprecedented state of rut, all judgment suspended, unable to keep my hands—and other parts—off Laura.
How embarrassing!
But no less true.