Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
LAURA
T he bathroom is still steamy when I turn the water off. Exhaustion threatens to tug me under, albeit less than before the shower. I step into the fluffy white slippers, wrap myself in a hotel bathrobe, and brush my teeth with the complimentary toothpaste and toothbrush.
While I dry my hair, my mind scrambles to piece together the fragmented events of the day. Antoine is still on the phone. His voice drifts in through the closed bathroom door—low and urgent. I wonder what he’s handling…. And who he really is… And, above all, what he’s going to tell me when we finally talk.
After I’m finished in the bathroom, I beeline to the bed and drop onto it. Antoine hangs up at last. But instead of sitting down by my side, he flashes me a smile and steps into the bathroom.
Patience, Laura. Soon.
I look around for something to occupy my mind and hands. Spotting a branded notepad and a pencil on the nightstand, I grab them and begin to sketch. My lines are imprecise, mirroring the thoughts that swirl in my head.
Fifteen minutes later, Antoine comes out of the bathroom. His dark hair is damp and slicked back. Like me, he’s changed into the hotel’s fluffy robe and slippers. It is funny how normal the two of us look right now, just a regular married couple unwinding after a long day.
He settles on the bed next to me.
I put down the pencil and notepad. “I’m listening.”
Antoine exhales deeply. “What I’m going to tell you may sound strange.”
“Try me.”
“My name is Antoine de Bellay. I’m a viscount,” he says, a hint of pride in his tone. “I’m the CEO of the Bellay Enterprises, which consists of three successful companies owned by my family.”
“Is one of them a tattoo parlor in the 18th arrondissement?”
He gives me a guilty little smile. “Confession number two: I’m not just uniquely talentless as a tattoo artist—I’m no tattoo artist at all.”
“Color me surprised,” I say with a smirk.
“But if we look at the assets column, I’ve been successful in tracking down the seventh Montevor key, as prophesied by our oracle, Princess Felicia.”
“The seventh what now?” I blink at him, certain I’ve misheard. “You’re messing with me, right? Is this some elaborate joke?”
“It is not a joke, Laura.”
I narrow my eyes. “So, you’re a real-life viscount.”
“It’s a courtesy title, as a matter of fact,” he explains. “In the Evorian peerage, as in the British, the oldest son bears his father’s lesser titles.”
“Um, I see…” …diddly-squat.
“My father,” he tries again, “the Count de Bellay, also holds a viscountcy. So.”
“Of course,” I say. “It’s all clear as day to me now.”
He smiles. “Frankly, it’s the least important part, so let’s move on, shall we? We can revisit it later.”
I nod.
“My country is called Mount Evor,” he begins. “It’s a tiny and very prosperous principality in the Alps, between France, Italy and Switzerland.”
“Something like Monaco?”
“In many ways, yes.”
I frown. “Why have I never heard of it?”
“That’s how it should be. Only heads of state, high-ranking diplomats, nobility and a few initiated people around the world know of its existence.”
And you expect me to believe that?
“We’ll revisit that part later,” I say. “Go on.”
“Mount Evor is in a terrible predicament. My country will lose its sovereignty and legally cease to exist, unless we recover a precious document by January 1 of next year.”
“What document?”
“The authentic version of the addendum to our founding treaty, signed between King Robert II of France and Princess Philomena Theresa of Mount Evor around the year 1000.”
“Okaaay…”
“There’s a prophecy about nine long-lost keys,” he carries on. “Together, they open a vault which, we believe, contains the addendum.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We’ve recovered six of the keys so far. A few weeks ago, the oracle named me the seventh key seeker. And you, dear Laura, were foretold to be my Key to the Key.”
I stare at him, my brain struggling to catch up with the ludicrousness of what he’s saying.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Our pairing on the show wasn’t a result of the ‘compatibility formula’ the experts created. It was Pedro who orchestrated it.”
“Pedro Montfort?”
“Yes. He’s an Evorian secret agent, and he’s been working with me from the start.”
I let out a brittle, humorless laugh.
“My mission is now complete,” Antoine concludes. “I can finally get back to my businesses and other responsibilities.”
“Congratulations.”
“Laura. Sweet cheeks.” He brushes a strand of hair away from my face. “I did my duty. And you helped me. Please know that you will be generously compensated for your cooperation.”
“Compensated?”
“Yes.” He leans forward, his tone excited. “The Royal Bank of Mount Evor is making deposits as we speak. Bitcoin, dollars and euros across several accounts. Three million euros in total, two from the Crown, and one from me.”
“What?”
“I added a million,” he repeats, misinterpreting my disbelief, “to offset the draconian taxes that France will make you pay on your reward. Taxes are so low in Mount Evor that our bureaucrats can’t even begin to imagine the rip-off that goes on over here.”
I know his words have meaning, but my brain fails to grasp it. It’s as though Antoine was suddenly speaking to me in Japanese.
“You can quit the bank, if you wish.” He beams. “Just think about it—you can design costume jewelry full time!”
I mumble something even I don’t understand.
He chatters on, “And I’m going to lobby Prince Richard during my audience tomorrow for you to receive the Royal Mount Evor Order of Chivalry.”
“Nice,” I nod on autopilot.
No clue what he actually said. It sounded like more Japanese words. I heard them, but didn’t understand them. My neurons are too busy wrestling with a realization so excruciatingly painful that my mind refuses to let it in.
He perks up. “Other Keys to the Key were made Lady of the Brassiere, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t be. Right?”
“Right.”
“We have it easier than the previous tandems.” He shrugs. “But hey, we fulfilled our mission, didn’t we? It’s all that matters. A brush with death isn’t a prerequisite for the honor.”
So many words, so little meaning…
“What about the show?” I ask.
“What show?” He gives me a blank stare, before slapping a hand on his forehead. “You mean Wed at First Sight . Of course! I’m so stupid.”
“They’re expecting us back in Paris tomorrow.”
“Laura—”
I interrupt, “And what about”—my voice cracks—“us? What happens to our marriage?”
“I’ll notify Isabelle of our ‘trial separation,’” he announces, all dry and pragmatic.
“When?” I manage.
“Straight away. There’s no need to wait until the official Decision Day. I’ll fly directly to Mount Evor tomorrow morning. You to Chengdu, then Paris. We’ll get divorced and move on with our lives.”
I stare at him, unable to process how nonchalantly he just demolished everything we’d built—or what I thought we’d built. That’s when my mind finally understands his cruelty.
“You, me, our marriage,” I say, “it was all an elaborate deception. You lied to me from beginning to end, Antoine. You used me.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it.
I stare at him, my heart pounding. “All the kindness you showed me, all the encouragement and protectiveness, it was all fake! It was all an act.”
“No,” he says quietly. “Not all.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Hell, he didn’t even pass Denise’s test!
When he asked to see my designs, it wasn’t out of a genuine interest. And certainly not because he cared. It was only because he hoped they might contain a clue to his precious key.
The tears come before I can stop them, hot and humiliating.
“Wow,” I whisper. “Just, wow.”
“Laura, please?—”
“What was it you said about compensation?”
“Three million euros.”
“Assuming it’s true, you think you can buy my forgiveness?” I grit through the lump in my throat. “Go fuck yourself, Antoine! And stick your money where the sun don’t shine, while you’re at it!”
I turn my back to him and slump onto the edge of the bed, as far away from him as possible. Tears blur my vision. This can’t be happening. I was so happy! I thought?—
He scoots closer and sets a gentle hand on my waist. “Laura, I do hope one day you’ll forgive me.”
“Never.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” he pleads. “The fate of my country was hanging in the balance.”
“You could have told me the truth from the outset.”
“I couldn’t, believe me.”
I turn around again to look him in the eye. “Then you should’ve kept me at arm’s length. You should’ve made sure I didn’t fall in love with you!”
“That was the plan,” he says. “And I tried! God knows, I did. But you proved irresistible.”
“Go on, call me a temptress!”
“That’s not what I meant.” He strokes my hip. “I was prepared to deal with a siren, a cheap femme fatale. But you turned out to be honest, open, funny, naturally sensual…”
He hesitates, as if summoning up courage.
I hold my breath. Is he going to admit he has feelings for me?
“I want you so much, Laura! If you…” He searches my face. “Would you like to make love one last time?”
I recoil like I’ve been slapped.
He freezes up.
“Not a chance!” I yell. “You wanted me to learn to say no. Well, here it comes. I want you to leave! I can’t stand the sight of you anymore. Get out!”
His face darkens and his hand falls away.
I point to the door. “Out!”
“Laura—”
“You’re rich, right?” I snap. “Go book yourself another room. Leave me alone!”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, his eyes searching mine as if looking for a sign that I didn’t really mean it. When he finds none, he releases a defeated sigh and climbs out of the bed. Silently, he gathers his clothes, wallet, and shoes. He pauses at the door and looks back over his shoulder. I turn to the window. The door clicks shut behind him.
Alone at last, I let the tears flow unrestrained.