Chapter 2
EVA
The last guest leaves with a final squeeze of my hand and words of comfort that I promptly forget. I stand in the echoing quiet of Fort Vauclairt’s reception hall. My face hurts from holding the same expression all day.
Alex is nowhere to be seen. The awful man must have vanished the way he arrived—silent, aloof, offering nothing.
Not even a token “sorry for your loss,” which I’d toss right back at him, both of us knowing we don’t mourn Geoffroy.
He must’ve decided speaking to me, no matter how briefly, wasn’t worth his time.
Why waste it on swapping civilities with his half brother’s widow, when he can go crack some hitherto unproven theorem or dabble in quant trading?
Well, good riddance!
Now that Geoffroy and Julian are gone, I hope I never see Alex again. No more awkward family reunions. No more forcing myself to be civil around Alexandre Castellane, when he’s so brusque with me.
“Eva,” someone behind me says.
I turn to find Pauline. She’s changed out of heels and into low boots, but she’s still crisp as ever in black slacks and a suit jacket. A lawyer first, a friend second.
“Have you seen Alex since the royals left?” I ask.
“Alex Castellane?” She shakes her head. “You?”
I smirk. “I’m sure he collected his condolences and left.”
To my surprise, Pauline doesn’t nod in agreement but fidgets uncomfortably.
“Fancy a drink in the garden?” I ask. “It’s still mild enough to sit outside.”
“Can you come with me to the library?” she blurts.
I blink at her. “Now?”
“Yes. Ma?tre Duret will be reading Geoffroy’s will.”
What? “I thought it was scheduled for tomorrow.”
Her fingers tighten around the handle of her briefcase. “It was moved up to fit everyone’s schedule.”
“Everyone’s?” I stare at her.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she averts her gaze and fusses with her silk shirt.
My hands curl at my sides. “I need to find Millie.”
“She’s already there.”
I close my eyes. Exhale. My ribs ache from the corset of protocol I’ve been wearing all day. Pauline waits. She knows me well enough to sense when I need a moment to get a grip.
I open my eyes. “Let’s go.”
We exit the hall and head upstairs. The corridors stretch long and quiet, lined with stones older than most nations. Fort Vauclairt was built to repel attacks, and it still feels like it’s holding its breath.
Everything echoes.
Fortunately, the Persian rugs layered over flagstone keep my heels quiet.
Their rich, deep reds and golds warm a place designed for war.
Heavy French tapestries depict royal hunts; together with faded coats of arms, they break up the chill of the gray walls.
But the castle still looms. I’ve always loved that about this fortified chateau, but today it unsettles me.
My hands are frigid even though I’m sweating inside my black wool dress as we climb another flight of stairs.
Pauline doesn’t say anything. She just walks beside me, brisk and purposeful, like this is any other legal appointment. From the third floor, the staircase shrinks and curves up, tight and narrow. My palm presses against the oak railing, smooth from centuries of people gripping it firmly.
We reach the top landing and turn left. The door to the library stands open.
I hesitate for a second.
Pauline glances back at me from the doorway. We step inside.
Even after sixteen years of calling Fort Vauclairt my home, I’m struck by the charm of its library.
It has a vaulted ceiling, hand-carved beams, and wall-to-wall shelves stuffed with old leather-bound volumes no one’s read in decades.
The scent of aged paper and beeswax polish wraps around me, briefly drowning out the other scent. The one I don’t want to acknowledge.
I keep my gaze tight.
A fire crackles in the hearth. Candles flicker along the sideboard.
A tray of untouched mineral water and sparkling glasses sits on a low table.
My gaze slides to the rug underneath, to Millie’s black patent leather shoes beside a wingback chair, to the carved legs of a massive desk, and to a stack of documents on it.
I don’t look at anyone. I don’t want to see Brigitte drowning her grief in wine, or Millie trying to sit still or—
That scent.
Woodsy, clean, masculine, subtle. Suddenly, it hits me hard. There’s no more hiding from reality even if I clench my jaw and pretend I didn’t breathe Alex’s cologne in like oxygen underwater.
He’s here.
His lawyer is here, too. Derek something. Albrighi, I think. A shark in polished shoes, all perfect posture and predatory gaze. I can feel him watching Pauline and me.
Finally, I let my eyes lift.
Alex, dressed in a tailored coat and charcoal shirt, sits near the window. He looks right at me. No smile. No emotion. Just those sharp, intelligent eyes.
I hate him.
If there was one thing Geoffroy and I agreed on in the last years of our unholy matrimony, it was our dislike for his younger half brother. The old duke, Rodolphe, had been married to Alex’s mother for only three years. Unfortunately, that didn’t prevent the couple from having a son.
But Alex has barely lived here at Fort Vauclairt, or in Rohinn. Ornella, his mom, took him to Pombrio after Rodolphe dumped her, which, I am told, was a much uglier divorce than his amiable breakup with Geoffroy’s mom, Brigitte.
There’s no doubt in my mind Geoffroy bequeathed next to nothing to Alex.
I hope it’s nothing.