2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Where I Belong
Luca
There is absolutely no reason for me to still be this annoyed.
None whatsoever.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the obscene sounds I had the misfortune of hearing through Simone’s hotel-room door.
But I am.
And I can’t erase the image of her and Adrien walking out of that suite looking thoroughly disheveled, as though they’d destroyed everything inside it.
Even now, as I wait for her to finish whatever ridiculous performance she concocted in there, I can’t shake it.
It isn’t the over-the-top moaning, the rhythmic pounding, or even the crash that nearly had me kicking down the door. For one terrifying second, I thought something had gone wrong. That she’d hurt herself.
Then she started screaming like a banshee again.
No.
What bothers me is the fact that Simone did all of it to piss me off.
And what’s worse?
It worked.
I’d been irritated from the moment I was forced to watch her giggle and make eyes at a man who doesn’t look remotely funny.
He isn’t even her type.
Matthew or Maverick—or whatever the hell his name is—looks like a fish out of water. When they walked out of the restaurant holding hands, he appeared seconds away from passing out.
Which makes it difficult to believe he was responsible for all that noise inside the room.
Knowing Simone, she probably ordered him to fake the entire thing just to provoke me.
She’s twisted like that.
Of course, I couldn’t let her see that it worked. I stood there with my arms crossed and my jaw locked, pretending not to boil alive while my ears were assaulted by her generic screaming.
That was hell.
But this—watching her date dip his head to kiss her cheek while she gives him a smile convincing enough to make me wonder whether she might actually like him—is another version of it.
I’m irritated.
Deeply irritated.
And I can’t explain why.
He escorts her toward the car and reaches for the door with his thin fingers, but I’m already there.
He gives me a polite smile before turning back to Simone as she climbs inside.
Nice.
That’s the word for him.
Nice.
Nice and boring tend to go hand in hand.
I can’t imagine someone like him knowing how to please her.
But that’s none of my business.
It will never be any of my business.
“Oh, I had a really good night, Adrien,” Simone says into her phone.
Her voice floats from the back seat and brushes my ear like a feline caress. “I can’t wait to do it again.”
I scoff quietly and keep my eyes on the road, grateful that the Rochefort estate is finally coming into view.
This has to be the worst night of my career.
I would rather take a bullet for a client than relive it.
“Yes, of course,” she continues.
Then she laughs.
A real laugh.
Come on.
That man cannot possibly be that funny.
“Can you believe I miss you already?” A pause. Then a giggle. “Don’t flatter me, Adri. Oh, can I call you that?”
As much as I want to react, I don’t.
Because I shouldn’t.
Who she talks to—or what she does with him—is none of my business. It isn’t supposed to affect me, and I can’t understand why it does.
Maybe it’s because I’ve always thought of her as a little sister.
Just like Brandon does.
Maybe that explains my need to interfere, even when I have no right to.
Relief loosens my chest when I park inside the estate’s garage.
Simone climbs out before I’ve fully killed the engine and heads inside, tapping at her phone as she walks.
I follow, intending to report to Francis, but she turns so abruptly that I nearly collide with her.
She raises one finger.
I barely notice.
I’m too busy staring at her disheveled hair. Her smudged lipstick. Her flushed cheeks.
“While you’re making your report,” she says, “can you leave out the part where I fucked my date?”
“You’re twenty-three. Francis should expect you to have a sex life.”
“I mean the details.” She frowns. “I’m pretty sure the last thing he wants to hear is how loud I was.”
“Are you usually that loud?”
She blushes.
Blinks.
Then blinks again.
“Depends on the man.”
“I see.”
I walk past her and head inside. “I won’t mention the details.”
Brandon is lounging on the living-room sofa, looking entirely too smug as he watches his sister enter behind me.
I should go directly to Francis, but my throat is dry, so I make a detour toward the kitchen.
“Well, well, well,” Bran drawls. “Look who’s finally home. Late night?”
Simone rolls her eyes and drops her purse onto the console table. “Don’t start.”
She gathers her hair into a loose bun.
My gaze flicks to her neck.
No hickeys.
No bites.
Nothing.
“Oh, I’m starting.” Bran pushes himself upright. “I have to. This is a momentous occasion.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She nods toward one of the household staff, who approaches to exchange her heels for flats before carrying her purse upstairs.
“Don’t worry,” Bran says. “You only have a few more years of Dad’s blind dates to survive. Once you find a husband, the suffering ends.”
Simone grimaces. “I’m not like you. He won’t make me suffer that long.”
Bran turns toward me with a knowing look. “You were there when Dad interrogated every girl I so much as breathed near, right?”
“Wasn’t happy about it,” I say, opening a bottle of water and soothing my parched throat.
But I remember those interrogations.
A little too vividly.
That’s the thing about me and memories. I hold on to every detail, even when I don’t want to.
Just like I remember the night Simone kissed me and confessed her feelings.
I remember the curve of her lips. The fruity scent of her lip gloss. The antiseptic bite of her mouthwash.
The flush in her cheeks.
The tiny beauty mark on the inside of her lower lip.
The flutter of her lashes.
The way she looked at me.
And the mortification on her face when I rejected her.
It’s all still fresh.
As though it happened yesterday.
Bran grins at his sister. “What’s this one’s name? Which family?”
“Belcourt.” Simone stretches her legs in front of her and pretends to examine her nails. “His name is Adrien.”
“Belcourt,” Bran repeats, looking impressed. “Dad knows what he’s doing.”
“He’s cute, and we actually hit it off.”
I lower the bottle.
Bran raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean, you hit it off?”
“It’s simple English, Bran. I like him. He likes me. We’re together.”
“Together,” I mutter.
Bran still looks confused. “Meaning he’s sticking around?”
Simone shrugs, her voice deliberately casual. “We’re attending the charity gala as a couple.”
Her brother’s eyebrows climb. “You’re taking him to the gala?”
“Actually, he’s taking me.” She smiles as though she’s narrating some bullshit fairy tale.
“You just met him,” I say before I can stop myself.
Simone rolls her eyes. “So?”
“So you expect us to believe that after one dinner—and whatever the hell happened at the hotel—you two are suddenly something?”
“Wait.” Bran looks between us. “What do you mean, hotel?”
Simone ignores him and tilts her head at me, challenge flashing in her eyes. “I don’t see how any of that is your business.”
My jaw tightens. “One night isn’t enough to know someone.”
“And you know that because you’re some kind of relationship expert?”
Bran’s frown deepens. “Is anyone going to tell me what happened at the hotel?”
We both ignore him.
“You don’t know this guy, Simone.”
“He’s a man.” She lifts her chin. “And for someone you keep insisting is a stranger, he’s already more fun than you.”
“A man?” I let out a humorless laugh. “He was sweating because you held his hand.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “I didn’t realize it was forbidden for a man to be nervous around a beautiful woman.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Simone curls her hands into fists and levels me with a look sharp enough to put me six feet underground.
“Hello?” Bran tries again. “The hotel?”
“I fucked Adrien on the first date,” Simone says, still glaring at me. “There. Sue me.”
“Actually, this reminds me of how I met my fiancée,” Bran muses.
That finally drags Simone’s attention away from me.
She groans. “Oh my God. Do not compare this to that.”
“I’m just saying, Dad set me up with Cassie the same way he set you up with Adrien—and all the other men you’ve been unfortunate enough to meet. I hated the idea. Then I met her, took her to a hotel because she was too hot to ignore, and we hit it off. Now we’re engaged.”
His grin widens.
“Maybe history is repeating itself. Maybe you’ve found the one, Sim.”
“Touching story, man,” I say.
Bran nods as though he thinks I’m sincere.
“But you got to know Cassie, didn’t you?” I continue. “You didn’t put a ring on her finger after one night.”
“I mean, yeah. Of course.”
“Still not sure why this is any of your business,” Simone says.
“I’m only saying that if I had a sister, I wouldn’t support her dating a man she just met.”
Bran looks at me strangely. “You do have a sister. Simone—”
“I am not his fucking sister,” Simone snaps.
The force of it surprises all of us.
Her face is red, her nostrils flared, and for some reason, she’s glaring at me.
I didn’t call her my sister.
“Whoa.” Bran laughs and raises his hands. “Relax, Sim. It was a joke.”
“Well, it wasn’t funny.”
She turns away and fixes her glare on the television.
Bran presses his lips together, amusement still dancing in his eyes, and glances at me.
“Women.”
An older voice cuts through the room before either of us can respond.
“What’s this I hear about my daughter finally getting along with one of her suitors?”
Francis Rochefort descends the staircase, moving so quietly that he might have been attempting to sneak up on us.
“Technically, they’re your suitors, Dad, since you handpick them,” Simone says, smiling at the sight of him.
Bran is the spitting image of his father.
Brown hair, brown eyes, fair skin. The same nose and mouth. Nearly a carbon copy, except Francis’s features are harder, shaped by a lifetime spent around wealth and power.
Authority sits naturally on him.
But here, inside his own home and surrounded by his children, he softens.
He isn’t a businessman or a political power broker.
He’s simply a father.
A father forced upon me because mine was taken away.