2. Chapter Two #2
Simone resembles their late mother more than Francis, though she inherited the brown hair common to the Rochefort family.
Francis returns his daughter’s smile, clearly pleased by whatever he overheard.
Then, as though remembering she isn’t the only person in the room, his gaze moves across us and lands on me with quiet amusement.
“Luca.”
I straighten. Partly because my job demands it.
Partly because something else happens whenever Francis is near. Something I refuse to name. Something that turns me rigid despite the fact that he has always treated me as more than an employee.
“Sir.”
Francis waves one hand. “I’ve told you time and again not to do that when we’re together like this. We’ve known each other far too long for formalities.”
His tone is light and harmless.
Maybe that’s the problem.
There’s an effortless power about him that keeps people on edge even when he isn’t trying.
I nod, but I can’t force my body to relax.
Francis turns back to Simone. “So, you and Adrien. Tell me about it.”
She huffs. “I thought that was Luca’s job.”
“Well, I’m here now, and I’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
“It was one date, Dad.”
“One date with the potential for more,” Francis corrects, his smile widening. “You could do worse.”
“I could also do better.”
“Apparently you have, since you’re dating him.”
Bran chuckles and leans back. “We should probably start planning the wedding.”
Simone glares at him. “I will stab you with the nearest fork.”
“I’ll take that as a positive sign.” Francis glances at me. “Don’t you agree?”
I would have preferred to observe the conversation in silence, but now that he’s addressed me, I have no choice but to answer.
Bran does it for me.
“Actually, Luca doesn’t think it’s wise,” he says. “Considering they just met.”
“If I have to say it’s none of his business one more time, I might lose my mind,” Simone mutters.
Francis gives her a puzzled look. “Why would you say that? He’s family.”
The word makes something inside me recoil.
Not from irritation.
Not from jealousy.
Something worse.
Something I can’t put into words.
I’ve never been good at expressing what I feel. Most of the time, I can’t even identify it.
I just feel it.
“I think it’s too fast.” I shrug and ignore Simone’s pointed stare. “That’s all.”
“I understand,” Francis says. “But I don’t think these things follow a schedule. If it happens, it happens.”
Right.
Sure.
Of course.
I have always been aware of the bond between the Rocheforts—Francis, Brandon, and Simone.
I grew up inside it.
My father was Francis’s personal bodyguard. While my mother worked punishing shifts at the hospital, Dad had Francis’s permission to bring me here after school so I could spend time with his children.
I met Brandon twenty years ago.
Dad told me he was finally taking me to work, and I’d been desperate to see the superhero job Mom was always describing.
He protected people. Saved them. Kept them from harm.
That was what superheroes did.
Then he drove me to this estate, the most luxurious place I had ever seen. It was a stark contrast to our cramped apartment.
I hid behind him as he led me toward the house, staring at everything.
Dad met Francis at the door. I was too distracted by the size of the estate to listen to their conversation.
Then Dad crouched in front of me, took both my hands, and smiled.
I can still feel the calluses on his palms.
I can still see the fine lines that appeared beside his eyes whenever he smiled.
He told me he would be busy working but that I didn’t need to worry. There were other children in the house, and I would have fun with them.
Then he stood and revealed a boy with wide brown eyes holding a football.
The boy studied me for several seconds before saying, “You have a funny nose.”
Francis scolded him.
Dad laughed.
So I laughed too.
Dad encouraged me to go inside with Brandon, promising he would return soon and take me home.
Brandon never stopped talking. He kept trying to convince me to play football until he accidentally threw the ball into my face because I wasn’t paying attention.
A woman scolded him and apologized to me.
That was Melinda.
Their mother.
She was kind. Incredibly kind.
Her smile alone made me feel as though I belonged there.
She held a four-year-old girl on one hip. The child had the same wide eyes as her brother, though hers were greenish-blue like her mother’s.
Even then, she was a diva.
Her fingernails were painted, decorations crowded her hair, and she wouldn’t stop staring at me.
“That’s my sister,” Brandon said as he tugged me away to play. “Her name is Simone. She thinks she’s a princess.”
She looked like one.
And just like that, I became one of them.
A third sibling.
Brandon’s best friend.
They treated me like blood, and for years I grew beneath the love of two families.
Then my father died.
And that love disappeared.
Not because the Rocheforts stopped giving it to me.
Because I could no longer accept it.
All their love did was remind me of what I’d lost.
It happened on my sixteenth birthday.
Dad had been busier than usual, spending less time at home, but he promised he would take the day off.
He promised he would spend my birthday with me.
When the day arrived, I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
He finally called when it was almost dark and apologized for being late.
“I just have one last thing to do,” he said.
The candles on my cake were still untouched.
“One last errand, and then I’ll be there. Okay? I love you, son.”
My mother received another call thirty minutes later.
At first, I thought he had arrived. I rushed to the window, confused when I couldn’t see his car.
Then Mom started crying into the phone, covering her mouth with one hand as though she could smother the sound.
A car crash, they told us.
An accident that claimed his life and left both him and the vehicle consumed by flames.
A drunk truck driver had plowed into his car.
Dad hadn’t even completed the errand Francis sent him to do.
I buried my resentment years ago, shoving it into the same dark place where I lock away every other useless emotion.
But moments like this make me remember.
Francis, oblivious to the turmoil inside me, places one hand on my shoulder.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner? It’s been a while since all of us sat down together.”
Bitterness rises into my throat.
I force it back down, but it spreads through every muscle in my body.
“I can’t. My family is expecting me.”
Francis nods as though he understands, but something flickers across his face.
Disappointment?
Regret?
I don’t know.
And I don’t want to examine it closely enough to find out.
Bran rises. “That’s fair. You can’t keep Marley and Josh waiting.”
I nod, already picturing my younger siblings helping Mom in the kitchen.
“Exactly.”
Simone smirks. “I’m sure he’s eager to get away from us in general.”
Our eyes meet.
Something passes between us.
A feeling, maybe, though I don’t know what kind.
It vanishes too quickly for me to catch.
“Something like that.”
Francis chuckles. “Don’t keep your mother waiting, then.”
I nod once more and leave.
Thirty minutes later, I step into the warm scent of garlic and simmering tomato sauce as I remove my shoes inside my childhood home.
It’s warmer than the Rochefort estate.
Much smaller, though still larger than my one-bedroom apartment.
Every inch of me grew inside these walls, and peace settles over me whenever I return.
Marley and Josh are arguing in the living room, their voices louder than the clatter of plates and pots coming from the kitchen.
They’re twins, born a year before Dad died, so even now, I occasionally find myself babysitting them.
They barely acknowledge me as they continue their argument.
I’d expected them to be helping Mom, but it’s their birthday, so I suppose she’s given them the night off.
They’re both wearing party hats. Balloons fill the room, and a ridiculous amount of glittery decoration blinds me from nearly every surface.
I leave their gifts on the dining table before heading into the kitchen.
Mom is so focused on the cake that she doesn’t notice me at first.
Then she turns to reach for something and finds me leaning against the doorway.
Her face lights up.
“You’re home just in time.”
She wraps her arms around me despite the sticky dough coating her hands.
“We expected you much later.”
“I couldn’t miss another minute of their day.”
I smile and brush a damp strand of hair from her forehead.
Gray is beginning to thread through the black. Her forehead carries more lines than it used to, but age has never managed to dim the light in her smile.
“Birthdays are important,” I say.
Her expression turns wistful. “They are.”
That’s why I was furious when I had to take over Mark’s babysitting assignment instead of coming home to spend more time with the twins.
It’s why Simone’s hotel stunt—and every extra minute it cost me—made me so angry.
Birthdays matter to me.
Because I stopped celebrating mine after my father died.
“You’re right.” Mom taps my chest. “Go take a shower. Dinner will be ready soon.”
I exhale as I leave her to finish the cake, some of the tension finally easing from my shoulders.
This is where I belong.
Where I have always belonged.
And that isn’t going to change.
Not again.