Chapter 21
DIANE
“Another cappuccino?” Lynette asks.
I smile at her. “Thank you, but two is enough this early in the day.”
Actually, it isn’t that early.
The others have been up for at least a couple of hours.
Three, in Sebastian’s case. Lynette and I are the only late risers, so we’ve gotten into the habit of taking our breakfast together.
Besides, everyone else favors the minimalistic French breakfast of coffee, orange juice, and croissant. Lynette and I like real breakfasts.
And real breakfasts require prep work.
So, it goes like this: Lynette makes pancakes or porridge, fries eggs, and brews coffee that’s second only to Manon’s.
I pick and wash a handful of strawberries from the garden and then toast some bread.
When everything’s ready and we sit down, Lynette opens the paper Sebastian has left for her, and I check the newsfeed on my phone.
Sometimes we chat, but mostly we just enjoy our big, fat, and infinitely rewarding breakfast in companionable silence.
I help Lynette clear the table and head upstairs.
Today Octave is out of town visiting his mother’s grave and taking care of some private matters. I’ll be using this opportunity to snoop around his quarters. He’s Sebastian’s most trusted staff member, so I figure maybe I’ll find something.
But the moment I open the door to Octave’s office, the knot in my stomach doubles in size, forcing me to stop and take a few fortifying breaths.
I inspect my palms.
Clean.
Funny, I would’ve bet they were smeared with sticky mud.
What I’m about to do feels so wrong I’m a hair from backpedaling. It’s one thing to nose into Sebastian’s life, but intruding on an innocent man’s—a good man’s—private space isn’t something I can easily justify.
However, considering I still haven’t found any dirt whatsoever on my betrothed, I have no choice.
How naive I was to imagine that once I lived here, I’d gain access to his financial information or the inner workings of his business!
The documents he keeps in his home office are as innocuous as a document could be.
He may as well publish them online. He never discusses sensitive matters with me or when I’m around. Or when anyone is around.
Sebastian’s life is so perfectly and hermetically compartmentalized it should be used as a case study in management books.
When working, he’s a steely business shark.
In his private life, he’s a loyal friend and brother, and a respected master of the house.
He’s also the most gallant of men with yours truly…
on camera. At night, his alpha side comes out again, only in a different way.
He forgets his good manners and becomes demanding and greedy.
It seems duplicity is his second nature.
As for me, I’ve taken a page from his book, forcing myself to compartmentalize, too.
I crave his brand of sex. I enjoy his conversation. I have a hard time keeping my eyes or hands off him.
All true, all undeniable.
But deep inside, I’m still the person who attacked him with a cream cake last October. I’m not impressed by his riches. Well, maybe just a little. It would take a saint not to be. And I’m no saint—not even close.
What Sebastian will never have is my forgiveness.
Even if I’m soon to become Madame d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, I’m still me. And I still care more about justice than I do about money.
On that thought, I force myself to step in and look around.
The first thing I notice is a black-and-white portrait of a smiling young woman on Octave’s desk. Her hair is huge, its ends curled and flipped up, and she wears more eyeliner than Sophia Loren and Aimee Winehouse combined. The portrait screams “the sixties” in all their rock ’n’ roll glory.
This must be Octave’s mom.
I note there’s no portrait of his dad anywhere. From what I gather, the man is still alive, even if Octave never talks about him. Maybe they don’t get along.
But I should stop distracting myself—it isn’t Octave I’m after.
I spend the next hour going through the perfectly organized and labelled files on the wall shelves. They contain nothing but bills, contracts, bank statements, and administrative correspondence.
A roomy cabinet next to Octave’s desk hosts an unusual-looking audio device and headphones. Maybe he’s an amateur radio broadcaster or something in that vein.
Next up, his desk.
When I realize that some of the drawers are locked, I’m relieved. This means I’ll get out of here sooner.
The guilt is killing me.
I open the unlocked ones. Pens, scissors, staplers, paper… One drawer contains Octave’s passport and his birth certificate.
Octave Bernard Rossi, born March 14, 1958.
Ha! I didn’t know his middle name was Bernard, like Sebastian’s grandfather’s. But let’s face it, if my middle name was Bernard, I’d keep mum about it, too. It’s undeservedly but irrevocably démodé and even mossier than Octave, which, at least, is original and even appears to be making a comeback.
As I close the last drawer and tiptoe out the door, I beg Heaven to forgive me this particular trespass.
And then I beg for a memory wipe so my tongue will never slip and call poor Octave by his unfortunate middle name.