2. Luc
2
LUC
W ith a sigh, I tossed my newspaper on the table. The balcony flowers wagged like mocking fingers in the breeze as if they danced to the noise of the horns from the Champs-élysées. I gave a wry smile. Even mid-morning, Paris never calmed.
The leaves of paper shifted, and I glared at the pictures on the page. Photos of me. Photos of my so-called friends and words describing the hell we’d raised over the last few weeks. I sucked in a breath and rubbed the back of my neck. If what I’d raised was hell, then the devil needed a lesson in how to party.
I’d found it hard to summon any enthusiasm for this last trip. The idea of lying around on a yacht, talking to people I had nothing in common with, didn’t set my world on fire. Still, I’d showed up every day. Went through the motions. I’d been everything everybody expected.
There had been moments of fun. Some minor flirtations. But no amount of distraction could quell the churn in my gut or the feeling of impending doom I’d carried for months.
I scrunched my napkin and pulled my phone towards me on the tabletop. A text took up the screen. A message from Agnes, the housekeeper at our family estate. The Chateau Marsan was a world away from Paris, from parties, from yachts. I hadn’t been home for months.
Still, Agnes’ words set a slow burn off in my chest that I couldn’t swallow away.
Agnes: Your Grandmother is coming to visit.
With a sigh, I gripped my phone and tapped out a number—not Agnes’ or my grandmother’s. After six rings, a familiar voice met my ears.
“Luc? How did you escape your friends? I didn't think I'd ever hear from you again. I’d wondered if you decided to become a pirate.”
I huffed a laugh. “Hilarious, Esmé.” Despite her dubious attempt at humour, hearing my childhood friend’s voice made me smile.
“Well, if you’ve decided to live a life on land, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Are you free for lunch?” I asked, brushing my breakfast crumbs off the crisp white tablecloth.
“No.”
“Coffee?”
“Seriously? Unlike some, I have to work.”
“Dinner?”
Her sigh carried down the phone, and she muttered under her breath. “Luc, are you bored?”
“No.” Damn right, I was bored. A day of nothingness stretched in front of me. Another day of avoiding calls from my sister and grandmother. Now that I was back on dry land, I couldn’t feign terrible phone reception. “Is it a crime to want to see my friend? I missed you.”
Although unconventional, Esmé and I grew up in each other’s pockets. Knew each other’s secrets. I had few real friends. Nobody I really trusted apart from her.
Most people in my circle were either settled down or hell-bent on partying their lives away. Right now, neither of those things appealed to me. Even a few months ago, I at least put some effort into the partying side of things. Now, I felt like a pebble rolling in a stream.
“Well, I’m busy,” she said, speaking hurriedly to someone else in the background. “I have a new artist exhibiting at the gallery. You could come and help if you like? Roll up your sleeves and hang some paintings.”
I drew my brows tight. The thought of chatting with people, being civil even, made my shoulders sag. It was all I’d done for the last few weeks, and my “polite chit-chat” quota was over-full.
“It’s fine,” I said, standing and moving to the edge of the balcony. I raked my eyes over the cluttered, grey rooftops of Paris. The charming white buildings with their balconies and summer flowers. Life went on behind their windows. People made deals, lovers found love, and families laughed together. My skin prickled. With my wealth, my position, and my connections, I should be a part of it.
“Okay. What’s up?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Luc, I know you. If you’re not bored, and you’re not busy hanging out with your fancy friends, something’s up. I can almost feel your scowl through the phone.”
I chewed on my bottom lip, tightening my eyes into the glare of the city.
“Come on. Tell me.”
“It’s my grandmother.”
Esmé groaned. “What does she want with you this time? Or need I ask?”
I huffed a bitter laugh. “The usual. ”
Esmé sucked air in between her teeth. “Well, time is running out, and as I’m sure she reminds you often, you’re not getting any younger.”
I turned and walked through the open doors into my suite, the scent of an enormous bunch of flowers on the side assaulting my nose. “I don’t need reminding.”
The reason for my grandmother’s interest was always in the back of my mind. My time away had been a reprieve. A chance to escape my “duty.”
I sighed and sat on the crisp linen of the hotel bed, a sinking feeling settling in my chest. I knew exactly why my grandmother was coming to visit me.
She wanted me to get married. Soon.
I could just picture her wringing her hands. Drinking champagne somewhere very exclusive, discussing my future with her friends.
It was no secret my father and I never got on. And after he died, his will proved his lack of faith in me. I’d never forget the day his lawyer produced a handwritten codicil—an optional addition to the original will that my father dictated from his hospital bed.
He gave most of his business assets and control of his company to my sister. It didn’t surprise me. I’d never shown an interest in running his empire. And to me, he left a very generous allowance and the freedom to live my life as I chose. But only until my thirtieth birthday.
If I wasn’t married and accepting my “responsibilities” like a dutiful son by the time I turned thirty, my father’s lawyer would sell the estate—the house, the winery, and the lands we owned in Provence. My father had stipulated that nobody else inside the family could buy it. Marsan wouldn’t even pass to my sister.
With six months left until my birthday, barely a week went by when my grandmother didn’t check in on me. Enquire about my relationship status and suggest potential brides. I sucked in a breath. I hadn’t come close to holding down a relationship in twenty-nine years. Would another six months really make any difference?
I couldn’t criticise my grandmother’s desperation, though. Marsan was her childhood home. Her joy. And she had no legal power to overturn my father’s will.
Esmé’s voice brought me away from my thoughts. “So, who has Estelle earmarked for your consideration this time? Anyone we know?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea, but according to her latest message, there’s some god-awful gala coming up in a couple of weeks. She’s threatening to roll out some options for me at the party. ‘To secure all our happiness,’ as she puts it.”
“Ouch. In the shape of a big bank account and well-dressed hair?”
“Exactly.” Esmé had seen my grandmother’s suggested brides come and go. After too much champagne one evening at dinner, she’d even offered to marry me herself. I loved her for the gesture, but her long-term partner might have something to say about it. Besides, my father had thought of everything. Any change of mind, separation, or divorce in the first ten years of the marriage would lead to the estate’s immediate sale.
“Remind me. When is zero hour?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“When is your birthday?”
“I’m horrified you don’t know!”
She chuckled. “It may surprise you, Luc, but unlike the press and a thousand blushing socialites, my every waking thought doesn’t revolve around you.”
The corners of my lips peaked. “I’m mortally wounded.” She knew exactly when my birthday was. We were born a week apart .
“So, you have six months to find someone you actually like, fall madly in love and marry them?” she asked.
My mouth ran dry, and I swallowed, trying to repress the solid ball that formed in my throat. “Yes.”
For an extended beat, Esmé said nothing. Eventually, she spoke, her words soft. “Luc, is it worth it? Tying yourself down, I mean. I know you don’t love Marsan. It hasn’t been your home for years.”
She was right. The chateau was beautiful and held some happy memories, but the thought of returning left me cold. Apart from my grandmother’s expectations, only one thing kept me tethered to the estate—our old winemaker, Thierry. He’d been at Marsan for as long as anyone could remember. He was also Esmé’s father.
I clamped my jaw tight, dragging my fingers through my hair. “If your papa lost his vineyard. I’d never forgive myself.”
“But he has a reputation. A name. Moving him on would be a mistake for any new owner.”
I shook my head. “I can’t risk it. Losing the vineyard at Marsan would break his heart.”
Judging from Esmé’s long sigh, she agreed. Muffled voices mingled with her breath down the line. “Luc, I have to go. What are you doing tomorrow?”
I raked my eyes over my unpacked suitcase. “I don’t know.” My sister had left messages at the reception for me to join her for lunch, but the idea of spending time with her was on par with listening to “Baby Shark” on repeat.
“I don’t like to think of you on your own. Why don’t you go to Marsan? Go see Papa. Tell him the truth about the will. He’ll understand. He loves you, Luc. I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up and swallowed away a bitter taste. I hadn’t told Thierry the full extent of the codicil yet. As far as he knew, my sister would inherit the estate if I failed to marry. I’d promised Esmé I’d come clean in time for him to make other arrangements, but the clock was running.
I sank back against the hotel pillows, my gut churning. I had six months to find a suitable bride or watch Marsan and Thierry’s legacy disappear.