2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Duncan
M erdé ! I was fucking married.
Me? Duncan Fucking Archer, who had spent his life perfecting the art of avoiding complications by buying sex, was married. And to Jean-Luc Moreau's daughter. Jean-Luc Moreau!
I knew him, of course. As head of Europe for Archer Arts she hadn't taken her father's name. She was twenty-three years old and didn't have much in the name of education. After high school, she spent six months at Le Cordon bleu and six at the Culinary Institute of America in New York. She had a bakery or some such thing—but I doubted she worked there. She was the daughter of a very rich man, and I doubted she had done much physical labor.
Her mother, Solène Sainte-Croix, was from Martinique and never married Jean-Luc. That explained her light caramel skin. She had deep brown curly hair that cascaded lusciously around her face—at least that night when I knocked her up, she did. Today, her hair was tied back in a stylish bun.
Her features were delicate and striking—her mixed heritage had given her high cheekbones, a slightly upturned nose, full and rosy lips that curved into the most warm and welcoming smile I'd ever seen on a woman.
This was her wedding day, and she had worn a cream-colored dress that could be best described as bohemian. It suited her. Her jewelry was minimal. Small diamond teardrop earrings, antique, handmade, not expensive, but something that was probably given to her. Same with the delicate gold chain wrapped around her slender neck that held a small, intricately designed hibiscus flower. In the center, there was a tiny coral flanked by flower petals with tiny engravings that caught the light in the staircase, making the locket shimmer against Elsa's caramel skin. I suspected it was from the 1920s, French Caribbean origin. The fine engravings suggested it was handcrafted in—knowing her mother's heritage and since I was an arts and antiquities expert—Martinique.
I was so mesmerized by her that she had to clear her throat again because we were on the landing of the seventh floor, and the door was locked. I pulled out a key fob and used it to open the door. We walked into the apartment as it took over the entire penthouse of the building. What can I say? I liked my space, and I had the money to buy what I wanted. As my spoiled mother always said, "It's only expensive if you can't afford it."
The door from the stairs opened into the side of the living room.
I walked to the antique table that held a bowl and dropped my key fob into it.
"The key fobs are here. You can use them to open doors, go to the gym downstairs if you want, or the pool. Though I recommend the gym in my apartment. I don't have a pool, but I have a cold plunge if you're interested."
She looked at me as I talked.
She then set her tote bag on the floor against a wall and strolled into the living room.
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the grand windows, casting a warm glow over the opulent interior. Elaborate chandeliers hung from high, intricately crafted ceilings, while the walls displayed classic French art pieces I’d gathered over the years. Plush, velvet furniture in deep, rich hues filled the spacious living area, and the polished wooden floors gleamed underfoot.
" Monsieur Archer," I heard my housekeeper, Madame Lefèvre, say in that clipped, constipated tone of hers. I'd fire her if I could, but Mom had told me that I needed to keep her, and no one argued with Marcela Archer. I didn't even know the woman's fucking first name because she insisted on being called Madame Lefèvre like we were in a Balzac novel.
To give Madame Lefèvre credit, she maintained my house the way I liked it. Clean, controlled, no mess, no dirt, nothing out of place. I didn't eat much at home, so her job didn't go beyond keeping the kitchen stocked, so I was able to make myself a café au lait in the mornings and pour myself a Scotch in the evenings. I got breakfast downstairs at a café and lunch at Archer Arts and added in a formal tone, " Enchantée , Madame ."
Elsa grinned like she understood that Madame Lefèvre looked about ready to shit a brick that I was married and my family didn't know. I was worried Elsa might be insulted that I hadn’t even told my parents about our wedding, but she didn’t seem to care in the slightest.
Elsa offered a small, polite smile. " Enchantée, Madame Lefèvre ."
I cleared my throat, feeling awkward and out of my depth. "Elsa, why don't you take a look around and decide which bedroom you want to stay in? Once you've made your choice, Madame Lefèvre will help you move your things."
Elsa looked at me, her eyes wide and uncertain. I avoided her gaze, not knowing how to offer comfort or assurance.
"I'll be in my study," I mumbled, turning away.
I could feel her eyes on my back, but I didn't dare look at her. I had no idea how to be a husband. The concept was foreign.
I practically fled to my office, a room filled with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with art books, and a large, antique desk that overlooked the bustling street below. Once inside, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, taking a deep breath. The silence of the room enveloped me, offering a momentary reprieve from the chaos of my thoughts.
I glanced at the clock. It was mid-afternoon, and I had no plans for the evening, nor any idea how to include Elsa in whatever I might come up with. The thought of spending the evening with her, trying to navigate this new, unwanted relationship, felt daunting. I knew I was being short with her, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know how to handle the situation, and my instinct—as always when facing personal conflict—was to retreat.
I sat at my desk, staring at the papers and files scattered across its surface. I couldn't focus. My mind kept drifting back to Elsa, to the uncertainty and confusion in her eyes. I felt a pang of guilt, but I shoved it aside. I needed time to think, to figure out what to do next.
I'd just go to my office and then stay the night at the Ritz, I decided. I'd come back tomorrow and then we'd talk. Yeah. That made sense. In the meantime, I needed to start letting my family know. I'd tell my brothers first and my parents last . I looked at my watch. I'd start with Dean, who was in Hong Kong, and then wake up Damian, who was in San Francisco.
"Duncan, how's it hanging, bro?" Dean, the nerd of our family, asked me.
My youngest brother had a PhD in history and was more interested in the historic value of art and antiquities rather than the commercial one. He was also very good at acquiring hard-to-find pieces for discerning clients who gave us a lot of money to get their hands on what their pampered hearts desired in private sales.
His methods were not always legitimate but he always had plausible deniability. We all did.
"I knocked up Jean-Luc Moreau's daughter, and we got married this morning." No point dicking around.
"She an escort?"
"No. But she pretended to be."
Dean whistled. "She hot?"
"Yeah."
"How pregnant is she?"
"Thirteen-fourteen weeks. I think. I don't fucking know. I haven't talked to her about the baby."
Silence.
"I'm married and going to be a father,” I continued, “And this woman…her name is Elsa, is ten years younger than me and looks like a ball of fucking sunshine. I don't know what the fuck to do with her."
Silence.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Say something."
"Where are you?" he asked.
"My study."
"You should pour yourself some Scotch and drink it. Then, do it again. Afterward, take a deep breath and clear your mind. You want to find your core—"
"You want me to do yoga, you asshole?" I cut in.
Dean laughed. "I want you to calm your tits."
"What the fuck am I going to do?" Panic, like I never felt descended inside me.
"Looks like you're going to figure out how to be a decent husband and father."
"You think I can?" I wasn’t sure I could be either of those people.
Silence.
"Stop with the silent treatment, yeah?” I scoffed irritated.
"People can learn stuff, right? I mean…even you can, right?" Dean spoke tentatively.
I walked to the bar in the study and poured a finger of Laphroaig into a glass. "You don't always have to be brutally honest. Sometimes, you can just fucking lie."
"I learned how to be truthful from my big brother," he said glibly. The son of a bitch was enjoying himself.
I drank the Scotch down and winced at the fire in my gut.
“This is a clusterfuck,” I blurted out.
"Duncan, jokes aside, you're a good man. You're going to make a great husband and father."
"Are you lying?"
"Yeah," Dean said without hesitation. "You asked me to."
"Fuck you, asshole."