3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Elsa
I stood in the middle of Duncan’s apartment, feeling entirely out of place. The grandeur was off putting. With its high ceilings, intricate moldings, and walls lined with original art, everything exuded wealth and sophistication. But it lacked warmth. It lacked heart.
What didn’t help was Madame Lefèvre, Duncan’s tight-lipped housekeeper, who showed no warmth—only icy, professional politeness.
Duncan’s house, I thought with a churn of acid in my stomach, felt like my father’s. I didn’t grow up with him—I grew up with my mother in an apartment in the Marais. She and Papa separated when I was a baby. He had lied to her about what he did for a living. When innocent Solène Sainte-Croix discovered she was married to the son of the leader of organized crime in France, she told him she wanted nothing to do with his illegal life.
Mamman was a strong woman, and Papa had let her go, even though I knew he loved her. For all his flaws, she never kept him away from me.
I saw Papa often enough, but I lived with Mamman. She raised me. She never let me spend the night at his home, and I didn't mind; neither did he. Papa's new girlfriend at the time was not particularly friendly. By some twist of fate, I was Jean-Luc Moreau's only child. His girlfriend resented that I existed because of that. But that relationship, which was the longest one he had after Mamman, didn't last.
After Mamman passed away two years ago, Papa felt he could invade my life, and he did . I owed him for helping me start my boulangerie , but I didn't owe him my life. So, when he began to push me to marry one of his associates who would then be announced as his heir, I knew I had to do something.
Fighting with him would get me nowhere. I couldn't run from Papa. I also knew he was a dangerous man. He may not hurt me—but he'd have no problem forcing me. I had visions of being kidnapped and married away.
Desperate people make bad choices, and taking Angelique's place in Duncan's bed was epically that.
As Angelique had said to me, " C'était une idée stupide ." It had been a stupid idea and now, in retrospect, even dumber.
But if I had to marry someone, I'd rather be married to a man like Duncan Archer, who wasn't a criminal, than someone who was my father's heir apparent.
"There are three guestrooms." Madam Lefèvre stoically walked me around Duncan's apartment. "This is Monsieur Archer's bedroom."
I set my bag down in the room to let her know this would be my bedroom as well. She didn’t seem to like that at all, and I rolled my eyes. Seriously ? We were married. And this wasn't the Bourbon court where couples slept separately.
I had decided that no matter how unorthodox the start of this marriage might have been, I'd try to make it real. I had to because we would have a child together, and no matter how our marriage was, we'd have to find a way to co-parent. I wanted our child to have both a mother and a father the way I had not.
Madam Lefèvre showed me the gym, which had a cold-water plunge pool. The wide porch, with its furniture straight out of a design magazine, looked over Paris.
After the tour, Madam Lefèvre dismissed me, telling me that she would be leaving shortly. The woman didn't like me, and I had no idea why.
I went into Duncan's bedroom and looked around. The room was impeccably clean and tastefully decorated, but it felt impersonal. The walls were lined with expensive art, chosen more for their price tag than any personal meaning. The bed was large and perfectly made, with crisp, white linens that looked like they belonged in a luxury hotel rather than a home. There were no photographs, no personal mementos, nothing to indicate the man who slept here had a deeper connection to the space. It was as if the room was a showroom, beautiful and impressive but devoid of warmth or personality.
I pulled out my phone from my tote and sat down on an uncomfortable vintage Louis XVI black floral accent chair with a white crackle, one of a pair.
I called the one person who knew my situation; who knew who my father really was.
Thierry had been with me from the beginning, working alongside me at Délices d'Elsa, my business in the Marais. Now, he only worked parttime with me and I suspected only as a favor to me; because he had other work he did that paid him rather well. He picked up after the second ring.
" Salut , Elsa!" Thierry’s cheerful voice was a balm to my frazzled nerves. "How was the wedding?"
I groaned. Papa had asked me if I'd like to have friends at the wedding, and I had refused. The way we were getting married, it seemed vulgar to have friends to celebrate.
We'd kept it simple: Papa, Duncan, me, an officiant, and Papa's bodyguard. Papa and his bodyguard had been the signatory witnesses to the wedding.
"It was fine."
"Well, they do say it's about the marriage and not the wedding," he teased.
I chuckled despite myself. "Can you talk?" I asked, doing my best to keep my tone calm.
"Of course. What’s up?" His tone shifted to concern, sensing my unease.
I took a deep breath and started to explain: "I’m at Duncan’s apartment. It’s beautiful, really, but it feels so cold and lifeless. Everything is so opulent, and Madame Lefèvre—that's his housekeeper, and she insists being called Madame . She reminds me of Mrs. Danvers of Manderley."
Thierry now laughed. "I'm assuming there is no Rebecca."
"Thank God, no. The thing is this reminds me too much of my father’s place—oppressive and stifling. Why do I have to live here?" I whined.
"Because a marriage has a better chance if the couple lives together?" he mused sarcastically.
"Stop being rational. I miss my place. I like the Marais. I like furniture that’s cozy and inviting. I like sitting on my balcony, rickety it maybe, instead of the posh porch here," I dropped my voice conspiratorially, "It's a penthouse apartment."
"The horror," he mocked. "Come on, Els, you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. How about Duncan? Is he still being a complete ass?"
I sighed. "He’s not being an ass but, yeah, he's continuing the silent treatment. He told me to pick a bedroom, then practically ran off to his study and fifteen minutes later ran from the apartment, saying he has work."
"Did you at least flash him? If you showed him your boobs, especially since they've grown through out the pregnancy, I think he might've stayed.
" Thierry !"
"You don't think you're going to be fucking like a newly married couple tonight?"
"Get your mind out of my marital bed." Cold marital bed!
Thierry laughed softly. "Look, you said you wanted to find a way to make this marriage work."
"Remind me again why I said that?" I touched the elegant arm of the chair. It had been restored beautifully. Actually, everything in Duncan's house was stunning. But it wasn't who I was, and I feared this was who Duncan was—this ultra-sophisticated, gaudy style was him .
"Because you're a smart woman who, in her heart, is all about family."
I leaned against the wooden headrest, closing my eyes. "I know. But everything feels so foreign here."
"You just need to get used to it. One step at a time, Els," Thierry encouraged.
"I need to pack up some of my stuff and move in." I felt tired even thinking about it. "I don't want to move in."
"How about you take a few things. Your clothes, toiletries, and shoes like you would if you were going on vacation. You're still going to be coming to here every day, so—"
"And this place is far from the Délices d'Elsa." It was convenient to live in an apartment on the floor above my business. I rolled out of bed early in the morning and could be in my kitchen within minutes. Now, it would take me twenty-plus minutes to get there by Metro.
I had wondered if Duncan could live with me, but seeing his place, there was no way he'd want to live in a one-bedroom apartment that looked like stoned hippies had decorated it. Bohemia chic didn't seem like his style.
"Stop bitching and moaning. Come by, have a glass of wine, clear your head, and grab some of your things from the apartment."
"I can't drink, I'm pregnant," I mourned.
"Shit! Yeah. So, have a pastry instead."
I smiled, feeling a bit more at ease. "I’ll come by in a little bit. You'll help me pack?"
"Anytime, Els."
I hung up and took a deep breath, looking around the room again. Thierry was right. This was my reality now, and I had to find a way to navigate it. I grabbed my bag, ready to make the trip back to the Marais.
I left Duncan’s apartment feeling the sting of Madame Lefèvre’s sneer. As I told her I was going out for a while, her eyes narrowed, and her lips curled into a disdainful smirk. I had no idea why she seemed to dislike me so much, but I wasn’t about to confront her. Confrontation wasn’t my style; I preferred to sidestep toxic people and let them fade out of my life. Besides, I had bigger things to worry about.
I took the Metro and then walked from the station.
Back in my neighborhood, I was immediately at ease. The narrow, winding streets of Le Marais felt like an embrace, so different from the wide, imposing avenues near Duncan’s apartment. The air was filled with the mingling scents of freshly baked bread and blooming flowers from the nearby market stalls.
As I approached Délices d'Elsa, I saw Thierry pulling down the shutters, his face lighting up when he saw me. "Els! Perfect timing. Just finished closing up."
" Bonsoir , Thierry," I greeted him with a hug, the tension in my shoulders easing. "Thanks for staying and closing up."
"Not a problem." He gave me a warm smile. "Let's go up and get your things."
We headed up the narrow staircase that led to my. It wasn't very big, but it was mine , filled with mismatched furniture, colorful throw pillows, and vibrant art pieces I’d picked up from local artists. Potted plants lined the windowsills, and fairy lights were strung haphazardly across the ceiling and the rickety balcony, giving the space a whimsical, cozy feel. It was the complete opposite of Duncan’s place—chaotic and full of life, just the way I liked it.
"He doesn’t talk to me, which is frustrating," I told Thierry as I packed clothes into a duffel bag. "I've tried, but he's just hard to get through to. That's not how he was that night."
"Maybe you should give him a blow job?" Thierry suggested.
I laughed as heat snaked through me. That night had been magic. God! But it had been. His mouth, his hands, his body—hard and warm had taken me over completely. He had taught me what pleased him but also how to arouse him; how to take him in my mouth, deep into my throat.
But the magic of that night was that I knew I had enthralled him as well.
"You smell like vanilla." He nuzzled his nose against my pussy. "And taste like fucking sugar, ma douce." My sweet!
"You think we have a chance for a real marriage?" I folded a white skirt.
Thierry stuffed a pair of sneakers into another bag. "If you can convince him to open up."
"He just left me at his place and ran ," I grumbled. "Seriously, who does that?"
"A child?"
"He's like a decade older than me," I protested.
"You know, age has nothing to do with maturity, right?" Thierry set the bag of shoes down and came to me.
He took my small hands in his large ones. He was a few years older than me, and despite being six feet two inches tall and built thanks to his passion for soccer, he had a warm and inviting presence that instantly put people at ease.
It didn't hurt that he was damn good-looking with his ebony dark smooth, flawless skin, captivating black eyes that sparkled with intelligence and kindness, and infectious positivity. His hair was cropped short but he'd had his dreadlocks phase as well.
"You know I love you," he began.
I nodded. I knew he loved me and I loved him as well. Thierry was my best friend, brother, and family all wrapped up in one.
"If at any point you feel this isn't right or no longer working for you, you can tell me, and I'll take care of you."
Thierry had told me that when I had confessed how I'd gotten pregnant. He was ready to fight Papa and the world if need be.
But when Duncan seemed to be fine with getting married—or maybe because I wanted to see and believe that; I had agreed to marry him. Foolishly, I'd thought that Duncan would also want to marry me since I was pregnant with his child. Now, I felt like his hand had been forced and that bothered and scared me.
"It doesn't feel right now ," I admitted. " But I know that he and I need time." I slumped, then. "You know he has a fuck pad in the Ritz?"
"Hmm." Thierry let me go and continued to pack.
"Do you think he plans to continue to see escorts?" Just the thought of that made me feel queasy. I put a hand on my stomach to calm myself.
Thierry raised his head. "You tell him, if he does that, I'll fuck him up."
I grinned. "If he wants to, Thierry, there isn't much you or I can do."
"A real man doesn't cheat on his wife," Thierry declared.
"Maybe he doesn't think this is a real marriage. It certainly feels like I am the wrong bride."
"Els, just talk to him openly. You can't just assume how he feels. If you're going to make this work, you need to communicate."
I sighed, sinking onto my bed. "I know. But it’s so hard. He’s so distant, and I don’t know how to reach him."
Thierry sat beside me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You have to try for your sake and for the baby’s. Tell him how you feel, what you’re worried about. He might surprise you."
I nodded, knowing he was right. "I guess I don’t have a choice. I can’t keep running away from this. That's more his style."
We finished packing, and I took a last look around my apartment. The thought of leaving this place, even temporarily, made my heart ache.
I looked at my kitchen and quirked an eyebrow. "You know what they say about the way to a man's heart? It's always through the stomach."
Thierry snorted. "I always say that women are aiming just a little too high."
"You think a blowjob has more power than good food?"
"I'm a man, so yeah."
"Bet on it?"
"Hell, yeah."
I took a deep breath, smiling. "If I win, you open the boulangerie for two weeks in a row." We took turns opening. He did one week, and I did the other.
"And if you lose?"
"I'll open it for two weeks in a row?" I offered.
"Oh no, baby, then you're going to make me an Opéra cake."
Due to its complexity, I only made Opéra cake, a classic French dessert for special occasions. It consisted of multiple thin layers of almond sponge cake soaked in coffee syrup, layered with coffee buttercream and chocolate ganache, and topped with a chocolate glaze. It took time and effort, and I much preferred eating this baked by someone other than by me.
"Deal." I walked up to the kitchen and started to pull out spices; and then pots and pans I was going to take to Duncan's place.