Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Dorian
Dear God.
Have I ever done anything more important than this?
The Garden District’s morning light filters through ancient oaks, and Spanish moss sways as I step onto the crushed oyster shells leading to Vignette.
My heart hammers, not just from the humid late summer air but from Brennan’s words last night.
As long as I live, they will remain seared into my soul. “ If you don’t get her back, there is no us either.”
No us . No triad, no future, no redemption. Everything—my love, my life, my chance to be more than the controlling bastard I’ve been—rides on this moment, on proving to Isla I see her, hear her, love her for the fire she is.
That day at Vignette, she’d lit up at the sight of that opal, la Flamme Cachée. She’d been captivated by Théo’s story of it belonging to a French courtesan, a British duchess, then a New Orleans voodoo priestess.
And? I’d simmered with impatience with the amount of time she’d spent with it. Instead of getting her a stone that called to her, I was obsessed with her having a diamond as a status symbol, and more, as evidence to the world that she was mine.
From the beginning, I’ve been an asshole to the woman who was forced down the aisle into the arms of a man she didn’t know. Into a life she never wanted.
The gate opens with a silent glide, and I stride up the stone path, focused on my goal.
This is about more than the opal. It’s about proving I’ve changed, that I’m willing to listen to Isla’s needs, her wants, the things that call to her.
Securing the gem is only the first part of the mission. Probably the least important, if I’m honest.
My money doesn’t impress her.
She needs me to swallow my pride and open my heart. Those are the things that will matter to Isla.
Théo Duplantier opens the door before I can knock, his bronze skin gleaming in the nine a.m. sunlight, his silver curls glistening. His linen waistcoat is tailored to perfection, and his smile is sharp and knowing. “Monsieur Vale.” He tips his head to one side. “I knew you’d return.”
“Did you?”
“La Flamme Cachée was meant for her. I anticipated you’d want it as an anniversary gift.” He tips his head to one side. “Or as an apology. Since you’re only recently married…” He trails off.
How does the damn man know so much?
He steps aside, gesturing me into the parlor, where midnight-blue velvet drapes frame tall windows, and crystal chandeliers cast prisms across the polished wood floors and the glass cases that glow like altars to his exquisite offerings.
His assistant joins us, offering refreshment. “Champagne? Whiskey? ”
Two days ago, I would have taken the whiskey.
But I’m a changed man. “Café au lait, please.”
The assistant quietly slips from the room.
We’re alone but for the steady tick of the French mantel clock and the muted hum of the air-conditioning. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden light spilling through the tall windows.
Théo moves to a central case, the same one I’d stood before with Isla, my focus then anywhere but on the gem that had held her captivated. Now, I let myself look. Really look.
The glass gleams like still water. Beneath it, the opal rests in its carved ebony box, a wisp of midnight-blue velvet cradling it. Even through the barrier, light catches in its depths.
“She saw fire in it.” Théo’s voice is low.
I remember her saying so. Even more, I remember my impatience. So many fuck-ups.
The assistant returns, silent, carrying a small silver tray. The porcelain cup is white, and the saucer is rimmed in gold. Steam curls from the café au lait, rich with the scent of dark roast and warm milk. I take it, letting the first sip settle on my tongue. Satisfying.
Théo unlocks the case with a small brass key, the click precise in the quiet. He lifts the lid of the ebony box and, with bare hands—steady, careful—removes the opal.
Up close, it’s nothing like I expected. Colors shift and ripple under its milky surface, a slow dance of green fire, gold lightning, violet shadows. There’s depth there, layers, as if there’s a living flame hidden in stone.
“You finally understand.”
Maybe I do.
“La Flamme Cachée.” He turns it so the light kisses a streak of red deep inside. “The hidden flame. Each woman who owned it said it changed her life. ”
The way I intend to change hers. “I’ll take it.”
“A pendant is elegant.” Théo is thoughtful. “It sits close to the heart and moves with her, catching the light when she turns her head. There’s a poetry to it.” His gaze sharpens. “She could choose when to wear it. When to let it be seen.”
For a moment, I picture it against her throat, the opal catching the light as it rests above her collarbone. A pendant would let it move, shift, draw the eye. But it could be hidden under silk, tucked away when she wanted privacy.
I shake my head. “Too easy to take off. Too easy to lose. I don’t want it forgotten in a drawer. I want her to see it every day, to feel it on her hand when she reaches for a book or a glass of wine.” I want candlelight to refract off it when we make love.
And there’s a matter of hoping she’ll once again wear my collar, though potentially the opal could be part of that.
One thing is certain. When I put the piece around her throat for a second time—if she’ll allow it—I will lock it and throw away the key.
He studies me for a beat, then inclines his head. “A ring, then. Worn, noticed. It announces itself without shouting. The stone will sit proud enough to command attention, but low enough to protect it from harm.”
“Platinum.” Only the best.
“Oui. Platinum.” His tone is as decisive as mine. “A full bezel, seamless, so the eye moves over the edge and straight into the fire. Around it, a recessed halo—micro-pavé diamonds, not large, just a shimmer, like candlelight at the edge of vision. It will make the opal burn brighter.”
I take another sip of coffee, heat curling through me. “Yes.” That was the whole point.
His nod is deliberate, the decision sealed. “Then in the gallery, beneath the setting…something hidden. For her al one. Perhaps French Quarter ironwork, a single sapphire at the center. She’ll know it’s there. That will be enough.”
I nod. Perfect.
“You know I’ll need time to set this,” he says.
“Twenty-four hours.”
“I mean real time, Dorian. I do not work under pressure.”
“Sorry. I don’t accept that as an answer.” I set the cup down on the counter, lean forward, my shadow falling over the velvet. “I’m not leaving New Orleans without it.”
He exhales through his nose. “I have other work. Other customers.”
“Nothing more important.”
“You know someone else offered to buy this stone?”
I wait.
“They came in last month, willing to pay twice what the stone is worth. I refused.”
“Why?”
“Because it belongs to Isla.”
I follow his train of thought and give a half smile. He’s a brilliant businessman. “And now my price has gone up.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m a humble artisan. And you are expecting me to work without rest.”
“It’s worth it.” I take the opal from his hand, let its weight settle into my palm, heat sinking into my skin. “She’s worth it.”
He considers me for a long time, then inclines his head.
Setting the stone back on its velvet bed, he draws a leather-bound sketchbook from beneath the counter. The binding is worn, edges softened from years of use, but the pages inside are crisp, precise.
“Shall we agree on a design? And then the price?”
Humble artisan, my ass. He’s a shark.
Opening to a blank page, he then moves his pencil with quick, deliberate strokes. “Recessed halo…micro-pavé di amonds. Tapered shoulders. The stone must be secure but still breathe.”
His assistant clears a space on the workbench, laying out a loupe, a fine-bristled brush, white cotton gloves. The air smells faintly of polish and linen.
Théo turns the page, sketches the side profile—slender, elegant, the kind of ring that would look as arresting in a ballroom as it would with her hand curled around a book. He tilts his head.
“Filigree in the gallery. French Quarter ironwork. Something hidden. For her alone.”
“Good.” My voice is low. “I want it tomorrow.”
He names his figure. And it has two commas in it. Shark? Fucking shark.
“The diamonds need to be the best to show off the stone,” he explains.
Without protest, I hand off my black card to his assistant.
Once the transaction is complete, he extends his hand. “I will begin immediately.”
I finish the last sip of coffee, the porcelain cooling in my hand. Setting it back on the saucer feels like a promise kept. “Call me when it’s ready.”
“You will have no call.” Théo closes the sketchbook with deliberate care. “You will come, and I will place it in your hand. That is how this will be.”
Fair enough.
He lifts the opal again, fire shifting in its depths as the light catches it. Then he carries it toward the workroom in the back, the stone balanced in his palm.
The bell above the door gives a single, clear chime as I step out into the heavy New Orleans air.
Customary impatience wars in me.
I want Isla.
And I want her now.