Chapter 26 #2
As the servers set down the cake, flashbulbs pop from all corners of the restaurant. I smile, wave, and blow out the candles.
When the DJ transitions to a new song, the crowd’s attention gradually dissipates.
“A little birthday surprise,” Sterling says, clearly pleased with himself. “The press already loves it.”
“Thank you,” I manage, though gratitude is far from what I’m feeling.
While Sterling is distracted by glad-handers stopping by our table, and Slayer has turned his attention back to Valentina, I notice a man approaching from the bar.
He’s tall, impeccably dressed in casual luxury, with a gorgeous shoulder-length mane of blond hair, a crisp white shirt displaying his enviable abs, and easy confidence.
He stops at my chair, extending his hand.
“Ms. Bismark? Carlos Rhodes. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Carlos Rhodes. The name rings familiar... I think quickly, scrolling through my mental rolodex.
Ah. He’s Sterling’s chief rival in the industry—the head of Crown Point Records.
“A pleasure to meet you,” I say, taking his hand.
“I saw you perform this morning in the village,” he says, his voice pitched for my ears only. “With Paul’s band. You have a remarkable talent.”
My heart skips. Finally, validation for my singing, not just my sunny good looks.
“Thank you. What’s the head of a famous record company doing listening to a village jazz band?”
He laughs a rich, throaty laugh. “Buying handmade lavender soap to send to my mother in Roma. Yet when I heard your voice from the stalls, I couldn’t resist seeing if the face matched the voice.”
“And did it?”
“No. Not at all. I was surprised.”
“What were you expecting?”
“A large Black woman,” he says with another laugh. “The power of your voice, the range. How is it possible that a tiny blonde girl like you could emit those sounds? Those emotions? I expected to see a woman twice your age.”
“Ah, well, I was trained by my grandmother. She toured with Ella Fitzgerald. Learned all her tricks and passed them to me.”
Carlos takes a closer look at my face.
“Yes,” I say, answering his unasked question. “I’m mixed race. African. Spanish. Maybe some Portuguese thrown in there somewhere.”
“It doesn’t show...”
“In my curls it does,” I say, yanking on a spiral that even Antoine’s wizards have failed to tame. I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood.
“Carlos,” says Sterling, finally noticing him at our table. “I wasn’t aware you were in Saint-Tropez.”
“Just for the weekend,” Carlos replies smoothly. “Couldn’t resist the opportunity to hear Slayer launch his new album. You’ve been keeping it under tight wraps.”
“I’ll make sure you receive a VIP ticket. And I see you’ve met Bix.”
“Indeed. You’ve found quite the talent.”
“Talent? Bix isn’t a recording artist,” Sterling corrects, his hand landing possessively on my shoulder. “She’s here with Slayer.”
Carlos’s eyes flick between us, understanding dawning. “Ah, I see.”
Slayer turns our way as well. “Rhodes,” he acknowledges, voice cool. His arm slides around my waist, a physical claim that contradicts his earlier indifference.
“Slayer. Congratulations on the album. And on finding such a multi-talented companion.”
I sense both Sterling and Slayer are confused by Carlos’s comment. They have no idea about my concert at the marketplace. But neither asks him to explain.
I feel caught in a strange triangle of intense male ego—Sterling proprietary, Slayer possessive, Carlos intrigued.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Slayer says, tightening his hold on me. “We were just about to cut the cake.”
“Of course.” Carlos produces a business card, offering it to me. “If you ever decide to explore that voice of yours, Ms. Bismark. My door is always open.”
Before I can take it, Slayer intercepts, pocketing the card himself. “I’ll hang on to this for you, darling.”
Carlos retreats with a knowing smile, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.
“Opportunistic bastard,” Sterling mutters.
Slayer shakes his head. “Always trying to poach talent.”
I look between them. “I’m just the girlfriend, remember?”
Neither man responds to this, turning instead to the elaborate cake.
As Sterling signals for the confection to be cut and served, I notice Valentina watching me with new interest. It’s as if she’s reassessing a competitor she’d previously dismissed.
I take another glass of Champagne when the server offers, needing its liquid courage.
Across the restaurant, I spot Paul setting up at the DJ booth, replacing the previous DJ for the afternoon set.
He works here too? Our eyes meet briefly, and he offers a discreet wave of recognition.
At least someone here sees the real me.
Conversation resumes around our table. Sterling discusses the yacht he’s chartered for tomorrow’s press conference.
Then the conversation turns to Valentina’s impressions of Greenwich, Connecticut, during her exchange-student days.
As they speak, I feel increasingly like a ghost at my own belated birthday celebration.
The Champagne bubbles through my bloodstream, warming me from the inside—and loosening the tight control I’ve maintained all day.
I glance again toward the DJ booth, where Paul is now in full swing. I can’t help but bounce along as the crowd responds to his infectious beats.
I feel a genuine smile forming, along with an idea.
Maybe this pretend birthday deserves a real celebration after all.