Epilogue II
LAURENT
The dark-paneled walls were painted in shifting shadows. Midnight & Gold held its usual weight: too much old money, too much history, and not a single wasted word.
Dean leaned back in his armchair, one ankle resting over a knee, eyes on the fire. “Word is, Bea’s flying back soon.”
“King’s been in London a month,” Marek added.
“No announcement,” muttered Finn. “She hasn’t followed.”
“Which means,” said Derek, drawing a slow card from a deck on the table beside him, “she’s back in play.”
“She handled King’s world.” Marek tapped the ash from his cigar into a crystal tray. “Didn’t embarrass him. Held her own.”
Derek shuffled the cards. “I wonder who walked.”
“Who would that matter to?” Finn asked. “She was untouched before him. Now she’s vetted.”
Callum, the eldest in the room, set down his brandy with a soft clink. “Move too quickly, and you’re a fool.”
“How soon is too soon?” The question was asked as if every man in the room didn’t already know the answer.
Finn took a sip of brandy. “Six months if you’re patient. Three, if you’re bold.”
“Anyone already circling?”
Chairs creaked. Eyes moved. A room full of competitors measured each other.
Laurent Duret, who had been quiet until now, picked up a single salted pecan from the silver bowl beside him and crunched.
“Not circling,” he said, amused. “He doesn’t need to.”
The silence that followed wasn’t confusion, but recognition. Every man in the room knew exactly who he meant. And exactly what that meant for them.
Derek leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He’s serious, then.”
Laurent rolled another pecan between his fingers, amused, before crushing it, and chewing like he had all the time in the world. “Always was.”
“But he didn’t act,” said Dean.
“No,” Laurent agreed, “he waited. Different sport.”
“And now?”
Laurent leaned back, crossing one leg slowly over the other, his expression unreadable. “Now he’s letting her catch her breath.”
Marek exhaled smoke through his nose. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
Laurent smiled faintly. “No. It’s not like him at all.”
Every man sat a little straighter.
Dean tilted his glass. “What if someone moves first?”
Laurent ran his thumb along the rim of his glass. “That depends.”
“On what?”
Laurent looked up, meeting their eyes one by one. “On whether you’re trying to win…or trying to take advantage.”
Even the crackle of the fire seemed to still.
“He’ll compete. If you’re stupid enough to challenge Rafael Griffin for her, go ahead. I don’t like your chances.” Laurent smirked. “But it would be…divertissant.”
“It’s her choice, not his,” Finn said, tone sharp.
Laurent nodded slowly. “Of course. It is the woman’s prerogative.” He drained the last of his Armagnac. “But if you move too early, if you see her fragility and treat that as an opening…he’ll see it as disrespect. To her.”
He set his glass down on the table with a quiet thud.
“And I think you all know how Rafael feels about disrespect.” A pause. Then, with a faint smile—“Especially when it concerns the woman he intends to marry.”
In the hush that followed, every man in the room did what legacy men did best. Recalculated.