23. Camille #3
Henri’s gaze narrows. “Quelle différence ?” What difference?
“I regret it.”
Henri looks almost bored. “Le regret ne rend pas vos actes différents.” Regret does not make your actions different.
“No. But what I do afterward does.”
I should stop.
I know I should.
Every word gives him another place to push.
But something about his indifference—the evidence, Nadia, Alberte, all of it—has begun unraveling the restraint I have maintained since he entered.
“You think loving Alberte entitled you to keep him,” I say. “You think because he came back, because he forgave you, because he stayed twenty-five years, that proves he belonged to you.”
Henri’s face becomes still. “Faites attention, Camille.” Careful, Camille.
I smile, because there it is, at last—something real.
“Do you believe he truly loved you? Even until the very end?” I ask.
Henri chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Oui. Il m’aimait.” Yes. He loved me. The conviction is absolute.
Something ugly and impulsive takes hold of me. Perhaps it is the blood drying against my mouth, the restraints biting into my wrists, or knowing three armed men are somewhere between Ryan and me while Henri stands here speaking about people as though love were a deed of ownership.
Whatever the cause, restraint snaps. “Non.”
Henri’s fingers stop moving against the cane. “No?”
I lift my head. “Alberte ne vous aimait plus.” Alberte did not love you anymore.
Henri grinds his jaw, looking down at me with disdain.
I continue anyway. “Il vous a quitté.” He left you.
“Il avait peur.” He was afraid.
“Oui. De vous.” Yes. Of you.
Henri scoffs. “Il m’aimait encore.” He still loved me.
I laugh cruelly. “Vraiment ?” Really?
Henri’s eyes become flat.
“Alors comment expliquez-vous son fils ?” Then how do you explain his son?
For the first time, Henri looks confused.
I let myself enjoy it, just a little. “Son fils américain,” I clarify. “Et ensuite son petit-fils.” His American son. And then his grandson.
Understanding arrives, as does fury.
And yet, I spit out, “Il vous a quitté, il a traversé l’Atlantique, et de toute évidence, il a baisé quelqu’un là-bas.” He left you, crossed the Atlantic, and obviously fucked someone over there.
One of the men inhales sharply. Henri’s face empties completely.
I should stop.
I absolutely should stop.
Instead, bleeding, restrained, furious, and apparently determined to discover exactly how much damage a seventy-seven-year-old man can still do with a cane, I smile at him. “Sinon, comment croyez-vous que Ryan existe ?” Otherwise, how do you think Ryan exists?
Henri moves; the cane comes up so quickly that I barely register the motion, then crashes against the side of my head.
Light bursts across my vision, and there is no room, no floor, no Henri. Only white, then black, then a violent smear of both.
My body pitches sideways, caught before I hit the floor by the man behind me, although my knee slams painfully against the marble.
Sound comes back strangely, muffled.
I blink.
There are two Henris.
Then three.
They sway over one another while I try to force my eyes to focus. Warmth spills down the side of my face.
At first I think it is sweat, but when it reaches my eye, red washes across half my vision.
Blood.
I blink again, and the room takes on a crimson filter.
Henri stands over me, breathing hard. So much for detached superiority.
I laugh. It comes out wet and uneven. “J’ai touché un point sensible ?” Did I hit a nerve?
Henri’s expression twists, and he lifts the cane again.
The man behind me tightens his grip, perhaps anticipating the second strike.
I cannot tell whether I am about to duck; I do not think I could if I tried.
Then a voice cuts through the room. “Stop it.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid as Henri’s cane stops in midair and the men all turn.
I know that voice.
No.
My vision refuses to cooperate as I wrench my head toward the doorway, blood slipping into my eye again.
A figure stands there, so very small compared with the men around him.
“Ry—an?” His name comes out broken. Everything inside me turns to horror. “Ryan, what the fuck are you doing?”
His eyes find mine, widening, then narrowing at the blood running down my face.
He looks furious.
Not at Henri—at me.
Because apparently confessing that I love Ryan Smith and then instructing him to leave me to armed men was not, in retrospect, a strategy likely to produce obedient compliance.
One of the intruders moves toward him.
“No!” I yell, surging forward so violently that my injured head explodes with pain and the man holding me nearly loses his grip. “Don’t touch him!”
Ryan does not back away.
He should be running.
He should already be halfway to the river.
But no, that would be too easy. He stands there with his shoulders squared and his hands visible, looking at Henri as though he has walked into an argument rather than a room containing armed men.
I have spent the last several days trying to learn that loving Ryan means trusting him to make his own choices.
At this precise moment, I have never hated one of his choices more.