Chapter 8 - THE DEBT THAT NEVER EXISTED
Edmund confessed the following morning.
There had never been a gambling debt.
Not exactly.
He had gambled.
He had lost money.
But not four million dollars.
The four-million-dollar obligation had been created when Edmund secretly borrowed from Lucian to buy back portions of Voss Industrial that Victor controlled.
“You knew?” Mireille asked Lucian.
“Not why he needed the money.”
Edmund sat opposite his daughters.
“I was trying to get enough control of the company to expose Victor without putting you at risk.”
Margaux folded her arms.
“You could have tried telling us the truth sometime this century.”
Edmund looked down.
“I was afraid.”
Mireille almost laughed at the strange reversal.
Her father had spent her childhood teaching her to hide fear.
Now fear had destroyed nearly everything he meant to protect.
“What about offering Margaux to Lucian?”
Edmund winced.
“That was real.”
Margaux stared at him.
“Wonderful.”
“I thought marriage to Solvay would protect you.”
“So you sold me for security?”
“I convinced myself it was different.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No.”
That admission mattered.
Not enough.
But some.
Mireille looked at Lucian.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“You knew the marriage proposal was ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you chose me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Lucian looked at Edmund.
“Leave.”
Edmund wisely obeyed.
Margaux followed, muttering that she intended to listen through the door.
Mireille waited.
Lucian stood by the window.
“The first time I saw you, you were fourteen.”
“That sentence needs a safer continuation.”
He gave her an exasperated look.
She smiled faintly.
He continued.
“You were terrified. Injured. But while the building was collapsing, you kept telling me your mother was still inside.”
Mireille’s smile vanished.
“I remembered you.”
“For fourteen years?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you find me?”
“I did.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Not personally. I checked occasionally.”
“That sounds alarmingly like stalking.”
“It probably was.”
“Lucian.”
“I wanted to know you were alive.”
The simplicity of it silenced her.
“When Edmund offered Margaux, I intended to refuse and collect the debt normally.”
“Then you saw me.”
“Yes.”
“And recognized me.”
“Yes.”
“So this entire thirty-day arrangement—”
“Was selfish.”
Mireille blinked.
Lucian Solvay did not seem like a man accustomed to admitting that.
He continued.
“I wanted time.”
“For what?”
“To find out whether the girl I remembered had become someone I could…”
He stopped.
Mireille waited.
“Could what?”
He looked almost irritated.
Not with her.
With language itself.
“Care about.”
Mireille’s heartbeat accelerated.
“And?”
“And you’re exhausting.”
She stared.
He stepped closer.
“You argue about everything.”
“Only when you’re wrong.”
“You steal blankets.”
“That happened once.”
“You put pencils in every room.”
“I need them.”
“You refuse security instructions.”
“Your security instructions are unreasonable.”
“You talk when I’m trying to work.”
“You work too much.”
“And somehow my house feels wrong when you’re not in it.”
Mireille stopped breathing.
Lucian stood close enough now that she could see the tiny scar beside his eyebrow.
“You asked what happens after thirty days.”
“Yes.”
“I cancel the agreement.”
Her heart sank before she could stop it.
He saw.
Then continued.
“And I ask you to stay without one.”
Mireille stared at him.
“No debt?”
“No.”
“No arrangement?”
“No.”
“No father negotiating?”
“No.”
“Just me deciding?”
“Yes.”
She looked at the man who had entered her father’s house like winter.
The man who had chosen the sister everyone else tried not to see.
Then she touched his face.
Lucian went perfectly still.
It made her smile.
“You’re nervous.”
“No.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Mireille.”
She kissed him.
For a man feared by half the city, Lucian Solvay kissed with astonishing restraint.
His hand settled carefully against the unscarred side of her face.
Mireille pulled back.
“Why not the other side?”
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
“My scar.”
Understanding appeared.
Then anger.
Not at her.
At the question.
He touched the scar gently.
“You think I’m afraid to touch it?”
“People are.”
“I’m not people.”
“That may be the most accurate thing you’ve ever said.”
He kissed her again.
This time his thumb rested against the scar.
For the first time in fourteen years, Mireille did not wonder what her face looked like.
Then Lucian’s phone rang.
He ignored it.
It rang again.
Mireille pulled away.
“You should answer.”
“I disagree.”
“Lucian.”
He answered.
The color drained from his face.
“What?”
Mireille’s stomach tightened.
He listened.
Then looked at her.
Victor Dane had been found unconscious in his holding cell.
Beside him was a note.
May you like
Three words.
CELESTE IS ALIVE.
