If the fire had been blazing in the fireplace,it would have all been over with, right there. She would have tossed the paper in without another thought.
My Dearest Flicka,indeed.
You don’t treat someone who isDearestthe way Pierre had treated Flicka. You don’t call someoneDearestwhen you’re in love with and married to someone else. You don’t rape and beat someone who isDearestto you.
His hands and his fists rose in her mind.
Shecould not find any reason why she should read his detestable email, but she continued. Maybe she wanted some more reasons to hate him.
She looked at the email’s header again.
The date that the email had been delivered was the day before and late at night, so Pierre had written the message several days after the divorce hearing in Nevada.
He had writtenDearestwhen he knew that she was no longerhis wife, that he had no legal bonds on her, and that she was gone.
Her teeth ground together.
I can’t find you anywhere. No one knows where you are.
He could have said the same thing for the first six weeks when she’d been living in Las Vegas to establish residency before sending the divorce papers, but it was almost like he hadn’t cared, then.
Pierre had written,After the hearing, the MonacoSecret Service officers and military soldiers were tasked with protecting you from the other men—
Bullshit.Pierre’s people had been grabbing her and yanking at her to kidnap her. Nobody gaslighted Flicka. Bruises still marked her wrist and upper arms, and they were sore. Those soldiers and officers hadn’t been “protecting” her at all.
—but you were pulled into a van and driven off. I pray you’reall right.
Flicka wondered if Pierre had ever prayed for anything in his whole life, but maybe she shouldn’t go there. Maybe he did pray for things. He could buy whatever he wanted, of course, so he didn’t pray for material things.
Maybe he prayed for blowjobs from baristas.
Divine intervention was one of the few possible explanations for why he seemed to screw everyone who crossed his path.
Maybe not divine intervention. Maybe infernal intervention.
Pierre had written,I want to apologize for what happened the night of Wulfram and Rae’s wedding. I was drunk, and I had been fighting with Abigai. I was already at the end of my tether. I was already angry. I had no patience nor strength left, and you deserved better.
I am sorry.
Something wet made a translucent circle on the paper.
Flicka wiped her eyes before anything else splashed on the email.
If you get this, if you read this, just know that I am so sorry. A terrible rage rose in me that night, and I did unforgivable things.
I understand that no one should ever forgive what I have done, but you aren’t everyone. You’re someone very special, a princess among women, stronger and more intelligent than anyone else—
Ah,flattery.
Flicka had seen Pierre employ it every single day as they had shmoozed business people and political emissaries, working them to bring their money and tourism to Monaco. She recognized it. He’d used the “you’re better thannormalpeople” ploy on countless ambassadors and businesspeople when they’d had something he wanted.
—and I am begging your forgiveness.
Flicka steeled herself.This part would be “the ask,” where he had prepared the way with flattery and would now reveal what he wanted.
Come back to me and Monaco.
Flicka’s fingers clenched as she started to crumple the paper, but she stopped. She wanted to know what Pierre wanted and how he was trying to get it. She needed the information. Information was power.
