I suggested returning to the hotel for dinner, but Michaela had a better idea. We hopped into a taxi and made our way to the fashionable Marais district in the 4th arrondissement. Hand in hand, we strolled toL’As du Fallafelon Rue des Rosiers—the city’s best Israeli-style falafel and shawarma sandwiches. It so happens to be a favorite for both of us. Armed with a gargantuan variety of delicious pita sandwiches, a platter of kefta, and enough homemade fries to fill a bucket, we returned to the Pompadour. Still dressed to kill, we headed straight to the large balcony adjacent to our suite to devour our dinner.
It’s a beautiful, warm night, and the spectacular view of Paris under an indigo sky is incomparable. A chillout lounge vibe spills from the exterior speakers, adding to the ambience.
“That was ridiculous.” Michaela pops the last bite of French lemon tart into her mouth. “The pastry chefs at the Pompadourare going to make it impossible for me to stop stuffing my face with yummy sweet goodness.”
“Desserts here are decadent,” I say. “I could’ve asked our chefs to prepare something comparable to our Israeli feast, but nothing beats the real thing. Not to mention, I never miss the opportunity to stop byL’Asevery time I’m in town.”
“The last time I was in Paris, I ate atL’Asnearly every day. It’s so good.”
“I still can’t get over your mastery of French.” I change the subject.
“I have an accent, I forget how to say certain words, and I’m not always the best with complicated French conjugation, but I speak it well enough to shut that woman up and put her back in her place.”
“It was priceless,” I say. “Did you learn French in school?”
“I’ve been studying French for years. On top of the two summers in Nantes, I spent six months in the Pays de la Loire, in western France, after graduating. I stayed with a lovely family. I chose that particular area because it’s one of France’s wine regions. I was getting ready to step into the family business full-time. Then, Thana happened and my dream went to hell.”
He nods. “Thana, the two-timing witch.”
“That, she is.”
We each take a long sip of our Sauvignon blanc, eyeing each other over the rim of the glass.
“Speaking of another she-devil, can we talk about Brock and Marie-Clémence?” Michaela puts an end to the mellow mood of the evening. I knew this was coming. “We’re bound to bump into them again in the next few days.”
“You’re right. As much as I’d like to, we can’t escape them.”
“Did you and Marie-Clémence date or… sleep together?”
No waffling. She goes straight for it.
“We had a thing for about six months.”
“How does Brock fit into the mix?”
I consider her question.
“I don’t want to pry, but whatever happened between the three of you must’ve been pretty significant. The palpable animosity hung thick in the air. Shouldn’t I know why?”
I wish I didn’t have to go down memory lane, but she deserves an explanation.
“Marie-Clémence was a makeup artist. She mainly worked TV shows. Now, her full-time job is being Brock’s wife. We met at a function. There was an instant attraction. We started seeing each other. It was casual, and she knew what to expect. Not that I dated, but I was in no headspace for anything more. Barron’s death forced me to step into a role I wasn’t prepared for. I had big shoes to fill. And, I was still grieving for Mom. MC seemed understanding enough at the time.” I pause. “Brock was Barron’s assistant. He was twenty-seven when I took over my brother’s position and he had lofty aspirations, which I encouraged. As I was learning the ropes, I relied heavily on him. That was a mistake.”
“He wasn’t supportive?”
“He was supportive. I didn’t know it was a façade. While he was smiling at me, he was backstabbing me to advance his career.”
“What? How?”
“A lot of the deals we were vying for seemed to slip from between our fingers right when it was time to close. I thought it was me. I was certain I was making rookie mistakes and losing those prospects right before they signed the contract. Dad assured me it had to be more. This went on for a while. Time and time again, we were losing out on amazing properties. And the worst part is, we were losing out to the Madigans––”
“That must’ve been so maddening.”
“It was infuriating, and it was driving me out of my mind because I couldn’t figure out why it kept happening,” I say. “The board was growing impatient with me. I didn’t have an explanation. Everything became clear when I returned early from a business trip to London. Because I was so dead set on proving myself to the board, I asked my chauffeur to drive me to the office instead of going back to my place. I wanted to fine-tune a few proposals for upcoming meetings. Since it was nine o’clock at night on a Friday, the executive floor was deserted. As I was approaching my office, I heard moans. I thought it might be the cleaning crew. I was about to enter my office to find out what the hell was going on when a woman’s voice stopped me dead in my tracks. It was a voice I knew too well. A voice that was calling out Brock’s name, pleading with him to make her come all over his face.”
A violent torrent of emotions swirls through me, flashing back to that day.
“I assume it was Marie-Clémence,” she says.
