She’s in silk and diamonds, dressed for society.
“Drink?” she asks.
“Champagne,” I reply.
She glances at her butler and nods. He slips away,and I take a seat on one of her beloved Rococo settees—curved and gilded, wrapped in pale blue silk. It fits her perfectly—beautiful, but comfort-resistant.
“I’m so glad you wanted to meet, Gustave. There are things I want to say to you.” She smooths her dress as she sits across from me on a velvet couch, like she’s at a photoshoot.
She’s beautiful. No doubt about it. But she doesn’t compare to Tara, whose beauty isn’t skin deep; it runs through her, all the way down to her soul. Tara’s loveliness is light that embraces, while Simone’s is dark, bloody, and cold.
Her butler sets champagne flutes and a silver bucket on the Louis XVI giltwood guéridon between us.
He pours two glasses and sets the bottle in the ice bucket. He hands Simone her glass first and then me mine.
Les dames d’abord?*!
“What are we cheering to?” she asks once her butler leaves.
“To love.” I clink my glass with hers.
She smiles elegantly and sips her champagne. “You used to be romantic like this when we first met. Always champagne and caviar.”
I smile at her. I should’ve done this right after the divorce. Put her inher place.
“You know I bumped into Benoit Clérisseau recently,” I say conversationally.
I didn’tbumpinto the publisher ofLe Monde du Luxe. I sought him out and got answers to my questions. He didn’t give me any of those sources are secret bullshit—not when I told him I’d make sure he got pictures of me proposing to the love of my life when it happened. That opened his mouth like nothing else could.
“Oh.”
“Interesting, isn’t it, that the photograph that upended my life, my son’s, and my girlfriend’s came from you.” I sip my drink like I didn’t just drop a bomb.
Simone’s eyes flash surprise and anger.
She arches a brow, unbothered. “I protected you and the family.”
I shake my head as if amused. “Now, now, Simone. Let’s be honest. You did it to get rid of Tara. Did you really think that I’d come back to you if that happened?”
Her smile is brittle, venom beneath the gloss. “She’s not one of us. You’d have destroyed the de Valois name with your little American experiment. I did what was necessary.”
“Necessary?” I echo.
“You’re a de Valois, Gustave. You can choose who you take to your bed as long as you are discreet.” Her voice is icy like her—like our marriage. “You were born into duty, not desire.”
“The de Valois name ismine, Simone,” I remind her.
“Mine, too,” she snaps. “We were married for nearly two decades.”
I flick a speck of imaginary dirt on my suit trousers. “And now we’re divorced. I letyou use my family name out of courtesy, one that I can rescind any time I want.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
I refill my glass and don’t even ask her if she’d like some more, as propriety would demand.
“As unfair as it is—and it is grossly so—in French society, in our world, you must admit: the man holds all the power. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Simone’s mask cracks slightly, enough to show the furyandfear underneath. “She’s gone, isn’t she?” she sneers.
