Luc descends the gallery steps, moving with the same controlled economy of motion that runs in our family. He's younger than me by a couple years, built leaner but with the same Beaumont features that marked Maman—sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that miss nothing, a mouth made for either poetry or cruelty depending on mood.
Right now, his mouth is a hard line.
"Didn't think you'd ever come back," he says. No greeting. No welcome home.
"Had a reason to." I gesture to Isabella. "This is Isabella Durand. Isabella, my brother Luc."
Luc's gaze shifts to her, assessment quick and thorough. "The asset?"
"The scientist," I correct, putting just enough edge in my voice to make it a warning.
Something flickers in Luc's expression. Not quite approval, but acknowledgment that some lines still hold. "Inside. Margot's on her way from the restaurant."
He turns without waiting for response, expecting us to follow. I exchange a glance with Isabella—she's taking in the family dynamics with that quick intelligence that misses nothing—then follow my brother through the front door.
The foyer hits me like a physical blow. Nothing's changed. Maman's portrait still hangs above the curved staircase, her face serene and beautiful and forever young. Papa's offshore rig photos line the opposite wall, black and white images of derricks and roughnecks and the Gulf's endless horizon. The antique mirror Maman found in a French Quarter shop reflects us back, and for a moment I see ghosts—younger versions of myself running through this space, Maman calling after us to slow down, Papa's deep laugh echoing from his study.
"Everything's exactly as they left it," Luc says, watching me with clinical precision. "Margot won't let me change anything. Says it's disrespectful to their memory."
Margot's turned the house into a shrine. Luc lets her because neither of them knows how to move forward.
"Where's she living?" I ask. "Margot."
"Here. I've got the guest house out back." Luc moves into the front parlor, and we follow. "She runs Maman's restaurant full-time now. Beaumont's, over on Magazine Street. Keeps her busy."
Keeps her from thinking about the fact that our parents are gone and I wasn't there when it mattered. I've kept tabs on them both over the years—couldn't help myself even when staying away seemed like the right thing to do. Luc returned to New Orleans after Papa died and ran the wildcat oil business until he turned over day-to-day operations to his second-in-command. Now he ostensibly runs an import/export business and does whatever else he does in the shadows;` he's been careful to keep off my radar. Smart man.
The front door opens again. Heels click on marble, sharp and purposeful. Then Margot appears in the parlor doorway, and the temperature drops.
Our sister inherited Maman's beauty and Papa's temper, a dangerous combination wrapped in an athletic frame with curves that time has only enhanced. Right now, fury radiates off her in waves. Diamonds flash on her fingers—Maman's rings.
"Convenient," she says, voice dripping acid. "You show up now that you need something."
"Margot," I start.
"Don't." Her fist connects with my jaw before I register she's moving. The hit catches me off guard, sends me stumbling back a step. Delta Force training, Papa's temper, and years of rage behind it. "You don't get to come back here acting like nothing happened. They died, Remy. Died while you were overseas saving strangers. Saving strangers while your family fell apart."
The words land like they're meant to. I don't flinch, don't deflect, just take it because she's earned the right to her rage.
"You're right," I say quietly. "I wasn't here. I should have been."
It throws her. For just a second, the fury wavers, replaced by something sharper—pain, raw and unprocessed. Then she rebuilds the walls, gaze shifting to Isabella.
"Who's this?"
"Isabella Durand. She's?—"
"The reason you're here." Margot's assessment is faster than Luc's, cutting deeper. "You're in trouble. Both of you."
"Yes."
"And you thought bringing it to our door was a good idea?"
"I thought New Orleans was off everyone's radar. And I thought this house had enough security that we could fortify it properly."
Margot laughs, bitter and dark. "Security. Right. Because Papa's paranoia about offshore competitors wasn't enough. Now you want to turn our home into a fortress."
"Margot," Luc says quietly. "Let him talk."
