Light pours from the windows of the main house, clear and golden, like fine Champagne. Glancing down, I smooth a hand over my ivory pantsuit. It’s simple yet classic, something I’d wear to any dinner party hosted in LA.
But standing on the doorstep of Maison Marteau, I can’t help feeling underdressed. Or that the wine in my hand isn’t good enough. Not expensive enough. Notvintageenough.
Keep calm. Play the part. Keep up appearances for a couple of hours.
I blow out a long, controlled, calming breath and ring the bell. Before I lose my nerve.
Almost instantly, one door swings open. A man steps aside to let me in, wearing a steel-gray uniform with gold buttons. More Parisian flair than the standard English butler.
I step inside, my heels clicking softly on the parquet floor. The woodwork extends to a massive staircase, spiraling up to a mezzanine. Red carpet runs from top to bottom, spilling down the steps like a river of blood.
“Brooke!” Luci’s voice breaks into my morbid thoughts, her smile bright and welcoming. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Shehurries over and leans in close to one side of my face. She makes a kissing sound and repeats the gesture on the other cheek.
The French greeting known asla bise. This afternoon, I looked up French etiquette, wanting to be as prepared as possible. But at this point my head is buzzing, and I only remember three things: don’t choose my own seat, don’t switch the fork between hands, and don’t ask for butter.
“Your grandmother was so kind to invite me,” I say, hearing the stiffness in my tone. My body feels just as rigid, filled with the dread of dealing with Ric and Chantal again. Both for different reasons.
“You brought wine.” Luci takes the bottles, studies the labels, and nods. “Come. The others are in the grand salon.”
I walk with her down a corridor, stealing glimpses inside rooms as we pass. So much opulence, I can’t take it all in. Gilded mirrors and paintings, porcelain and crystal, antiques and velvet. Luxury fit for a palace.
A palace built by chocolate.
The hall makes a sudden turn, and Luci breezes through a case opening wide enough for six people to stand shoulder to shoulder.
Inside, the family is gathered near a stone fireplace. Chantal sits on one of two sapphire-colored sofas, speaking to a young man on the opposite couch. His brown hair is a shade lighter than Ric’s, but a resemblance tells me they’re closely related.
Musidora sits in her wheelchair, positioned near the young man, with her hand on his arm.
“Our guest has arrived,” Luci announces, and three heads swivel.
“Ah, Brooke.” With impressive agility, Musidora maneuvers around the furniture and rolls herself to me. “So lovely to see you.”
“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Marteau.”
She tuts and waves a hand. “Please, call me Dora.”
I tilt my head in acknowledgement. “Your home is stunning,” I say, syrup running sweet and thick in my voice.
I inherited more than my love of acting from my mother. I also learned how to play the game. The Hollywood game—how to fit in with the wealthy and socially elite.
Though it never sits well on my shoulders.
“You remember Chantal.” Dora flicks a hand to her daughter-in-law. Chantal lifts her chin to acknowledge me, but she doesn’t speak.
“And my grandson, Lyam.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Lyam says, charming with a dimpled grin and puppy-dog eyes. He stands from the couch and walks to join Luci. “And you’ve brought us some wine.” He studies a label as Luci did. “This will pair nicely with dinner.”
Still holding the wine, Lyam angles toward his grandmother, making it clear who has final approval.
“Of course,” Dora says, lifting one brow to someone across the room. A woman in a black uniform stands near the wall, so motionless I hadn’t noticed her before.
Now she jumps to Dora’s unspoken command, moving like a wraith, swift and silent as she comes to take the bottles.
“I had planned to have the Pommard François,” Chantal says with a purse of her lips.
“Nonsense.” Dora speaks over her shoulder to her daughter-in-law. “Not when Brooke has been so considerate.”
