I open the fridge and note it’s stocked with my favorite things, even though I have no appetite. I find my prenatal vitamins, my favorite sparkling water, even light-blocking window shades and a state-of-the-art sound system. It’s beautiful and luxurious but feels barren.
I lay down on the sofa and glance at the clock. My only hope is that after Lyam’s burned off some energy, he comes back more centered and focused and ready to listen to the truth.
But as time ticks by, I begin to wonder.
Did he tell me a lie?
Did he only placate me?
After three hours pass with no Lyam, I begin to get angry.
Doesn’t he know that sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do? Doesn’t he know that affiliation with someone doesn’t necessarily mean actually being in cahoots with them?
Does he really love me, or does he only love theideaof me?
I have my answer when Lyam doesn’t come at all.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lyam
I openmy eyes and for a minute think I’m dreaming again.
Because this is where I come in my sleep. Dark walls. The smell of must and urine and the squeals of rats. The prison of my dreams.
Only this time, I’m not dreaming.
When I get out of these chains—and Iwill—I will kill them.
I draw in a breath and try to remember what happened.
I was outside Le Marquise, near the Louvre.
It was a setup. It was a fucking setup. He had those tourists planted so they could cause a mob scene and take me in.
Clever bastard.
I blink, looking around the dimly lit room and see a pair of polished black shoes. “Welcome, Mr. Gerard.”
I look up into the jowly face of none other than François Montague himself.
Cosette’s father.
The man that would be my father-in-law.
I shudder at my enemy and observe him up close.
On the surface, they look nothing alike.
Now that I know, I can see the slightest hint of resemblance. The subtle turn of the nose and color of his eyes.
Just like hers.
But that’s where the similarities end.
There’s a pronounced hunch in his shoulders, and a greedy, calculating smile embedded in his fleshy face. She is sunshine and daisies, and he’s the charred remains of a forest fire.
Whereas Cosette’s eyes are bright and vivid, his are heavy and cruel. She’s slender and lithe, as graceful as a willow tree. His potbelly sags below his waistline, pinched into pants that are too tight. Her smile is bright and vivid and could challenge the stars in the heavens, and his is a slimy smirk. Cosette’s skin is soft and clear like a porcelain doll’s while his is pitted and leathery.
