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Water laps at the side of the boat. The breeze brings the faintest whiff of lavender. Two birds soar overhead, twisting and dipping in a coupling ritual. I sit down, listening to the addition of the slow, steady drip of coffee sliding off the table onto the deck.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Gavriil
IWANDERTOthe window and gaze out over the golden sands of Malibu. It’s a place I’ve stood countless times since I bought this house. The view of the beach, the ocean, the glimpses of the mansions on either side of mine, used to bring me joy.
Right now, though, all I feel is alone. Alone in a massive house filled with priceless treasures that once meant everything, and now mean nothing.
It’s been a week since Juliette left. I learned from the captain that she had arranged for a car to take her south to the nearest airport so she could catch a flight back to Washington. She told the captain it was a family emergency. Whether or not he believed her, I didn’t know and didn’t care.
I stayed on the boat, drifting down to the coast, passing the stop at Les Baux-de-Provence where we were supposed to get off and tour the quarry together. Once we arrived in Marseille, I took up residence in the suite at Le Petit Nice I had reserved for the final phase of our honeymoon. I spent almost every waking hour on the phone or on the computer, instructing my security team to dig deeper into Louis Paul even as I tried to persuade him to meet me across the negotiating table.
His secretary deferred my calls. My attempts at contacting him through his personal phone were met with voicemail. Losing the contract would not hurt Drakos North America. Given that it appeared Paul had something to hide, it was doubtful he would talk about our falling-out with others.
But it was the only thing I could focus on right now. The only thing that distracted me from the fact that Juliette was not in my life.
The first few days, it was easy to hold on to the anger, the betrayal. It wasn’t until I was flying back to the States that the first doubt appeared. The image of her standing on the stern of the boat, looking like I’d crushed her, played over and over in my mind until I could swear the image was embedded on the back of my eyelids. It bothered me enough that I reached out to Michail of all people. I hadn’t been satisfied with our security firm for a long time. As much as I didn’t care for my newfound half brother, his firm had grown rapidly over the past couple of years. He was renowned for finding out the exact kind of details I needed to know. I was surprised when he agreed to take on my case.
I told myself it was simply confirming that doing business with Paul would not darken the Drakos name. My father had done enough of that when he was alive. I would not enter into a deal, no matter how potentially lucrative it could be, if Paul had been engaging in criminal activity.
I turn away from the window. Juliette hasn’t contacted me. I’ve checked her social media more than I care to admit. There’s been nothing since her last photo of the village where we shared wine and secrets. I’ve revisited that moment often, too, of how truly conflicted she sounded, the genuine pleasure in her eyes when I complimented her photography.
As I moved past my initial hurt, truth has been slowly edging out my rancor and leaving a gaping hole in my chest.
Did Juliette use my file? Yes. But not in the way I had accused her of. It had simply been seeing the name that had reignited her need to know and fully close a painful chapter in her life. What she had done had been a continuation of her own work, her own insecurities and self-doubts. Yes, she had kept things from me. But I had done the same, keeping so much of myself away even as she tore down the walls between us and bared herself to me.
The more I recognize this, the more I realize just how much I let my past speak that day on the river, the more I want to sink to my knees and scream up at the sky.
I haven’t called her. Haven’t reached out, even as I’ve uncovered this epiphany in slow, agonizing moments. Because it doesn’t matter that I’ve realized she was telling the truth. In a moment that mattered, I failed. I let my own doubts take over, my own fear of getting hurt override any rationality, any emotion but self-preservation. If that is my go-to at the first sign of crisis, how can I possibly be worthy of someone like her?
It doesn’t stop me from glancing at my phone, from hoping she’ll call. I do this now on my way out to the pool. There are plenty of text messages from members of my team. A voicemail from my secretary letting me know that Paul has finally agreed to a face-to-face meeting next week in New York to revisit the deal. What once would have brought a surge of triumph brings nothing.
I ease into the warmth of the heated saltwater lap pool. I swim as often as I can. But since I’ve been home, I’ve been swimming as if the devil were chasing me. That if I swim hard enough, fast enough, I’ll outrun the mistake I’ve made and somehow be able to return to the life I had before I proposed to Juliette Grey.
I’ve just completed the second lap when something bounces off my head. I stand up and rip the goggles off my head. Michail stands on the pool deck, legs spread as if he’s a cowboy headed into a gun battle. He looks down at me, sunglasses shielding his eyes. A tennis ball floats in the water next to me.
“I didn’t realize you made house calls.”
Michail holds up a file. “Got what you were asking for.”
I run my hand over my face, dislodging the water still clinging to my skin. Then I grab the tennis ball and lob it in his direction. He dodges it, but barely. I smirk as he swears. I get out of the pool and towel off.
“How did you get in?” I ask as I hold out my hand for the folder.
One corner of his mouth tilts up. “My company manufactures your security system.”
“Comforting.”
I rip open the seal and slide out a document. Louis Paul, I read, has a son in Texas. A son born from a brief affair during a tumultuous time in his marriage to an Austin oil heiress. While Paul and his former mistress are no longer intimate, he makes multiple trips a year down to Texas to see his son. From what Michail’s firm has been able to determine, his wife knows nothing about the affair or the child. Given that she’s stated multiple times she never wants to have children, along with an ironclad infidelity clause in their prenup, Paul has plenty of reasons for not wanting this to come to light.
There are several pictures in the file, too. One is of Paul and his son sitting high in the stands at a baseball game. The boy can’t be more than nine or ten years old. He wears a baseball cap. So does Paul, along with sunglasses and a casual T-shirt I never would have believed he’d wear if I hadn’t had the evidence right in front of my face. But there he is, smiling down as the boy cheers on whatever happened on the field.
My chest tightens. “All of this because he’s trying to be a good father.”
Michail snorts. “Apparently it can happen.”
I glance at him. “You truly didn’t know who our father was?”