Especially not Darla Ivy Hill, my beautiful wife, who made me wish for things I could never have.
On my way to the guest room down the hall, my phone buzzed with a text. I was part of a group chat with Romero and Donovan and assumed they were ribbing me now that my wedding night was over.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
An unknown number had attached a blurry picture of Darla from two weeks ago, leaving Maison Sereno’s atelier after her final dress fitting.
The text message read:
I see she’s good enough to be your wife…
The joker card felt weighty in my palm.
I flipped it around, examining it in ways I might have missed the first time. There was nothing special about the card. It was straight from a traditional-sized deck with a joker painted on the front and a blue pattern on the back.
The card was in pristine condition, leading me to believe it had never been used.
It was left in Miles Moretti’s jeans pocket with one sole purpose.
To deliver a message to me.
Violette’s chuckled words from eons ago played in my mind.
“The jokeris my favourite. It’s a wild card. You neversee it coming.”
The Toussaints grew up with us. For two decades, we had many joint dinners, vacations, and game nights. Bullshit, in particular, was one of Violette’s favourite games.
She had the uncanny ability to win every round with joker cards.
“It feels like she never reallyleft…sometimes it feels like she’s still here.”
Perhaps it was far-fetched, but maybe there was someone trying to keep her memory alive by taunting me.
Someone who might have known about Violette’s and my secret arrangement.
Someone like Antoine Toussaint, who hated me as much as I hated him.
My musings were interrupted by a hard knock on the door.
Yves forced me to move back to the estate, saying he wanted me close as I began transitioning into my new role, so I was currently in my old home office.
“Come in,” I said, placing the joker card flat on my desk.
Yves walked in with the gait of a self-assured man who’d gotten what he wanted: his heir married to the daughter of the most nightmarish woman in the city. “You didn’t join us for breakfast.”
“I had work to do.” I opened my laptop and glanced at my online shopping cart, containing twelve books from Darla. I found her pen name and had every intention of reading through her works to see why all the internet mommies were giving her five-star ratings.
Plus, there was one empty bookshelf in my office begging to be filled with my wife’s romance novels.
“Darla joined us for breakfast, although she mentioned you already had some brought to your room. She mostly chatted with Céline and nibbled on an éclair. Oh, and she’s now a fan of Laurent’s baking.”
“Duly noted,” I said, placing my order. My wife had a sweet tooth and our head chef was an expert at French pastries. I foresaw them becoming best friends.
Yves took a seat in one of the leather armchairs before me. “How do you feel now that you’re a married man?”
“Like I’ve been duped.” I closed the lid of my laptop and faced him. “Are you happy now that I’ve done your bidding?”
A sad look inched upon his face. “Ultimately, I just want you to be happy, Zed. Marrying Darla is a step in the right direction, even if you don’t realize it.”