‘Elsewhere or someone else,’ he murmurs, his expression like a hyena sniffing for a weakness. ‘I’m sensing a lot of tension, cousin.’
‘You’ll be sensing the arrival of my fist if you don’t get out.’
‘Really, Remy? You can’t have all the toys.’ Our eyes lock, and I feel my lip curl, seconds away from forgetting we were friends as boys.
‘I’m no one’s plaything.’ Rose’s voice rings out across the room. Though I hear the waver in it, I can’t look at her. Not when I know where this is going.
‘You haven’t told her, have you?’ His voice is pitched lower, but the triumph in it is detachable under the sham.
‘Told me what?’
Benoît’s shoulders sag with a sigh, his head dropping between his shoulder blades. At least, that’s what the outside world would see. But I know him, and I saw the flickering of delight in his gaze. When he looks up again, his expression is one of contrition. My gut tightens again, this time my fists, too. What is the bastard up to?
‘I’m sorry, Remy. Seeing Rose here made me lose my train of thought.’ A lie on top of other lies. ‘I came to tell you that Amélie’s car is in the parking lot. I thought you’d want to know.’
This . . . is not a lie but perhaps the Fates dealing their hand. I thought I could ward this off without lowering myself. Ward off the lies and twist it into a truth that didn’t need to be heard by her.
‘Who is Amélie?’
Neither of us answers, though Ben’s barely concealed delight seems to ask, do you want to tell her or should I?
It should never have come to this. I should’ve come clean from the start—but where would I have started? I’ve built a lie upon a lie until I’m sitting behind the walls of a fortress of falsehoods, first driven by mistrust and then by fear.
And now? Now I risk everything. I risk her love.
‘Amélie is . . .’ I cannot stop him. I can no longer hide. ‘How do you say femme à être?’
Though directed at me, I don’t answer, just glared. Glare hard enough that he should at least have the decency to turn to salt for looking back.
‘Rose.’ I’ve done something. A hundred somethings. But the words won’t come because where do I start?
‘What is it?’
I curse, this time at the door. The blood in my veins turns to ice water as it opens, a sultry purr preceding her appearance. Her. Amélie. The first of my pigeons come home to roost.
‘Bonjour, mon amour. Did you miss me?’
Her eyes remain on me though she reaches Benoît first, languidly grazing his cheeks with air-kisses. Like recognising like, no doubt.
‘Bonjour, Amélie. Remind me, what is the English for femme à être?’
Her hand slips from his shoulder, her sights set on me. ‘It means wife-to-be. Hello, my future husband. Did you miss me?’
25
Rose
For a moment, I think I’ve misheard because that just doesn’t make sense.
Wife-to-be? Her future husband?
It’s almost laughable. Isn’t it? It has to be. Except I’m not laughing as he allows her to slide her hands around his neck. As he accepts the kiss she presses to his cheek.
As he refuses to look at me.
Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick. And not because of the lingering smell of McDonald’s but because it’s all true.
I’m a fool, and he’s a lying, cheating . . . heartbreaking tool.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I find myself uttering, not sparing a glance for anyone as I move in the direction of the door. My legs are unsteady, and the phrase heartache is suddenly something very real. Like it’s being torn apart, the pain of it a scream choking in my throat.
‘Allow me.’ He’s at the door, pulling it open, allowing me to pass through—not the him I want but the other sleaze. The one I left on Saturday night. The one who almost forced me to confess I’d lied on my resumé today. I was so determined that I wouldn’t tell Remy I’d worked at a strip club, concerned what he’d think of me. He was right, I was avoiding him. I knew I’d have to tell him, but I didn’t know how.
I made myself ill just thinking about it.
What a fucking joke! And I am that joke.
How dare he question me. How dare he look at me with such betrayal when the man has a wife!
To be.
Semantics.
All the same, he’s been stringing me along. And how!
Yes, how? Exactly how? Hasn’t he spent almost every moment with me? How can he be promised to another when he looks at me like he does?
I stumble past the bank of elevators, pulling open the door to the stairs no one ever uses this far up. The door clunks shut as I press my forehead to the cool concrete wall and choke back a sob of hysteria. My entire body shakes as the result of this emotional tsunami, a situation coming out of nowhere; unforeseen, uninvited, unbelievable. But I won’t cry. Not here. He doesn’t deserve my tears. He doesn’t deserve the steam off my piss!