“Oooh,” I squealed, desperate to change the subject. “I got you both some souvenirs.”
?? ?? ??
I wrapped the scarf over my head and kept it tight around my face as I slipped out of the office. The last thing I needed was to be seen getting into Laurent’s car. Evelyn hadn’t mentioned my new hours—HR had handled that—but still.
Garrett spotted me immediately, so much for camouflage.
“Nice day for a disguise,” he said, opening the door.
“I liked it better when you didn’t speak,” I muttered, diving into the car.
He shut the door, but I could still hear his laughter.
The car hummed through the early evening traffic. Garrett didn’t speak again, which somehow made it worse. Every time I risked a glance at him, he had that faint smirk like he was sitting on the world’s funniest secret.
I fixed my eyes on the passing streets. Professional, I reminded myself. Detached. Easier said than done when my driver had witnessed enough to write a memoir.
When we finally turned down a quiet row of terraced mansions, Garrett eased the car to a stop.
“Mr Dubois said to give you these,” he said, holding out a set of keys. They glinted against his palm.
I stared at them. “You’re joking.”
He shrugged. “I’m not paid to joke.”
I took the keys and climbed out. The door clicked shut behind me, cutting off the sound of traffic. The house in front of me was all glass and shadow—polished edges, no warmth.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and something expensive I couldn’t name. My footsteps echoed over marble. The place was immaculate, impersonal, and him.
I stopped in the middle of the foyer, keys still in hand.
“Right,” I whispered to the silence. “Home sweet… whatever the fuck this is.”
The first room I wandered into could have housed a small restaurant. Polished granite counters, chrome fixtures, everything arranged with surgical precision. Not a crumb in sight. Typical. I opened the refrigerator—rows of bottled water, a single lemon, and something in a crystal jar that might have been caviar.
The living room was worse. Minimalist furniture, a muted grey rug, and walls of glass overlooking the city. It was beautiful in that sterile, nobody actually lives here kind of way. I could almost hear him criticising me for leaving fingerprints on the glass.
The dining room table could seat twelve. Twelve what, I wasn’t sure—twelve terrified employees? Twelve ex-girlfriends?
Upstairs, the atmosphere shifted. The air smelled faintly of his cologne—clean, dark, and unnervingly familiar. His bedroom looked like something out of a design magazine: black sheets, white walls, not a thing out of place.
Then I opened the closet door.
Rows of tailored suits, perfectly spaced. Drawers of watches, each resting in its own little velvet cradle. Shoes aligned bycolour and, no doubt, designer season. Belts and ties coiled like obedient soldiers. It was both impressive and alarming; this was a man who planned his neuroses.
Curiosity tugged me toward the nightstand. A single book sat there, black and red, the title stamped in silver: Dark Psychology & Manipulation. On the cover, puppet strings dangled from a human brain.
I let out a quiet, mirthless laugh.
No wonder the man was a menace.
If this wasn't a red flag, I didn't know what was.
Chapter 19
Laurent
The day had arrived. I’d been marking off the days since the potential conception date. My bag held both the pregnancy test and the prenuptial agreement—everything prepared, everything in order. All that was missing was Lucia’s signature.
