“Antonia! No, my dear friend tried to protectthe girl almost as much as Tim did. I was the one who told her.”
“You? Why?”
“Eloïse is…” Bastian said, giving up on trying to get my attention. “Closer to you than to her parents, isn’t she?”
She nodded, pleased.
“We’ve grown up together. I was still young when I started working for the family. The little one trusts me.”
Looking at her, it was hard to imagine this woman ever being young, let alone when Antonia Hawtrey-Moore’s daughter—supposedly my age—was little.
I kept the thought to myself. I was here to earn her trust, and voicing every little thought that crossed my mind wouldn’t help.
Maybe this was what Bastian had meant with his warning. But still, I wanted answers. And only Ivet could give them to me.
Why had she gone against Mr. Larousse’s wishes and told his daughter the truth? What was the point of revealing the secret? But instead of pressing her, I cleared my throat and shifted the conversation to safer topics. It wasn’t my place to dig deeper—or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
“I’m glad things are getting cleared up here,” I looked the woman in the eye, “but we need confirmation you won’t tell anyone else about the divorce.”
“I haven’t spoken to anyone else about it so far, and I won’t now, I give you my word.”
Good enough for me. My job here was done, and the dust in the house was starting to claw at my throat. I reached for my phone and stopped the recording. Bastian thanked her for her time with that smooth, practiced smile of his, and she turned to lead us to the door.
But something in the way she moved felt… off. Her steps were too slow, her shoulders too tight. She kept glancing back at us, like she was weighing a decision. When she finally turned to let us pass, I pretended to fumble in my bag and hit the record button again.
“It’s been a pleasure, Ivet,” I said, my voice light, my smile tighter than ever. “Will we see you at the trial?”
Her eyes flicked to my bag, her lips twitching as if caught between words. She’d been waiting for the recorder to stop, her guard just starting to slip…
“Yes, of course.”
She pushed the door open, and Bastian was already stepping out, his back to us. For a second, I wondered if I’d blown it, if I’d played my hand too soon. I followed him out, and just as I crossed the threshold, Ivet’s voice sliced through the still air, sharp enough to make me stop.
“Everyone thinks Tim was the one wearing the pants in that house,” she said, a bitter edge in her tone, “which is why they’ve all turned against him. But he lived with three women, if I may count myself among them. My Tim was nothing more than a lamb among wolves.” She paused, her breath heavy, eyes burning with something wild. “I only ask you, please, do justice.”
Bastian shot me a glance, the kind that said everything without saying a word. I could feel her words lingering in the stillness, heavy and jagged and somehow more confusing than anything else.
A lamb among wolves.That wasn’t just a metaphor, I was certain. No, it was a hand reaching out from deep water, clawing for any chance to change the current, to rewrite the narrative in her favour… and in Larousse’s favour.
I opened my mouth to reply, maybe to ask her what she meant by that, maybe to inquire about the fact that she had considered herself one of the wolves.
But before I could say a word, she slammed the door in our faces.
The drive back to the office was… fun. I don’t want to give Bastian that satisfaction, but we both had a lot to say about Mrs. Britwistle. We replayed the recording from my phone, and this time, I didn’t hold back. I shouted like a madwoman, “Lies, dirty lies!” when I had previously stayed silent. Bastian mimicked the woman’s gestures, putting his hand to his head, chest, and neck like an actress in a historical drama.
I burst into laughter, barely noticing the van until its blaring horn jolted me. My heart skipped as I swerved back into my lane, the shock snapping my focus to the road.
“Okay, one last thing,” Bastian said, once the recording had finished, repeating Ivet Britwistle’s words. “We agree that they had something going on, right?”
“She and Mr. Larousse?”
“Yeah!” he couldn’t hide his smile any longer. “Did you see how her face contracted whenever she talked about Antonia?”
Damn it. Of course! Ivet Britwistle wanted Timotheo and Antonia to get a divorce. I hit the steering wheel when I realised why Ivet hadn’t answered my questions, and earned another honk from the car behind.
I’ve never been a great driver. Bastian’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, his brow slightly raised.
“I’d like to return alive to the office, Virus.”
