Enzo lounged against the back of a black sofa, his arms crossed over his chest. He was still dressed in the same suit I’d seen him wear during our video call; his hair neatly combed over his forehead. His eyes were slightly puffy, as though he had just woken from a nap moments ago rather than hours earlier when I had called.
“I don’t have an excuse. I’m sorry.”
“Who are you?” was all I said.
Enzo tilted his head, hesitant.
“Laurent Dubois is my father.”
I let out a nearly guttural growl, like a dog at the sight of an intruder. It’s funny. There, in Bordeaux, at the elitist Dubois party, the only intruder was me.
“I had already guessed that.”
“Alright… So, why don’t we try another way?” he suggested, his voice maintaining its caution, though he relaxed his shoulders a bit. “Why don’t you tell me what you want to know?”
I circled Enzo. I sat on the sofa, feeling like I neededsome kind of support. My legs threatened to give out at any moment, my head still spinning.
I couldn’t organise my thoughts. I took a deep breath.
“What does all this mean?”
“Vera,” he whispered, turning to face me. Or perhaps to make it harder for me to keep my composure. Oh, how well my fist would look against his cheek. “Would you believe me if I told you I don’t know?”
No, you idiot. And even though I felt fooled, I didn’t say that.
What I said was, “You took me to the Club Montari knowing the money came from your family.” I was starting to clarify my own thoughts. “I want to know why.”
Enzo squatted down in front of me.
“I’ve never used Laurent Dubois Jr. as my real name. I didn’t want anyone to link me to my family, okay? I wanted to make a living on my own. I wanted to…” he said, measuring his words, “win you over on my own. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth before.”
I raised my chin, ready to interrupt, but Enzo stopped me.
“Let me finish. I’ve been after you for a long time, and when I finally get a date with you, you show up with a mystery. A mystery that somehow involves the family I’ve been trying to separate my name from for years. I took you there because I wanted to know what was going on.”
I raised an eyebrow. Enzo’s gaze seemed sincere, searching mine and speaking directly to my heart.
Gina would have called it a sixth sense. Yes, my sixth sense told me Enzo was telling the truth.
“Did you find out anything?”
Without breaking eye contact, he shook his head. I tried togather the facts. Enzo was trying to help me. Trying to solve the mystery. How had his family’s money ended up with me?
“You know,” he said, with a touch of bitterness, “the downside of distancing yourself from your family is that when you try to come back, no one trusts your motives.”
I found myself absentmindedly tracing the lines of Enzo’s palm with my fingertips.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
Before making the whole scene of flying to Bordeaux. Before making a fool of myself in front of…
Oh, God. If Enzo was the son of Antonia and Laurent Dubois, the stepson of Timotheo Larousse, Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore was his sister.
He could have told me before I made a scene in front of his sister!
Of course, he wasn’t entirely to blame for that. And neither was I. When things go sideways, it’s always easier to pin the fault on Bastian.
“I didn’t know how. Besides… I didn’t know you were going to be here today,” Enzo shrugged. “I had no reason to hide that Laurent is my father, but…”
