Page 158

“Sit down, Alma. I read the newspapers, don’t you?”

Her accent is thick, but I can’t place it.

“What am I doing here? Why this secret meeting?”

She pats a red velvet-covered stool. I move closer, but I don’t sit down.

“You’re going to have to answer my questions at some point.”

The mysterious brunette chooses to ignore me, instead signaling to the bartender with a wave of her hand.

“She’ll have the same as me: a King with a Twist.”

I tense up hearing her say that name.

“Excellent choice,” says the white-shirted man, before walking away.

“Gin, vodka, lemon juice, and a slice of orange. A delicious blend of bitterness and strength. Just like someone we both know,” she continues in English, clearly more comfortable with this language than French.

“How about you start by telling me who you are?” My hostility is evident in every syllable I utter.

“Carmen Diaz. But there’s no rush. We can save the unpleasant revelations for later.”

“I didn’t come to make a friend, Carmen,” I hiss. “Just to understand why you seem to be taking such malicious pleasure in sending me these texts.”

“Pleasure? You’re wrong about that.”

The bartender interrupts our conversation by placing a cube-shaped glass in front of me, then flashes a seductive smile at the woman beside me.

“Now, if you want answers, sit down.”

The bitch smiles at me while she manipulates me like some silly little puppet, and I climb onto the seat, sacrificing my dignity in the process.

“You’re stealing something that belongs to me, Alma. Or, rather, someone.”

I shiver. Her tone of voice has suddenly changed. Her expression, too. The seduction game is over; my rival has finally decided to put her cards on the table.

“Vadim. He’s mine.”

My heart stops.

Then, I let out a dark, humorless laugh. “What makes you think that?”

“The vow he made to me five years ago, on the day of our wedding.”

My laughter catches in my throat. Everything goes quiet. All I can hear is the pounding of my pulse in my temples.

“Can you… repeat that?”

“He married me in secret. He’s mine.”

Stunned, and with a sick feeling in my stomach, all I can do is stare at the varnished wood of the bar for a long, long time.

“Can you prove it?” I breathe.

“I was expecting you to ask me that. And you’re right; you should never trust anyone blindly. You always end up paying for it.”

All smiles, the beautiful brunette rummages through her clutch for a few seconds, then pulls out a small, laminated card. An ID card, on which her full name appears. Carmen Ana Maria Diaz-King.