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“…”
Turn around, dammit! Speak!
“Vadim!”
Something happens. I don’t know what triggers his reaction—perhaps hearing me raise my voice. Saying his name. His impressive frame finally turns toward me.
He is frighteningly good-looking.
His gray eyes glare at me, his eyebrows knit together, and his mouth twists. His intensity makes me want to sink into the floor and disappear.
“How ironic! Twelve years ago, you dumped me. And today, I’m the one with all the power.”
His words are lethal; they spread through my blood like venom. Frozen, I watch him walk toward me, get closer and closer, brush past me… and head for the exit. I hear the door slam behind me, and all I’m left with is the certainty that he won’t spare me—and that his face, his charisma, and his scent intoxicate me just like they did on the first day.
4
Alma
I don’t think I ever stopped loving him. Convincing myself otherwise would be a waste of time.
Vadim King, Vadim Arcadi’s evil twin, has burst into my life, and I have no choice but to deal with the consequences. Including the lectures and warnings I’m about to receive as I head to my parents’ house for our obligatory Sunday lunch. The presence of the three Lancaster children isn’t merely requested, it’s mandatory. On the way to our apartment on rue Jouffroy-d’Abbans, I take rue de Lévis, a charming pedestrian street bustling with its Sunday market. There’s nothing like a little stroll in this affluent but lively neighborhood in the seventeenth arrondissement to get me in the right frame of mind. Amid the cheerful hubbub, I forget for a moment that I’m about to have lunch with Mr. and Mrs. That’s-Just-How-It-Is, Period.
Once a week is more than enough.
Edward, my father, didn’t inherit the Brits’ famous composure so much as their stiffness. He’s a brilliant, determined man, but not always very open-minded. He’s also completely oblivious to his own selfishness. He would fight to his last breath to protect his family but sees no harm in berating them over nothing.
Marie, my mother, is tenderness incarnate. Deeply in love with her husband, she has devoted her life to him, to the extent that she has somewhat neglected her own. It’s the same with us: she’s incapable of refusing her children anything. But my mother is far from naive. She sees through every lie. Her patience and sharp intuition have always helped her to keep us in line without pushing us around.
Basile, thirty-two, is the eldest of the Lancaster siblings—a role he doesn’t take lightly. Competitive to the core and a bit of a moralizer, my brother makes a point of succeeding in everything he undertakes, especially business. After breezing through his higher education, he started working alongside my father and is preparing to take the reins of the family business. He can already picture himself heading a real estate company with nearly a hundred offices around the world. Basile’s only weakness? His love life. It’s hard to be as macho and clichéd as he is, while at the same time being attracted to men who are emotionally intelligent and progressive. After a difficult coming out at twenty-two, he’s been searching for that rare gem, but without much self-reflection along the way.
Lily, my twenty-four-year-old kid sister, is one of a kind. My parents call her “the artist of the family,” but they probably think the “the black sheep” is more appropriate. She’s never really fit the mold. She’s not particularly academic, not always presentable by their standards, curvy—though she prefers to be called “fat” because it’s not a dirty word—very stylish but a bit too unconventional for their taste. I admire her deeply. Lily doesn’t care what people think, does whatever she pleases, eats whenever she feels like it, never does her hair, mixes bold patterns and bright colors, sleeps little at night but a lot during the day, and smiles all the time. She’s more interested in guys than her future, and they seem to reciprocate. Very resourceful, she relies on no one but herself to get by, and she always manages. My sister is a quirky, unfiltered, free-spirited, larger-than-life young woman—qualities I often catch myself envying her for.
“So, what’s new at ‘Queen’ Productions, Madam Deputy Director?” asks my brother, king of sarcasm.
“Umm…”
“Do we have to talk about work before dessert?” Lily says with a pout.
“What would you like to discuss, sweetie?” Mom asks her.
“I don’t know, how about the fate of the battery chickens on our plates? Or why I wasn’t allowed to bring Omar to dinner…”
“Because for that, you would need to have known him for more than a week,” Basile sighs.
“Lily, let your sister speak. Alma, you were saying?” my father interrupts her.
Always unintentionally blunt.
“Nothing new at King Productions. Well, except for one thing. I… met my director.”
“The American?”
My father is always interested when it comes to the highest ranks of the hierarchy.
“Yes.”
“Go on then, what’s he like? A megalomaniac? Tyrannical? Unhinged, like all young geniuses?”
