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In the past, thinking of such a thing would have brought her the sharp agony of unrequited love—but that was before Matthieu and before... Her hand unconsciously swept over her abdomen. She avoided another glare from the frustrated receptionist, by focusing on the beautiful modern chandelier suspended from a ceiling that rose at least ten stories high. The lights fiercely illuminating the space, yet tempered and golden hued to soften the impact on the eye. The building screamed money. But then when a person was as wealthy as Matthieu Montcour it could be afforded.
She supposed that many would have considered themselves lucky to be tied to such a wealthy man. She was not one of those people and instead was more concerned about how he might feel being tied to her.
She had left his suite in Iondorra that morning and returned to find a furious Sebastian ready to read her the Riot Act for disappearing the night before. But he’d taken one look at her and when she had asked to go home, he’d relented and taken her back to her flat-share in South London.
For a month she had lost herself in days full of work, her jewellery making and her part-time coffee-shop job. But her nights? They were lost to dreams of Matthieu and the pleasure he’d wrung from her body.
In Camberwell, the daily reality of her life trudged on and he became something almost mythical to her, fantastical and almost imagined. She’d not said a word about him to Anita, or Evin, her two flatmates, who she’d met in the first week of her Foundation Course.
After the staunchness of her Italian schooling, Camberwell had been both a breath of fresh air and truly liberating. She fell hard for the heady mix of cultures, the strange juxtaposition of houses worth millions and council estates worth almost nothing. She felt as if it suited her life, having known both sides, extreme wealth and sudden shocking poverty after her father’s near bankruptcy and subsequent exile from Spain.
She risked a glance at the imperious receptionist banging away on a keyboard as if it might make her disappear. But Maria wasn’t going anywhere.
One month ago, after the third week of being unable to hold in her nausea, Anita had handed her a pregnancy test, given her a small smile, a pat on the arm, a cup of tea—so very English—and left her to it. Maria barely remembered the following two days. She had been numb with shock and battered by so many unanswered and unanswerable questions, and only one thought had remained constant. Remained true.
I’m keeping the baby.
She promised herself that once she reached three months, once she’d had her first scan, only then would she tell Matthieu.
The clipped sound of stiletto heels machine-gun-fired across the marble foyer, drawing Maria into the present. An obscenely glamorous woman in an ankle-length wool coat with a fur trim swept an about-turn to face a trio of sheepish-looking men in suits.
‘That man is absolutely impossible. No wonder they call him a beast.’ The last word was hissed, as if to be conveyed in a whisper, but rang like a bell.
Maria had no doubt as of whom she was speaking. Not after her Internet search of Matthieu. She’d had two words. His name, and mining—his ‘professional interest’. She hadn’t held up much hope, but she’d been wrong. A second after she’d hit enter, the screen had filled with the image of his face—a stern headshot, his piercing golden eyes so intense she’d felt a blush rise to her cheeks as if he could see her searching for him.
‘No wonder he’s as rich as Croesus, whe
n he’s that tight-fisted with his business interests.’
Maria had discovered that too. Reportedly he was the fourth richest man in Europe. And it had shocked her. Clearly he had been wealthy, must have been to gain entry to the gala, but reports stated that his net worth was near eight billion. Billion.
But it had come at such a terrible cost. She’d gasped as she’d read descriptions of the fire that had not only consumed the estate where Matthieu had lived as a child, but also his entire family. The one that had caused the scars she’d felt beneath the soft palm of her hand, hard and twisted, but somehow also defiant and magnificent. The sheer number of articles on the years of treatments was surpassed only by the fascination with the shocking amount of the life insurance heaped upon an eleven-year-old boy, making him unimaginably wealthy independent of his family’s business. Maria’s heart had broken at the grainy images from years ago of the small boy accompanied by his, then, legal guardian following behind five coffins: his parents, two uncles and one aunt. She couldn’t even conceive how devastating that must have been.
As the woman swirled back towards the exit, taking the suits and the drama with her, Maria was dragged into the present and stifled a wave of nausea as the woman’s sickly perfume reached her on the ruffled air.
The receptionist cleared his throat and stood, apparently having reached the end of his patience at housing the unwanted and uninvited guest in his domain.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—’
‘Maria?’
Her head turned to the bank of elevators tucked off to the right of the reception desk to see Matthieu Montcour looking as shocked as she suddenly felt at seeing him in the flesh again after twelve weeks.
* * *
Matthieu watched her spring up from the sofa she’d been sitting on, a bundle of energy in the almost silent reception.
‘Where’s your bathroom?’ she asked breathlessly, her tone betraying her desperation.
‘It’s—’
‘I’m sorry, this isn’t how I wanted this to go, it’s just that I really...’ she did a little dip as if to punctuate her need ‘...really need the bathroom. Please don’t go anywhere, we need to talk, it’s just that I need the—’
‘Bathroom. Got it. Round the corner on the left,’ he said, gesturing with his arm.
She ran, literally ran around the corner, skidding a little on her boot heels as she rushed through the doors.
And he couldn’t help but laugh. A sound startling to his own ears, let alone his stiff receptionist.
