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“How do you know all this?” I ask Sloan.
Sloan shrugs. “People talk.”
“Well, do they say that he is an absolute, horrible prick?” I grind out, unable to stop myself.
“They do, actually, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I’d love some tea.” Sloan’s eyes brighten. “I’ve yet to hear you use foul language, little Winnie. He must be awful. What’s he done? More importantly—who’s he done? The man is delish.”
My colleagues know I’m a young widow, but they don’t know much about Paul. They don’t know about his maybe-affair with Grace. They don’t know Arsène and I are bound together by an awful tragedy.
My heart is still out of whack when Renee, Rahim, and Sloan all lift their eyes to glare at something behind me. Their mouths slacken collectively.
“What?” I sigh, turning around. And there he is again. Arsène Corbin, this time up close. Beautiful, yes. In the same way an active volcano is. Fascinating from a safe distance, but not anything I’d like to touch. And now I see it. The one and only sign of heartbreak. The same thing I see every day in the mirror. His eyes, once sharp, sultry, and full of sardonic laughter, are now dull and dim. He looks like the angel of death.
“Hi!” Sloan greets him brightly, as if he hadn’t just asked me to spill the goods on him. “Mr. Corbin, it’s lovely to finally mee—”
“Mrs. Ashcroft.” Arsène’s voice is velvety. “Follow me.”
I have no intention of giving him the drama he craves. I’ve seen this man’s smug smirk when he grilled me in Italy. I stand up and trail behind him, giving a little beats-me shrug on my way out. No need to raise the other actors’ suspicions.
“Where to?” I ask as we cross the stage and proceed toward the dressing rooms. “Hell?”
His back is muscular and lean. It is obvious he’s still active, athletic, working out. Heartbroken my foot. I bet he’s having the time of his life.
“Absolutely not. That’s my natural habitat, and you aren’t invited in my home.”
“In that case, leave me alone,” I bite out.
“Afraid I can’t do that either.”
He stops by one of the dressing rooms and pushes the door open. He motions for me to get inside first. I hesitate. Arsène doesn’t seem the type to physically assault a woman—doesn’t seem the kind to sully his precious zillionaire hands by touching a simpleton like me—but I know his words might be more lethal than fists.
He watches me with a mixture of impatience and curiosity. Now that we’re up close and alone, his indifferent mask falls a few inches. His jaw is clenched; his mouth is turned downward. The last months haven’t been easy for him, I realize. He keeps his emotions exceptionally close. It is the first time I consider us to be in the same crappy boat. What if we’re both miserable, and he is just better at hiding it?
“Would you like a special invitation?” Arsène inquires dryly when I don’t make a move to enter the room.
“Would you issue one?” I ask cheerfully, knowing just how much my accent grates on his nerves.
He sneers. “I suggest we get it over with as quickly as possible. Neither of us wants to prolong this, and at least one of us has better places to be in right now.”
I step into the dressing room. He closes the door. The place is tiny and jam packed. My back is pressed against a vanity table littered with makeup. Open tubs of setting powder, eye shadow, and brushes. Broken lipsticks are thrown about like crayons. Buried underneath them are batches of fan mail and greeting cards.
Arsène crowds me. I don’t know if he does that intentionally or if he is simply too physically imposing for this shoebox of a place. Nonetheless, he is standing close enough for me to smell his aftershave, the mint on his breath, the hair product that makes him look as sleek and shiny as a titan.
“You need to leave,” he says decisively.
“You asked me to come here.” I fold my arms, intentionally playing dumb.
“Nice try, Bumpkin.” He flicks invisible dirt from his cashmere sweater, as if his presence here is dirty. “You’re fired, effective immediately. You’ll be compensated for your ti—”
“You’re not the director, or the producer.” I let out a shriek, anger rising up through my chest. “You can’t do that.”
“I can and am.”
I thrust my palms forward, pushing him. He doesn’t budge. Simply stares at me, bored pity in his expression.
Gosh. I physically touched him. This is not assault, is it? I come from a place where a slap in the face, in the right context, is understandable, even warranted. New Yorkers, however, abide by different rules.
But Arsène doesn’t look like he is in danger of swooning or calling the police. He wipes down the lint where my hands have just been. “May I remind you, Mrs. Ashcroft, I own Calypso Hall. I get to say who stays and who goes.”
