“My dear, I’m sure you’re aware of the great tragedy between Enrico Fonti and me. The moment he arrived in Monte Carlo, I offered him my protection and friendship. And he rejected it—foolishly making me an enemy.” He swallowed, his eyes turning toward the horizon. “And unfortunately, the tension between us has grown to a point that I must now take action.”
“And I suppose that’s where I come in,” Aimee whispered, her voice ragged. Her shoulders slumped. The alternate reality, in which she kissed Enrico upon a yacht as the sun set behind them, descended into nothingness. She felt the weight of a world that had never been hers—a world of high rollers, of money, of land.
Duchamp smirked as he continued. “I’ve recently learned that Enrico is planning a new business venture. It seems he’s putting a secret bid on a large piece of land which has just come up for silent auction, in a highly desirable location. New plots rarely come up for sale in our small town, to the extent that only one new casino has been built in the past five years—Le Joueur. Fonti has kept the amount he has bid incredibly close to his chest, and understandably so. But I have eyes everywhere. And now, I’m asking you to become those eyes.”
Aimee took another sip from her drink. Her brain buzzed with desire to run; her feet twitched. “You want to outbid him,” she murmured. “But what makes you think I’ll help you?”
“Well, my dear, as I’ve told you—I have eyes everywhere,” he continued. “I know the details of your father’s troubles. Never was a great poker player, that man. And now, he’s gone and bankrupted his hotel. And with that, there goes your life in Monte Carlo. There goes your job. There goes everything you’ve ever worked for.” His eyes flashed. “And of course, there goes any chance you have with Enrico Fonti.”
Aimee’s eyes burned. Her heart jolted. Her misfortunes—the reasons she tossed and turned throughout the night—burst from Duchamp’s mouth without concern.
“But not to worry, dear. For I have a plan for you,” he continued. “Something that will rip the terrible burdens from your life and allow you to live freely once more.”
Aimee bit her lip. She was about to set out on what could be a very treacherous path, and there would be no going back.
“What do you want me to do?”
“First, you’ll get yourself invited to Fonti’s penthouse. I don’t care how you do it. Use whatever means necessary.” He gestured toward her, his eyes pausing at her breasts. “What you do once you’re up there is up to you, of course.”
Aimee shifted uneasily in her heels. She stared at the melting ice in her half-empty glass.
“You’ll find Enrico’s bid. Search his computer, his phone, or find a diary—it has to be there somewhere. You’ll tell me how much money Enrico is bidding for the new plot of land. And in return, my dear, I’ll pay off your father’s debts and save the Delacroix from foreclosure.”
Duchamp said the words steadily, without a drip of emotion, almost as if he were ordering a cup of coffee.
Aimee’s throat nearly closed with fear. She stuttered. “But my father owes millions…” she began, her heart aching. “Surely it isn’t worth it to you. Surely beating Enrico couldn’t mean that much to you—”
Duchamp began to laugh, then. He dropped his head back, revealing yellowing teeth in a cat-like grin.
“Oh darling,” he said, his voice ominous. “How little you understand. I cannot allow Enrico to beat me at this game. I’ve been the most successful businessman in Monte Carlo for decades, since I took over my father’s casino. I won’t ruin his memory by losing to a little fluff named Enrico Fonti. I want to squeeze that new blood from the fold.”
“Weren’t you once like Enrico, yourself?” Aimee whispered. “Trying to make it in this tiny, saturated town? Trying to wrestle success from the clutches of the old guard?”
“Perhaps,” Duchamp said, yanking a tobacco pouch from his pocket. He began to roll quickly, his elbows twitching as he formed the perfect cylinder. He jolted it between his lips, a smile creeping across his face. “But there’s a very important difference, my dear: I’m at the top now, and it’s my job to stay there. It’s my job to stomp these little wannabes like Enrico out. And it’s your job to assist me.”
Aimee turned her face slightly to avoid the smoke that billowed from his mouth as he spoke. She sighed, imagining her father’s debt disappearing. She thought of Christopher, her co-receptionist, of the maids and chefs who had worked for years at the hotel. Because of her father’s gambling, they would all lose their jobs. Because of her father’s carelessness, the weight of their livelihoods fell upon her shoulders.
“Enrico is a good man,” Aimee mumbled. She tapped her fingers around her empty glass, and in an instant, the bartender appeared, pouring two shots into both of their glasses before sneaking back, slipping from the tense air as quickly as possible. Aimee continued, tipping the harsh liquor down her throat. “Why not just try to outbid him, honestly?”
Duchamp stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “I would, darling. But one false move, and I could lose my entire kingdom. Besides, I assumed this was a wonderful way to save both of our asses. We both know your father is a fool. And now, we can rise above him. Do what the adults are meant to do. What do you say?”
Aimee felt backed into a corner. She bowed her head, her brain buzzing. Beneath them, the boat stirred upon the sea, tipping them forward and back. “Did you know you’d one day be dealing in such treachery when you were my age?” she asked him, after a pause.
“I suppose I understood the territory that came with being a billionaire,” Duchamp said coolly. “And it’s up to you, my dear, to accept this world, or retreat. I heard your mother’s calling you back to the U.S. I suppose the two of you could discuss all of this over a Starbucks coffee, when it’s too late.”
Aimee swallowed. She shifted her fingers across her brow, sweat brimming along her forehead. “Mr. Duchamp. Your proposition is very tempting. I would be crazy to take it, of course, but it is tempting.”
“Dare to be crazy,” he murmured. “Dare to change the course of your life. Stop searching for dead-end hotel jobs, and trust me.”
“You’re going to have to give me a bit of time to think,” Aimee replied meekly. “I can’t give you an answer tonight.”
The moment stretched between them, and Aimee crossed her arms over her chest, waiting.
“I can give you until noon tomorrow,” Duchamp said finally. “A minute later, and the offer will be off the table. It will be too late. And I’ll be searching for other options. Know this, Aimee: I will get what I want in this; I always do. You can either help me while helping yourself, or allow your father’s business to fail, and ruin your life in the process.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking at her with a foxlike glint in his eyes.