Aimee forced herself to meet his gaze, to thank him. “You’ll have my answer tomorrow.”
She spun on one heel from the upper deck of the yacht, and descended the ladder as quickly as possible, toward the small boat that bobbed in the dark water below. She turned toward the grey-faced man and spoke three forced words: “Take me home.”
The boat zoomed from the yacht, humming back toward the marina. And as the engine revved, Aimee thought she heard slight laughter in the distance. She pictured Duchamp leaning over the side of his yacht, a cigar swinging from his mouth and smoke puffing high around his ears and salt-and-pepper hair. She imagined him laughing with menace as the mechanics of his plot clicked into place.
She closed her eyes, her hair swirling manically around her face. Her heart beat recklessly, jolting up against her rib cage. She turned her eyes toward her phone, where a text message from her father appeared on the screen:
Bonsoir, daughter. Breakfast tomorrow morning? Let’s talk about the future.
Aimee felt herself scoff as the boat teetered up against the marina dock once more. Her father knew nothing of the future—he had been canceled out by bigger players, like Duchamp.
Even so, she texted back an immediate “Sure,” hoping, abstractly, that her father might have an alternative plan to get them out of this mess.
But she wouldn’t hold her breath.
SIX
Aimee tossed and turned throughout the night, tortured by manic dreams of being lost in Seattle, of Enrico with other women, of Duchamp laughing maniacally as she thrust her suitcase into a taxi and fled Monte Carlo for good. She rose, sweating, at six a.m. and sat in the shower, cool water tricking over her skin, trying to find reason within her roiling mind.
She donned a simple yellow dress and slipped on some sandals, tipping a sunhat over her head and marching toward the breakfast place that connected to the Delacroix. She’d long sensed that other places didn’t accept her father any longer—they knew he couldn’t spare the funds for a simple, pancake breakfast.
Aimee chose a seat near the open window, inhaling the salty air and closing her eyes. Loose strands of her hair fluttered in the breeze.
The server, Marc, approached her, tilting his head. “Aimee?” he asked, jolting her back to reality. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Orange juice?”
“Oh, Marc, hi. I’d love a coffee,” she answered, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’m pretty out of it this morning.”
“It’s all right, Aimee,” Marc said. He went to fetch her drink and returned a moment later, gently setting the cup of steaming black liquid on her table. He paused before speaking once more, making the moment tense, awkward. “You know, I have a question for you.”
Aimee’s stomach ached as she blinked toward him. “Sure.”
“I heard a terrible rumor about the hotel,” he said, his voice quivering. “I heard that it might not make it a whole lot longer. That your father has lost all his money.” A fake smile was plastered across Marc’s face, but his eyes swam with fear.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Aimee lied, her voice catching. Her cheeks were blotched red. “Seriously. Don’t you think my father would have made an announcement if something so serious had happened?” She tried to muster up the confidence she’d honed in her receptionist years, but she felt dry, cracked.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Marc replied, his eyes flitting. “Are you waiting for him right now? Should I get you both the usual?”
“Better wait, Marc. I think he’s running a bit late.” Aimee turned her gaze toward the clock, noting that it was already ten minutes past their arranged meeting time. She put on her best fake smile, shrugging. “You know how it is when he stays out late. I guess when you own a hotel in Monte Carlo, you can afford to live whatever lifestyle you please.”
“And tough luck for the rest of us,” Marc agreed, turning back toward the kitchen, a dour expression on his face.
Aimee watched him walk away with sore, red eyes. She wished she could cry out to him, to tell him she was sorry, to warn him. She couldn’t save him. She couldn’t save any of them.
She lifted her phone from the table and typed a quick text to her father.
You’re late, Dad.
She stared at the phone for several moments, yearning for some kind of answer from the universe. Finally, her cell buzzed.
Sorry, darling. I have to cancel. Something urgent has come up at the hotel. Need a meeting with management. Will make it up to you soon. Love, Dad.
Aimee slammed her phone back on the table, lifting her coffee cup toward her lips and draining it dry. She stood, her heart thumping, certain that her father must still be at Duchamp’s casino, Le Cercle du Roi, where he so often lingered, trying to recoup his losses. The anger made her muscles tense, her bones feel brittle. He was all but bleeding all over the table, wedging them deeper into trouble with each bet.
She jumped from her chair and marched out of the café to the beach, tossing her shoes and allowing the sand to slip through her toes. Her pulse seemed close to smashing through her skull. She took several deep breaths, staggering into them, trying to reorder her mind. She turned her attention to her phone, feeling she’d been backed into a corner, that she had no escape.
She dialed the number of Duchamp’s casino and was redirected to the owner’s private office the moment she gave her name. She cleared her throat as she waited, watching as tiny children ran across the beach, tossing balls, giggling without a care as they played. She had been a teenager here, kissing French boys on the beach, swimming recklessly beneath the docks. The world had opened to her, gleaming beneath the sun.
“Well, well. Aimee. I didn’t expect you to call before noon.” Duchamp’s voice was self-assured, harsh and nasty sounding over the phone.
Aimee bit her tongue, hard. “So you were sure I’d call.”
“Of course. The moment I saw your father at the tables this morning, I knew I’d hear from you. We can really count on him to destroy everything, can’t we? So. What do you say to my offer? You want to go through the specifics?”
Aimee’s voice was strained. “I accept your offer, monsieur. But I want this to be as seamless as possible. Tell me the steps I need to take, and then I want to be out of your life for good. Do you understand?”
“But of course, my dear. This is nothing if not a business transaction. I knew you’d see sense sooner or later.” He cleared his throat. “Now. This evening, a high-society ball is taking place near the city center. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
“Of course. The hotel is booked up with people coming into town for the ball.”