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Elsa grinned like she understood that Madame Lefèvre looked about ready to shit a brick that I was married and my family didn't know. I was worried Elsa might be insulted that I hadn’t even told my parents about our wedding, but she didn’t seem to care in the slightest.
Elsa offered a small, polite smile. "Enchantée, Madame Lefèvre."
I cleared my throat, feeling awkward and out of my depth. "Elsa, why don't you take a look around and decide whichbedroom you want to stay in? Once you've made your choice, Madame Lefèvre will help you move your things."
Elsa looked at me, her eyes wide and uncertain. I avoided her gaze, not knowing how to offer comfort or assurance.
"I'll be in my study," I mumbled, turning away.
I could feel her eyes on my back, but I didn't dare look at her. I had no idea how to be a husband. The concept was foreign.
I practically fled to my office, a room filled with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with art books, and a large, antique desk that overlooked the bustling street below. Once inside, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, taking a deep breath. The silence of the room enveloped me, offering a momentary reprieve from the chaos of my thoughts.
I glanced at the clock. It was mid-afternoon, and I had no plans for the evening, nor any idea how to include Elsa in whatever I might come up with. The thought of spending the evening with her, trying to navigate this new, unwanted relationship, felt daunting. I knew I was being short with her, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know how to handle the situation, and my instinct—as always when facing personal conflict—was to retreat.
I sat at my desk, staring at the papers and files scattered across its surface. I couldn't focus. My mind kept drifting back to Elsa, to the uncertainty and confusion in her eyes. I felt a pang of guilt, but I shoved it aside. I needed time to think, to figure out what to do next.
I'd just go to my office and then stay the night at the Ritz, I decided. I'd come backtomorrowand then we'd talk. Yeah. That made sense. In the meantime, I needed to start letting my family know. I'd tell my brothers first and my parentslast. I looked at my watch. I'd start with Dean, who was in Hong Kong, and then wake up Damian, who was in San Francisco.
"Duncan, how's it hanging, bro?" Dean, the nerd of our family, asked me.
My youngest brother had a PhD in history and was more interested in the historic value of art and antiquities rather than the commercial one. He was also very good at acquiring hard-to-find pieces for discerning clients who gave us a lot of money to get their hands on what their pampered hearts desired in private sales.
His methods were not always legitimate but he always had plausible deniability. We all did.
"I knocked up Jean-Luc Moreau's daughter, and we got married this morning." No point dicking around.
"She an escort?"
"No. But she pretended to be."
Dean whistled. "She hot?"
"Yeah."
"How pregnant is she?"
"Thirteen-fourteen weeks. I think. I don't fucking know. I haven't talked to her about the baby."
Silence.
"I'm married and going to be a father,” I continued, “And this woman…her name is Elsa, is ten years younger than me and looks like a ball of fucking sunshine. I don't know what the fuck to do with her."
Silence.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Say something."
"Where are you?" he asked.
"My study."
"You should pour yourself some Scotch and drink it. Then, do it again. Afterward, take a deep breath and clear your mind. You want to find your core—"
"You want me to do yoga, you asshole?" I cut in.
