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Madam Lefèvre showed me the gym, which had a cold-water plunge pool. The wide porch, with its furniture straight out of a design magazine, looked over Paris.
After the tour, Madam Lefèvre dismissed me, telling me that she would be leaving shortly. The woman didn't like me, and I had no idea why.
I went into Duncan's bedroom and looked around. The room was impeccably clean and tastefully decorated, but it felt impersonal. The walls were lined with expensive art, chosen more for their price tag than any personal meaning. The bed was large and perfectly made, with crisp, white linens that looked like they belonged in a luxury hotel rather than a home. There were no photographs, no personal mementos, nothing to indicate the man who slept here had a deeper connection to the space. It was as if the room was a showroom, beautiful and impressive but devoid of warmth or personality.
I pulled out my phone from my tote and sat down on an uncomfortable vintage Louis XVI black floral accent chair with a white crackle, one of a pair.
I called the one person who knew my situation; who knew who my fatherreallywas.
Thierry had been with me from the beginning, working alongside me at Délices d'Elsa, my business in the Marais. Now, he only worked parttime with me and I suspected only as a favorto me; because he had other work he did that paid him rather well. He picked up after the second ring.
"Salut, Elsa!" Thierry’s cheerful voice was a balm to my frazzled nerves. "How was the wedding?"
I groaned. Papa had asked me if I'd like to have friends at the wedding, and I had refused. The way we were getting married, it seemed vulgar to havefriendsto celebrate.
We'd kept it simple: Papa, Duncan, me, an officiant, and Papa's bodyguard. Papa and his bodyguard had been the signatory witnesses to the wedding.
"It was fine."
"Well, they do say it's about the marriage and not the wedding," he teased.
I chuckled despite myself. "Can you talk?" I asked, doing my best to keep my tone calm.
"Of course. What’s up?" His tone shifted to concern, sensing my unease.
I took a deep breath and started to explain: "I’m at Duncan’s apartment. It’s beautiful, really, but it feels so cold and lifeless. Everything is so opulent, and Madame Lefèvre—that's his housekeeper, and she insists being calledMadame. She reminds me of Mrs. Danvers of Manderley."
Thierry now laughed. "I'm assuming there is no Rebecca."
"Thank God, no. The thing is this reminds me too much of my father’s place—oppressive and stifling. Why do I have to live here?" I whined.
"Because a marriage has a better chance if the couple lives together?" he mused sarcastically.
"Stop being rational. I miss my place. I like the Marais. I like furniture that’s cozy and inviting. I like sitting on my balcony, rickety it maybe, instead of the posh porch here," I dropped my voice conspiratorially, "It's a penthouse apartment."
"The horror," he mocked. "Come on, Els, you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. How about Duncan? Is he still being a complete ass?"
I sighed. "He’s not being an ass but, yeah, he's continuing the silent treatment. He told me to pick a bedroom, then practically ran off to his study and fifteen minutes later ran from the apartment, saying he has work."
"Did you at least flash him? If you showed him your boobs, especially since they've grown through out the pregnancy, I think he might've stayed.
"Thierry!"
"You don't think you're going to be fucking like a newly married couple tonight?"
"Get your mind out of my marital bed."Cold marital bed!
Thierry laughed softly. "Look, you said you wanted to find a way to make this marriage work."
"Remind me again why I said that?" I touched the elegant arm of the chair. It had been restored beautifully. Actually, everything in Duncan's house was stunning. But it wasn't who I was, and I feared this was who Duncan was—this ultra-sophisticated, gaudy style washim.
"Because you're a smart woman who, in her heart, is all about family."
I leaned against the wooden headrest, closing my eyes. "I know. But everything feels so foreign here."
"You just need to get used to it. One step at a time, Els," Thierry encouraged.
"I need to pack up some of my stuff and move in." I felt tired even thinking about it. "I don't want to move in."
