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As far as I know, Clémentine D’Aragon abhors infidelity as much as she hates cooked tomato skins. So do I, but I also know these things happen sometimes. Even when we try very hard to keep them from happening.

Big, fat tears spill from her hazel eyes and leave trails over her freckles. I pull her close and wrap my arms around her, rubbing her back for a long time in an attempt to comfort her. But she still starts to sob, occasionally mumbling words I can’t make out. I hate seeing her so unhappy. I feel helpless.

“I’m not judging you, Clem.”

“…”

“You can tell me anything.”

“…”

“Was it just sex, or is there more to it?”

“…”

“Have you told Yann?”

“…”

“I know you think you’ve messed up your whole life, but it’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“…”

“Your slogan has saved my life more than once, so repeat after me: ‘With Clémentine D’Aragon, there are never problems, only solutions!’”

I try to get her to talk—and to smile—but all I get in return are sniffles. I don’t keep pushing, though. I wait for her to calm down, then I lead her to her bed, tucking her in like a child.

“Are you mad at me, Alma?” she whispers. “I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I?”

“To me, you’re family, Clem. And what would I be mad at you for? For being human? For making a mistake?”

“I don’t know. I’m just so disappointed in myself.”

Her body is wracked with fresh sobs, so I lie down beside her and hold her tight, stroking her hair until she falls asleep.

I leave the Opéra neighborhood about an hour later, with a heavy heart. So heavy.

***

I head back to Vadim’s palatial suite with only one thought on my mind: how desperate I am to fall into Vadim’s arms and tell him how distraught Clem is. But when I arrive, he’s pacing back and forth in the entryway, a phone in each hand and obvious tension in his voice.

“I have to go. Call me the second you have an update!” He hangs up one cell, then yells even louder into the second one. “Adrian, did you get all that? Follow him, and don’t let him out of your sight for a single second, understood?”

The call ends. Furiously, Vadim tosses both his phones onto the table, then finally notices me.

“Alma, you’re here… Sorry.”

“What was—”

“That bastard asked me to meet him at the hotel bar an hour ago,” he says, offering no further explanation.

He storms off toward the living room, and I hurry to catch up.

“Dimitri Monkov. He dared to show his face here!” Vadim rages.

“What did he want?”

“To taunt me. To gloat! When I brought up the French Kiss shoot, he basically admitted that Skylight had orchestrated the whole thing.”