Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(37)

Second of all, traffic is a bitch to get there from my apartment in Le Marais, and I’m not about to take the Métro.

Third of all . . . Sadie.

Mon lapin.

The other day I was in for the surprise of my life.

After I said goodbye to Sadie and put her on the train, I was resigned to the idea that I might not see her again. It was a feeling I had been fighting for a week, heightened when Pascal showed up at the hotel making vague threats and, thankfully, left right after without a fuss.

Then she texted me about ten minutes later, and that was it.

I drove like a madman along the waterfront until I pulled into the train station and saw her standing there, backpack slumped at her feet and the biggest, purest smile on her face.

It made something in my heart twist and fizz, as if a champagne cork had finally come dislodged.

I grabbed her, kissed her, and told her she’d be the death of me.

I wonder just how true that might turn out to be.

Regardless, she’s back at my apartment, in bed, waiting for me, and I’ve just battled through traffic like a fucking warrior, selfishly hoping the meeting with my sister and father goes quickly so I can go back to her.

Now that I have her for two more weeks, every single second we have together is precious.

Naturally, I can’t tell them that. I’ve always been notoriously tight-lipped about the women I see, even when it comes to my family. I’ve been there for Seraphine for every agonizing moment of her recent divorce, but it doesn’t go the other way.

I park the car around the corner. I drive a Mercedes when I’m down in the south of the country, but here in Paris I have a small Audi. I have a thing for German cars, preferably as fast and nondescript as possible.

As I walk around the corner to the building, I can see my cousin Blaise’s car in Gautier’s parking spot. It’s a red Ferrari, the complete opposite of my car. Whereas my side of the family believes in discretion and hiding your wealth—to an extent—that side of the family believes in being as flagrant and vulgar as possible.

But I should be glad that it’s just Blaise in the office today. I don’t like him, but he’s not Pascal, and he’s not his father, which means I can at least ignore him. I can’t really do that with the other two, especially when they zero in on me like they do.

I step inside the building, the front-desk clerk and concierge nodding to me as I go. I climb the stairs to the third floor.

“Mr. Dumont,” Nadia, the receptionist, says to me, getting to her feet, “I wasn’t aware you were coming.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say to her, glancing around the office. For all its quiet elegance with glass and white walls and black details, it’s absolutely chaotic, with harried-looking employees running all over the place. With autumn releases hitting the stores, Paris Fashion Week around the corner, and the annual Dumont Masquerade Ball next week, everyone is losing their minds.

Ah, the world of fashion. Makes being a hotelier look like a walk in the park.

“Should I let them know?” Nadia asks me.

I lift my hand. “It’s fine. They do know I’m coming; they probably forgot to tell you. Are they in my father’s office?”

She nods. “They’ve been going back and forth a lot. Blaise is in there too.”

Ah, fuck. I had hoped he would have stuck to his large corner office on the opposite side of the building.

I stride down the hall, take a deep breath, and knock on the door that says “Ludovic Dumont, CEO” on it.

Someone shouts a frantic “Come in,” and I open it.

My father’s office is chaos. He’s normally fairly neat and organized, but it was really my mother who kept him in line. Ever since she died . . . well, a few threads in his life have come loose, so to speak, and it’s always most apparent when he’s under deadline as we near launches.

Right now, he’s on his feet, leaning against his desk and staring at a stack of papers, fiddling with his eyeglasses as if they’re the problem. More papers are piled in corners around the room, some being blown at by a fan by the open window. Crookedly hung certificates and awards hang from the walls, and his shelves are stacked with books upon books upon books, with the occasional handbag on display.

In the corner, Blaise is firing up the Nespresso machine, giving me a tepid glance, while Seraphine is standing by the desk with her arms crossed, obviously in the middle of lecturing my father about something.

“We made nine point six billion dollars in revenue last year,” I announce as I step in, closing the door behind me. “Father, I think you can afford to get air-conditioning for your office.”

“Nonsense,” my father says, briefly glancing at me. He waves his arm toward the fan. “That fan works fine.”

“The office in Montparnasse had air-conditioning,” Seraphine says, glaring at Blaise.

He just shrugs and takes a casual sip of his espresso. “It also couldn’t handle all the new growth, especially the growth to come our way once we start an online department.”

Oh God, they’re arguing about this still? Again? Already?

Seraphine scoffs, her eyes narrowing into slits. “Are you stupid or just naive?”

“Well, I’m glad you guys invited me here for a meeting,” I say quickly, before things get out of hand. Seraphine is a tough cookie, but she still gets along with everyone. She even tolerates Pascal and Gautier. But for whatever reason, Blaise really gets her blood boiling, and he can be just as sharp-tongued with her. I’ve never understood their feuding, but then again, I don’t understand a lot about these people I have to call family.