Étienne's POV
The storm had passed, but Paris still smelled of rain and wet stone.
I stood at the tall window, watching rivulets cut paths down the glass, trying not to think about the way she'd said his name. Alexander.
Her voice had cracked on it, soft and thin, and that small break had opened every wound I'd spent years burying.
I poured myself a drink I didn't want. The whiskey burned on the swallow, but at least it gave my hands something to do.
I'd promised myself I'd stay detached—help her recover, keep my distance. Every time she looked at me like she was fishing for a memory, I forgot why I'd ever thought that possible.
Marie had gone home hours before; the doctor had checked on her earlier that afternoon. I shouldn't have asked about the crash. I knew what her answer would do. Hearing her say he'd died—watching the way she believed the story the newspapers fed her—felt like a second death.
I set the glass down and rubbed the scar at my neck. It itched whenever my thoughts dug too deep.
The flashback hit without warning. Helicopter rotors tearing the air, the metallic stench of fuel, Isobel's voice cutting through chaos. The last things I remembered were heat and then nothing; I woke up on a beach near Marseille three days later, hauled from the surf by fishermen. My face had been wrecked—scores of stitches and plastic surgery later, the world decided I was dead.
She'd grieved me as lost. The world had closed the book. And when I learned how quickly she'd moved on—how easily the story had fit into other people's mouths—something inside me snapped.
I rebuilt myself from what remained. A new name, new papers, new money. A life called Étienne stitched over the man they'd buried. Second chances don't come clean; they come with edges.
* * * * * * * *
I went to my study—the only door in the house that stayed locked. Shelves lined the walls, but behind one panel was a drawer only I remembered.
Inside were the pieces I hadn't been able to burn or sell: the watch she'd given me that somehow survived the crash, the single cufflink I'd been wearing when they found me. The mate was missing; I'd searched and never found it.
I shut the drawer harder than necessary and moved to the kitchen. The clock said half past eleven. I poured another measure when the gate buzzed—unexpected at this hour—and a few seconds later the front bell rang.
* * * * * * * *
Julien stood on the steps, rain freckling his coat, fury written over his face.
He pushed inside without waiting for an invitation.
Thankfully, she was in the east wing; I'd hoped the distance would keep her from hearing whatever outburst he intended.
"Where is she?" he demanded.
"She's asleep," I said, keeping my voice steady. "And you're trespassing."
"Don't play dumb with me." He stepped forward, shoulders taut. "You think I don't know what's going on? You think I'd let her disappear into some stranger's house?"
I didn't move. "What's your problem? She doesn't want you—"
He scoffed. "She doesn't know who you are and I'm going to protect her from you."
"Watch your words," I warned, balling my hands into fists.
He ignored me. "I've been asking around," he said. "And you know what's odd? There's no record of you before three years ago. No school, no address, no business under your name. Nothing. Like you didn't exist."
I said nothing.
"Who are you really?" he pushed.
I looked at him. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
"Leave my house, Julien." I stepped forward until we were almost face to face. "I know she trusts me more than she trusts you," I said quietly.
He closed the distance until our chests nearly touched. "You think she trusts you because she's staying with you? She's vulnerable, and you're taking advantage."
I shook my head. "You really think this is about that?"
"I think—" He jabbed a finger into my chest. "—you've got something to hide. And if you hurt her, I'll make sure—"
I caught his wrist before he could finish. "Enough." My patience snapped. "You're in my house, Julien."
He shoved me hard. I staggered, lost my footing. Instinct took over and I swung.
My fist connected—clean, a crack of impact across his jaw. He stumbled, hand flying to his mouth, then wobbled upright, eyes blazing as if he'd been waiting for permission to explode.
"Feel better?" he spat.
"Not yet," I said. "But I will if you don't leave."
He wiped blood from his lip, cheeks flushed. "You're not who you say you are. I'll prove it."
"I'm sure you'll try." I watched him, tired of arguing.
He moved for the stairs. "If you think I'm leaving her here—"
I stepped aside and called through to the guard at the door. "Escort Mr. Julien off the property."
The guard moved with efficient, practiced steps. Julien didn't fight the escort, but he didn't stop staring at me until the front door thudded closed behind him.
When the house fell quiet again the silence seemed heavier, charged. My palm throbbed—warm and sticky. I looked down and saw glass at my feet, spidered shards catching the light. Blood slicked my knuckles. I hadn't even felt it until now.
I went to the sink in my study, turned the tap, and held my hand under the cold stream. The red bled into the water and swirled away, little whirlpools pulling the color down the drain.
Thankfully Isobel was still asleep down the hall. I pressed both hands to the cool countertop and closed my eyes.
"Fuck," I whispered.