Etienne's POV
I stood in my office, my palm resting on the cool wood of the desk, staring at the cufflink as if it might answer the questions I couldn't. It caught the light — a dull, familiar glint — and for a moment the hum of the city outside felt miles away.
I should have thrown it away years ago. Burned it. Buried it with every other piece of Alexander Delacroix that had died in that crash.
And yet I had kept it. Like a fool.
Now there were questions. Julien had questions. She had questions. And I was running out of lies that still sounded like truths.
My phone buzzed against the leather blotter and I glanced at the screen. Vivienne Delacroix. As if the universe had timed the jab.
I let it ring twice more before answering. "What do you want?"
"Good morning to you too, Alexander." Her voice was cool, precise — the same clipped tone she'd used when she announced the liquidation of my father's company as if reading the minutes of a meeting.
