Olivier (Chicago Blaze 9)

“So you’ll do the hair and makeup,” she says.

“No.” I don’t turn around to look at her.

“That wasn’t one of the conditions.”

“That was never up for debate. I’ll go to dinner, but I’m doing it dressed in my own clothes.”

“You’re thirty-one years old, Daphne. Not exactly a spring chicken. And since you don’t intend to give Aiden another chance, why not put your best foot forward with the man who saved your life and also happens to be a great catch? Would it be so awful to look beautiful for once?”

Her words sting. Even after all the years of being on the receiving end of her bitter comments and attempts at matchmaking, it still hurts. I don’t let it show, though.

“I don’t wear designer clothes, Mom. You know that.”

She waves a hand as she walks toward the door, like I’m a lost cause. “Fine, Daphne. Embarrass your father after he’s spent thirty-five years building a career he’s proud of. You’d probably enjoy that.”

I sigh softly, reminding myself that she’s a master manipulator. Queen of passive aggressive jabs. Just another reason I have to move back to my apartment. She and I are like oil and water and always have been.

Just one more night. One dinner. And then I can go back to my everyday life, away from having my family’s wealth and privilege showcased on a daily basis.

That’s not who I am, I remind myself. I get to decide who I am. And while my last name is Barrington, I am not and never will be a self-absorbed heiress.

It’s taken me a long time to feel like I truly fit into the life I’ve made for myself. And that life may be less than an hour from the affluent suburb of Naperville my parents live in, but it might as well be another world.

I’ll be back in that world tomorrow. Not a moment too soon.

Chapter Five

Olivier

The Barrington mansion comes into view as Ben drives through a canopy of trees near the end of the long, private road that leads to the sprawling stone building. Even though it’s January and the trees have no leaves, there are evergreens surrounding the home on all sides other than the front.

Seclusion comes at a price in Naperville, but the Barringtons have it. This property has likely been in their family for a long time, and the real estate developer in me can’t help wondering how much it cost to buy the land and build the mansion.

Ben stops at the front entrance and comes around to open my door.

“Thanks, Ben,” I say as I step out of the vehicle, buttoning my suit jacket.

There’s a photographer nearby, and he snaps a couple of photos. Senator Barrington’s office called my office to see if I was okay with a photographer being here tonight. And while it’s not what I would have chosen, his spokesman said Daphne wanted it, so I didn’t argue.

The front door is opened by a middle-aged man dressed in an old-school butler’s uniform.

Nodding, he says, “Welcome, Mr. Durand.”

“Thank you,” I say, walking through the open doorway as he steps aside, holding the tall, carved dark wood door open.

Everything about this place, from the stone exterior to the formal landscaping to the butler, reminds me of the time I spent in London. That’s where I lived when I was a twenty-something entrepreneur making a name for myself.

“May I take your coat?”

“Yes, thanks.” I shrug off my long wool coat and pass it to him, then offer him my hand for a handshake. “Hi, I’m Olivier Durand.”

He lowers his brows in disapproval. Christ, I guess we’ve time travelled back to the 1800s, and it’s considered bad form to introduce yourself to the household staff.

“Mr. Durand, I’m so glad you could make it,” a male voice says warmly.

I turn to see US Senator Ron Barrington in a well-tailored suit, his gray hair combed back neatly.

“Ron Barrington,” he says, shaking my hand and then chuckling as he brings it in for a hug. “Words can’t express my thanks for what you did for my daughter. If there’s ever anything, anything at all, that I can do for you, you only need to ask.”

He stands back and locks eyes with me, gratitude shining in his eyes. I don’t think much of politicians overall, but this guy seems sincere.

“It was my pleasure,” I say, meaning it.

“Mr. Durand!” a female voice calls out, her heels clicking on the wood floor as she approaches.

She’s heavily made up, wearing what looks like an evening gown, and looks the same age as the senator. Even with all the makeup, it’s obvious she’s quite pretty.

“Olivier, please,” I say, extending my hand.

“Sandra Barrington,” she responds, smiling. “Daphne’s mother. Thank you so much for saving our daughter, Olivier. We’re so thrilled to have you here tonight.”

The photographer is clicking away, and I feel like a prop. Part of a performance. My privacy comes at a high cost, and I can’t believe I’m willingly giving the #Olidaph movement the fodder they’ve been begging for.