A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

“Kind, beautiful, can cook, knows how to treat a man,” he said in his low, sexy baritone. “Not a man hatin’, shit talkin’, lesbian with a grudge,” he muttered.

What the hell happened between these two to inspire such animosity? Just then Isabelle walked into the kitchen. It was enough to disrupt the uncomfortable moment.

She waved a newspaper in the air.

“Guess what I have,” she practically sang, a pernicious smile on her lips.

She walked over to the counter and slapped the tabloid paper down in the middle. On the front page, for everyone to see, was Sebastian with his arm hooked around the waist of a stunning young woman. He was kissing her cheek as she smiled into the camera. They made a striking couple, his golden magnificence complementing her dark elegance. He looked relaxed, happy.

My heart sank.

“Is that Joan Smalls?”

Charlotte’s voice sounded underwater, dampened by the rush of blood in my ears. I tried to remain as still as possible, careful not to give anything away, but my stomach was churning.

“No, that’s the new Ethiopian model everyone’s talking about. Don’t they make a spectacular couple?” That was Isabelle’s voice. I was sure of it.

“You’re such a bitch, Isabelle. They’re not together. It’s probably just for publicity,” Charlotte argued.

“She’s very beautiful,” a remote voice interjected. I don’t know who made my jaw work and pushed the sound up my throat, even though I knew it was me that had spoken. Thick silence. No one said a word. “I need to check on the laundry.”

I started moving before anyone could stop me and marched to the far end of the manor with Mr. Luck tagging closely behind. When I looked over my shoulder, he stopped and leaned against the wall, too lazy to remain standing under his own power.

“Are you planning on doing this all day?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I skewered him with an annoyed glare and the side of his mouth curved up in amusement. “Strict orders, ma’am.”

Breathing an exasperated sigh, I continued to the laundry room. The iPhone rang. I took it out and stared at the screen while tears blurred my vision. Never one to succumb to crying spells in the past, it seemed I was on a hair trigger now and it bugged me. It made me feel overemotional and immature––two traits I detested.

‘I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here,’ the text read.

In the laundry room, I folded and refolded the same towel three times. My emotions raced to the worst possible conclusion while my intellect tried to reason with them. There’s a perfectly good explanation. The mantra played on repeat in my head in the hope that it would sink into my subconscious and I would begin to believe it.

An irrational stain of jealousy spread in my chest. Not once in my entire life could I recall ever feeling like this. I didn’t know what to do with it.

Somewhere in the dark recess of my soul, I knew this would happen––eventually. It was so easy to get wrapped up in romantic notions inside the bubble we had created, but life couldn’t exist solely between these walls. The outside had finally caught up to us, remembered that a poor immigrant and a wealthy playboy did not belong together in this unforgiving world.

As I lay in bed that night, contemplating the ceiling, my phone rang about thirty times. It was hard to breathe, tears constantly on the edge of my fragile emotions. I turned to look at it, finally got up, and shut it off.

Chapter Thirty-One

I overslept the next morning. The extra hour of sleep seemed to have the opposite effect. I was uncommonly irritable and moody. I even snapped at François when he asked if I had anything to do with his salary being doubled.

“How could I possibly have anything to do with that?”

He was taken aback by my thorny response. “I don’t know…I thought, maybe––”

“Thought what?” I interrupted.

He had an appropriately apologetic look on his face. “Nothing,” he said with a slightly embarrassed smile. “Forgive me.”

I worked furiously, hell bent on exhausting myself until my brain ceased functioning. It didn’t take much. I felt listless by late afternoon and crawled into bed earlier than usual. Reading was out of the question; I couldn’t concentrate. I tried sleeping but after tossing and turning for hours, I finally gave up and stared at the shadows the moon cast on the ceiling as if they held the answers to all my problems. By eleven, I had made a decision and worked up enough courage to do something about it.

Hoping to find her still awake, I went to Mrs. Arnaud’s bedroom and knocked quietly. It was not a relief to hear the shuffle of footsteps on the other side. Vibrating with nervous energy, I unconsciously wiped my sweaty hand on my nightgown and left a trail of blue across my chest; the outline of the speech I had written on my palm. Then the door cracked open and Mr. Bentifourt stepped out, wearing pajamas. There was no backing out now.