Chapter 3 - THE BANKER WHO RECOGNIZED HER REAL NAME
I had almost reached the doors when an elderly Frenchman stepped into my path.
Silver hair. Ebony cane. Narrow face.
Étienne Beaumont.
I vaguely remembered his introduction. Senior private banker. Paris.
He was staring at me.
More specifically, at my necklace lying across the table behind me, then at my face.
“Madame,” he said in French, “your accent…”
I stopped.
His eyes widened.
Then he spoke a name no one in Chicago had used in years.
“Isabella Laurent?”
My heartbeat changed.
Behind me, Adrian was approaching.
I lowered my voice.
“Mr. Beaumont.”
The old man looked almost frightened.
“My God. It really is you.”
Adrian reached us.
“Is there a problem?”
Beaumont looked from Adrian to me.
Then something extraordinary happened.
He gave my husband a look I had never seen anyone give Adrian Moretti.
Pity.
“None at all,” Beaumont said.
His gaze returned to me.
“Your grandfather will be relieved to know you’re well.”
Adrian went still.
I felt it immediately.
The first crack.
“Grandfather?” he asked.
I ignored him.
Beaumont leaned closer.
“Does your husband truly not know who you are?”
I looked at the man I had been married to for six years.
“No,” I said.
“Apparently neither of us knew who we married.”
Adrian locked the door of his study ten minutes later.
“You humiliated me.”
I stared at him.
For a moment, I honestly wondered whether I had heard correctly.
“I humiliated you?”
“You knew what I was saying.”
“Yes.”
“And you waited.”
“So did you.”
His expression darkened.
“This arrangement with Camille is business.”
“Business does not usually wear diamonds and sleep with someone’s husband.”
His eyes flickered.
There.
I saw it.
I suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“How long?”
“Isabella—”
“How long have you been sleeping with her?”
He walked toward the fireplace.
On the mantel stood our wedding photograph.
I hated that it was there.
“Three months.”
My knees almost weakened.
I sat because I chose to, not because he ordered me.
Three months.
Ninety days.
While he kissed me goodnight.
While he asked what I wanted for Christmas.
While I ordered the engraved watch sitting wrapped in our bedroom closet.
Adrian poured whiskey.
“The engagement gives us access to European shipping terminals and financing. Her father controls relationships we need.”
“Then marry him.”
He slammed the glass down.
“You remain my wife.”
I stared.
He actually believed that solved something.
“Camille understands the arrangement,” he continued. “Nothing has to change between us.”
I almost smiled.
“How generous of your fiancée to let you keep your wife.”
“Stop calling her that.”
“You did.”
His phone lit up on the desk.
A photograph appeared before he could flip it over.
Camille beneath the Eiffel Tower.
Adrian’s hand around her waist.
Below it was a message.
Tell Isabella what you signed before she finds out another way.
I looked at him.
May you like
“What did you sign?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
