He nods, then clears his throat. "After I drop you off at your home. I'm sorry."
I wave my hand. "No need to be sorry. It isn't your fault."
It's my brother's. And Mom's for using him to get me married. She knows how Machiavellian he is. To him, everything justifies the end. The only reason he isn't trying physical violence is that it isn't his MO. Also, wedding photos look like crap when the bride is black and blue.
The other people in my entourage back away, bowing and mumbling apologies, and Mr. Clifford drives me home. The car stereo plays Chopin's Waltz in E minor, the rapid, turbulent notes reflecting my mood.
Unlike most Paris people of my age and circumstances, I don't live with my parents at the "primary residence." The place is huge, with three different wings and additions, so I would have all the privacy I wanted. Charles didn't move out after getting married; he just occupied one of the wings with his family. But then, as the heir to the Golden Gate empire, he's expected to be at the primary residence. He always does what's expected of him and doesn't understand why I don't. He forgets I don't have to because I'm not part of the empire the way he is. I'm not even a replacement, because if anything happened to him, the entire conglomerate would go to the management of an outside executive.
So Dad lets me live in a large luxury condo complex in the tony section of Paris called Chez, which is famous all over the world I wonder how much longer I can stay there without Charles finding a way to kick me out. Unfortunately, the lease is under the company's name for complex legal reasons I never quite understood.
And if he does, do I get to move back to the primary residence, or do I have to find an apartment on my own?
Probably on my own, because he specified not using family money. The primary residence has to fall under that category.
Tapping my fingers to another waltz, I mentally go through a list of friends in Paris I might be able to stay with, then shake my head. None of them will take me in, not if Charles makes a call. All of them have some kind of business dealings with Golden Gate or its subsidiaries. Friendships are fine until your market cap is at stake.
When the car stops at the glitzy gold and black entrance to my condo complex, Mr. Clifford opens the door for me.
"Thank you for everything," I say. "Good luck."
"Thank you, Ms. Ben. I hope you have a good day," he says pleasantly, but I catch a hint of wistfulness. Mr. Clifford is a physical guy who likes to be out and about. So being my chauffeur and bodyguard has been an ideal assignment for him.
He drives away. I watch the black Mercedes vanish around the curve and wonder how I'm going to get around. There might be a bus stop or subway station somewhere, but I have no clue where. We don't get taxis driving by either, because every resident here has a car or two. Besides, I probably can't afford to ride taxis all the time now. I only have one hundred thousand FRF in cash like a hundred dollars in U.S. currency which is pathetic.
A loud engine roar catches my attention. I look in the direction and frown at the sight of a lemon-yellow Lamborghini. A familiar guy in his mid-twenties sticks his head out of the driver's-side window with an overly white grin. Excessive tooth bleaching. His pale, strawlike hair is spiked with gel. A pair of reflective sunglasses hides eyes I know to be small and unexceptional.
"Hey, babe. Finally caught you alone." His teeth gleam like a row of tiny searchlights.
I roll my eyes heavenward. Normally, Ms. Katherine or Mr. Clifford f would keep people like this away, but I'm on my own now. Should I beat him with my heel? But is he worth ruining a Chanel?
"You're dressed nice," he says, trying again.
Obviously. Violet Georges Hobeika is more than nice. And Chanel heels are to die for. I love fashion, and I have excellent taste.
"Wanna go for a ride? This car's almost as nice as the way you look."
"I don't go for rides with convenience store cashiers who have to borrow their uncle's Lamborghinis. Or try to pick up girls who are way out of their league. You shouldn't be driving a car you can't fill up with money you make yourself."
His jaw drops. "What How did you...?" His face turns blotchy. "What are you talking about?"
"I know everything about everyone."
When I moved here, the security team created a set of extensive reports on everyone in the building, including the janitorial staff. I didn't read or remember everything about everyone, but I looked this idiot up when he repeatedly tried to hit on me despite Mr. Clifford's pro-level cock-blocking.
"You still haven't finished college, have you?" My voice drips with feigned pity. "Does your girlfriend know what you're up to?"
He swallows. "Freaky bitch."
"At least I'm not a loser and a cheater."
I turn and walk away, tossing my hair over my shoulder. I'm not worried about him trying anything. There are guards all over the place, one of the many benefits to living in the building.
I walk past the concierge and reception desks and take the elevator to the top floor. As the car moves upward, I tap the strap of my purse with my thumb, feeling anxious and nervous. Mr. Clifford drove me here as soon as I left headquarters, but Charles could have some quicker and meaner minion to keep me out of my home. Although the stuff inside is mine I can't imagine Charles wanting to take over my shoe collection I can't take it if I can't get into the place. Given how ruthless he's been so far, he wouldn't mind one bit if I had to find an empty spot under a bridge to spend the night.
I pray the passcode is still good and enter the six-digit combination into the lock panel on the door to my unit. There is an interminable moment...