These Thin Lines, page 34
“The Courtenays’ lawyer reached out to me late that night. I was drunk. I don’t even remember where I was. I had a ton of missed calls. From Renate, from Aoife, and all sorts of unknown numbers. And you weren’t among them, you weren’t calling me. So I finally picked up, and this man said they had pictures. Of me and of you. And they would publish them, unless I paid.”
The first rays of sun were making their way onto the horizon, and beneath Chiara’s eyes, the FDR Drive was getting busier with the early morning traffic. Her mind refused to allow the magnitude of the coming revelations to penetrate, not just yet, so she listened as a detached observer, as if nothing Frankie was saying could touch her.
“The damn magazine was offering them sums that I simply couldn’t get my hands on, not without Renate co-signing, and I knew she’d never agree. So we made a deal. The magazine would get the pictures, but only ones that would be less damaging to me. And in return, the Courtenay name would be kept out of the press.”
Behind her, Chiara could hear Frankie taking a deep breath, but she still refused to turn around. Not yet.
“I have no idea how they got the photos, but they were very careful in trying to make sure nobody knew the source of them. I was raging and told them I would sue every single one of them, and the lawyer was so exacting, trying to make sure Vi’s name was never part of the conversation, to make sure I never reached out to her. It dawned on me very early on that whatever they did, they’d simply used her. She might have taken the pictures, but she had no idea what they were doing. She was never in on this, Chiara.”
And now her mind finally allowed Chiara to fully immerse herself in the narrative and damn, if it wasn’t painful. Because what Frankie just revealed wasn’t quite true. Vi had known who was responsible and kept that secret. She’d also known Frankie cheated and didn’t reveal that either. All the while taking all the blame and allowing Chiara to walk away. Vi had accepted the punishment, as if earned, as if deserved. And Chiara? What had she done? Believed the worst. About herself. About Vi.
God, this jumping to conclusions really needed to stop. Now that so many things made sense. Now that Renate had imparted her wisdom on forgiveness.
Isn’t that what was supposed to propel the main character into changing her ways? Into realizing that she had been wrong? Into fixing all the wrongs she herself had committed? An honorable and beloved supporting character pushing the protagonist to do right just as things are about to come to a head? Such a literary cliché.
Well, it was time to fall back on some of those.
“I don’t hate you, Frankie.” Well, cliché one down. “I hate what you’ve done. I despise that you allowed me to loathe myself for years. But then look at what I've done? Absolutely the same thing. I let Vi believe she was to blame. I didn’t believe her, and I let her burn for someone else’s sins.” The second cliché off her list.
She laughed, a broken, awful sound that further scraped raw her nerve endings. “We seem to have this whole theme of sins and damnation going here, Frankie. How very morbid of us.”
“Chiara—” She turned around to see Frankie looking at her with trepidation and not a little fear.
“Oh please, no, I don’t hate you. But I don’t ever want to see you again. It is so fucking awful what you did. Allowing me to blame myself for years. So yeah, I wish you…” She couldn’t even say ‘all the best,’ and rather laughed again, dry and painful. “I wish you whatever, Frankie. Do well, but don’t look for me again, god… And if you think that you giving me this piece of truth fixes something for you? No, Frankie, you sold them the pictures with my face and kept the ones that would have embarrassed you most out of the press. So you doing the right thing now?”
Frankie was on her feet too now, pacing, trying to come closer and perhaps seeing clearly what was in Chiara’s eyes and not daring.
“Doesn’t it count for something?”
Chiara smiled at her bitterly.
“I thought it was all on me. Everything. For years. And it wasn’t. And I assumed Vi betrayed me. And she never did. Her keeping her family’s secret, in retrospect, is something someone like her, starved for love, loyal to a fault, would have done. Taken on all the blame and trapped it in her chest and allowed it to choke her. Maybe we are peas in a pod, or whatever Renate called us. Be well, Frankie, but do it far away from me.”
As she crossed the room to the door, one hand already on the handle, Frankie’s voice stopped her.
“What are you going to do?”
“Beg her to forgive me, Frankie. Something I should’ve done years ago. And hope beyond hope that she does. Hope she will be much more merciful to me than I am to you. Pray my sins will be wiped off that proverbial ledger. Maybe some balance in that book is finally due. All that bleeding red is too much, and Vi has bled enough all over its pages.”
27
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF HEROES AND VILLAINS
Chiara Conti never really believed in magic, but as she made her dramatic exit from the waiting room, as if by the flick of a wand, the subject of all the preceding drama was leaning against the wall opposite the door, watching her with tired, concerned eyes.
The image of all that disheveled hair, the rumpled clothes, the linen shirt she’d hastily pulled on, the slightly too big trousers held up by the stupidly attractive suspenders, and the naked ankles peeking out from under the material… It did something to Chiara on a visceral level. Stupidly. That was the correct descriptor of how this woman affected Chiara.
But next to the unvarnished lust, there was also intricate adoration, tenderness, and above all else, limitless love. And guilt. So much guilt, Chiara felt she might suffocate on it.
And the wondrous eyes kept looking at her, despite Aoife saying something to Vi, despite people milling back and forth in the now crowded corridor, and the distance between them. Vi was seeing only her, and the hope in Chiara’s heart bloomed.
Maybe they would make it to the other end of this clusterfuck they’d created. All these things that should have been so simple. All of this, which was supposed to have been a quiet divorce, a quiet courtship, and a quiet, happy five years of love.
Except while happiness was always straightforward, misery had no such requirements. And you always had to pay the toll.
Had Renate been her wake-up call? Was Frankie’s confession the first strip of her heart she had to pay for knowing the truth? And would whatever happened with Vi next, force her to surrender the rest of it?
Perhaps seeing her indecisiveness, Vi strode over, took her hand, and in a matter of minutes, they were making their way through the hospital’s labyrinth of hallways and passageways. Before long, Vi had them outside and was hailing a cab with one of those attractively self-assured gestures that Chiara knew would never go unanswered, because a car was at the curb next to them in an instant.
The trip to the Village was a blur of a cigarette-smoke-filled backseat and the dimming lights of the awakening city. Vi’s hand in hers, warm and sure, was an anchor amidst the stench and the sensory overload.
Even as Vi’s building appeared in front of them, that thin thread that had been tormenting Chiara for days tugged at her until she turned around.
She knew they were there even before her eyes caught sight of them, because that wonderful warmth was gone from Vi’s hand in an instant.
And as Charles faced them under the dying light of the lamp, Chiara remembered exactly where she had seen him. No, the dawn of Manhattan wasn’t the dusk of Paris, but she knew. And suddenly, so many things made sense. Only one question remained.
“We’ve been ringing the doorbell for ten minutes, Genevieve. You certainly keep inappropriate hours.”
Charles' voice sounded haughty and a little rough, maybe due to the early hour or the fact that both he and Gwyneth were decked out to the nines, clearly coming from some fancy reception. Possibly even her own, since the Poise party surely continued until dawn, despite the guests of honor leaving early.
He looked tired. His wife looked as bored as always.
“I’m an adult, father.”
“Being an adult doesn’t permit you to be rude, Genevieve. Invite us up. If your date can stand an interruption.”
His eyes swept over Chiara with the same indifference as always, and the last pieces of the Courtenay puzzle slid into place for her. Some things really were that simple. She had no more questions. Only answers. And now was the right time to share them. Vi had suffered enough.
“This is actually fortuitous, Charles. I would have sought you out within the next few hours myself.” Chiara straightened to her full height, looking Charles directly in the eye. Clearly, this wasn’t something he was accustomed to, because his gaze narrowed, and he lifted his aristocratic chin, the shadow of gray stubble making him look so much older.
“Chiara…” Vi’s voice trembled, and it was all she could do not to give in and gather her in her arms, as she should have done countless times five years ago.
Still, better late than never.
“Darling, I will explain, even if I would have preferred to speak to you first. Alas, there is only one way to untangle the Gordian knot. So please bear with me.”
The fear in Vi’s eyes almost stopped her, but instead, Chiara squeezed her hand before sweeping into the building, impassive as to whether she was followed. She knew she would be. At least one of the Courtenays would be curious. And Chiara counted on that curiosity. It had killed the cat, after all.
By the time they all found themselves inside Vi’s apartment, Charles was even more disgruntled, perched uncomfortably on the sofa, Gwyneth was apathetic, lounging in the armchair farthest from Chiara, while Vi stood in the middle of the living room looking at the entire gathering with somewhat bewildered eyes.
Chiara affected a smile and felt it stretch her lips unpleasantly. “Well, I don’t know about all of you, but I’ve had quite a night, and with as much bullshit and aggravation as you have caused me over the past several years, I have a lot to say, so I will make this, if not painless, then at least succinct—”
Charles’ jaw clenched before he seemed to will it to relax. “I have no idea who you think you are and what you are doing here, Ms. Conti, but I won’t allow you to speak to us like this. To order us around, to threaten us like common criminals—”
“There’s nothing common about you, Charles. Nothing whatsoever. And while law enforcement might be fascinated with this uncommonness, I must tell you, I simply don’t give a damn.”
She could see he was taken aback by her words as he looked around himself and invariably at the one person who was keeping her silence—the same as always.
Chiara took a step towards the windowsill and leaned on it—another window, another view, and the same city now almost fully awake and alive at her fingertips. She felt the anger she’d been trying to hold back roar to life, for herself, for Vi, for the time that they had lost.
“Five years ago, I was on top of the world. Yes, my wife had just been caught cheating on me, but I was the happiest I had ever been. I was in love, and I was loved back. Until I wasn’t… Or so I thought.”
“Chiara…” The sorrow in Vi’s voice made it sound hollow, her eyes alight with so much pain, so much self-recrimination. It had to end. Chiara knew she had to end it.
“For years, I believed Vi had betrayed me. That she had her reasons for lying to me when I asked if she had sold the pictures of me catching Frankie in the act. To this day, every time I remember that night, I remember her eyes. Just like now, they were full of self-loathing, because just like now, she was torn between her love and loyalty to you—the only family she has, Charles—and her sense of honor and doing what was right.”
“Chiara, please, I did lie that night.” The tremor in Vi’s voice was breaking Chiara’s heart. And when she finally looked from Charles' astonished face to Vi’s beloved features, she smiled at her with as much love as she was able to convey.
“No, darling. You didn’t. Or, at least, not entirely. You shook your head when I asked you if you knew who did it and I chose not to believe you, because how could you not know? After all, it had to be you, right? Nobody else had access.”
“I did lie, because I did know. My father—”
“How dare you!” Charles was on his feet in a second, but before he could approach Vi or even say anything else, Chiara simply stared him down and lowered her voice.
“If I were you, I’d call a lawyer, Charles.”
Vi gasped, and Charles' already red face turned a peaked, ruddy shade.
“I will ruin you, Conti. Defamation—”
“But I didn’t defame you, Charles. Not yet anyway.” Chiara shrugged, infusing it with as much nonchalance as she could muster. “It took me a long time to remember where I’d seen you before. Too long. And perhaps, had I remembered, I’d have figured things out sooner. Alas, faces are not my strong suit. Gowns are, though.”
She looked beyond Charles, but in her periphery, she saw him take a step back. “In fact, I gave you excellent advice just now. Because you will need that lawyer. Make it a very good one. I hear family law attorneys are hard to come by on the cheap. Your finances being what they are.”
In the silence of the room, Chiara actually wished for Binoche. That cat knew how to cut through tension in the most irreverent of ways. The strange detour her brain had taken made her smile. She’d never appreciated her thought processes more than in this moment. When her emotions were running her ragged, her mind had conjured up the perfect distraction to give itself a small, much-needed breather.
“I don’t understand.” Vi’s voice brought her back to the moment. It no longer trembled, and she wasn’t focused on Chiara anymore. Her burning eyes were now aimed at the one person who still hadn’t uttered a single word.
Gwyneth stood up, her lip curling in a move to rival any fairytale villain worth her salt. She tilted her head, a smirk now distorting her face. “What is there to understand, Cinderella? It’s like you’ve not read the fairytale. It was always the stepmother.” She turned and took a few steps towards Chiara, completely ignoring the other people in the room. “Was it the Silver gown?” Her words were flat, emotionless, as if she were discussing the weather and not years of theft, commercial espionage, and just plain old treachery.
“I was in London when that dress was shown, just before it was stolen, Gwyneth. And it was stolen. The Maestro would have never given it away.”
Gwyneth waved her hand. “Eh, the man is dead, and nobody else can say different.”
Chiara raised an eyebrow at the brazenness. “Be that as it may, I am alive, and I know it was you stealing designs and blackmailing Lucci and D&B throughout that summer. What, couldn’t quite get a foot in the door at Lilien Haus? Did Renate and Zizou actually outsmart you?”
“Neither Lucci nor D&B will say a word. They both paid one way or another—”
“I couldn’t quite figure it out, you know. Lucci and D&B perhaps were careless in screening their employees, but Vi didn’t get full access, because Lilien had nothing to show, and Zizou kept a close eye on her all summer. So it was the one piece that didn’t fit. And then I finally realized who it was I’d seen leaving her building with a camera. At that point, I thought I knew. I thought I had it all figured out.”
Charles gaped, his mouth opening and closing, and Vi watched, her face turning paler.
“But I was wrong, wasn’t I, Gwyneth? Look at him. This man? A co-conspirator in commercial espionage? I bet he never even suspected a thing.”
Gwyneth rolled her eyes and sucked on her teeth with disdain.
“Yes, he is rather pathetic for anything, really.”
“Gwen?” For a moment, the silence could have fooled Chiara into thinking that they were alone. Not even breathing could be heard from either of the other two people in the room. But now things were suddenly very loud. Charles' voice booming with sheer shock and his ragged breathing like thunder in the distance.
“What, my dear?” Gwyneth spat the word, then turned away from him, her shoulders completely relaxed, her countenance clear, as if the actual weather was the subject of their conversation, rather than the storm brewing inside the room.
“You like to dress well, and you like to be the center of attention, and you like to be seen for the Earl that you are. Except you squandered everything you had when I married you! And you’re well aware of it, yet you’ve never once asked how it is that there is money in our bank accounts.”
“Gwen—” He was no longer screaming, he was pleading with her, and Chiara looked on in astonishment at how little Gwyneth actually cared. Vi stood completely still, her face impassive, pale as a sheet.
“The camera was connected to the cloud. I had every photo she ever took. And I would have gotten the pictures of the collection from Como, too, except this klutz damaged my Nikon, and I couldn’t get access to them. So no Charles, don’t worry. I didn’t ever need your help. It was already a done deal when you brought back the camera. I had everything I needed the moment Genevieve clicked the shutter. All her sappy infatuation with Chiara, all four months of it. It seems pathetic runs in the family.”
Vi’s eyes that had been hollow now filled with so much rage, Chiara thought she’d be forced to restrain her. But Gwyneth just waved her hand and continued, ignoring the two Courtenays and the hearts that seemed to be breaking all over the threadbare carpet, betrayal and anger evident on both their faces.
“I was the only one who knew what was going on. Her puppy-dog adoration, his obliviousness, and the complete stupor every time he as much as glanced at her—”
“Stop!” And now there was indeed something of an Earl in Charles’ bearing, in the authority with which he stepped between Vi and Gwyneth.
“Father?”
Charles rubbed his face with his thin, bony hands, and when he finally spoke after what seemed like forever, his voice was full of sorrow.
“I could never look at you and not see your mother. You are such a strange child, Genevieve. It’s like genetics were punishing me from the start. I loved her. Her death broke me, and I couldn’t reason that it really wasn’t your fault. That she died to give life to you, but you did nothing wrong. I blamed you for years. I couldn’t stop missing her and then you… You are her! Down to the tips of your ears, to the way you tilt your head, how you sometimes bite your lower lip…”
The first rays of sun were making their way onto the horizon, and beneath Chiara’s eyes, the FDR Drive was getting busier with the early morning traffic. Her mind refused to allow the magnitude of the coming revelations to penetrate, not just yet, so she listened as a detached observer, as if nothing Frankie was saying could touch her.
“The damn magazine was offering them sums that I simply couldn’t get my hands on, not without Renate co-signing, and I knew she’d never agree. So we made a deal. The magazine would get the pictures, but only ones that would be less damaging to me. And in return, the Courtenay name would be kept out of the press.”
Behind her, Chiara could hear Frankie taking a deep breath, but she still refused to turn around. Not yet.
“I have no idea how they got the photos, but they were very careful in trying to make sure nobody knew the source of them. I was raging and told them I would sue every single one of them, and the lawyer was so exacting, trying to make sure Vi’s name was never part of the conversation, to make sure I never reached out to her. It dawned on me very early on that whatever they did, they’d simply used her. She might have taken the pictures, but she had no idea what they were doing. She was never in on this, Chiara.”
And now her mind finally allowed Chiara to fully immerse herself in the narrative and damn, if it wasn’t painful. Because what Frankie just revealed wasn’t quite true. Vi had known who was responsible and kept that secret. She’d also known Frankie cheated and didn’t reveal that either. All the while taking all the blame and allowing Chiara to walk away. Vi had accepted the punishment, as if earned, as if deserved. And Chiara? What had she done? Believed the worst. About herself. About Vi.
God, this jumping to conclusions really needed to stop. Now that so many things made sense. Now that Renate had imparted her wisdom on forgiveness.
Isn’t that what was supposed to propel the main character into changing her ways? Into realizing that she had been wrong? Into fixing all the wrongs she herself had committed? An honorable and beloved supporting character pushing the protagonist to do right just as things are about to come to a head? Such a literary cliché.
Well, it was time to fall back on some of those.
“I don’t hate you, Frankie.” Well, cliché one down. “I hate what you’ve done. I despise that you allowed me to loathe myself for years. But then look at what I've done? Absolutely the same thing. I let Vi believe she was to blame. I didn’t believe her, and I let her burn for someone else’s sins.” The second cliché off her list.
She laughed, a broken, awful sound that further scraped raw her nerve endings. “We seem to have this whole theme of sins and damnation going here, Frankie. How very morbid of us.”
“Chiara—” She turned around to see Frankie looking at her with trepidation and not a little fear.
“Oh please, no, I don’t hate you. But I don’t ever want to see you again. It is so fucking awful what you did. Allowing me to blame myself for years. So yeah, I wish you…” She couldn’t even say ‘all the best,’ and rather laughed again, dry and painful. “I wish you whatever, Frankie. Do well, but don’t look for me again, god… And if you think that you giving me this piece of truth fixes something for you? No, Frankie, you sold them the pictures with my face and kept the ones that would have embarrassed you most out of the press. So you doing the right thing now?”
Frankie was on her feet too now, pacing, trying to come closer and perhaps seeing clearly what was in Chiara’s eyes and not daring.
“Doesn’t it count for something?”
Chiara smiled at her bitterly.
“I thought it was all on me. Everything. For years. And it wasn’t. And I assumed Vi betrayed me. And she never did. Her keeping her family’s secret, in retrospect, is something someone like her, starved for love, loyal to a fault, would have done. Taken on all the blame and trapped it in her chest and allowed it to choke her. Maybe we are peas in a pod, or whatever Renate called us. Be well, Frankie, but do it far away from me.”
As she crossed the room to the door, one hand already on the handle, Frankie’s voice stopped her.
“What are you going to do?”
“Beg her to forgive me, Frankie. Something I should’ve done years ago. And hope beyond hope that she does. Hope she will be much more merciful to me than I am to you. Pray my sins will be wiped off that proverbial ledger. Maybe some balance in that book is finally due. All that bleeding red is too much, and Vi has bled enough all over its pages.”
27
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF HEROES AND VILLAINS
Chiara Conti never really believed in magic, but as she made her dramatic exit from the waiting room, as if by the flick of a wand, the subject of all the preceding drama was leaning against the wall opposite the door, watching her with tired, concerned eyes.
The image of all that disheveled hair, the rumpled clothes, the linen shirt she’d hastily pulled on, the slightly too big trousers held up by the stupidly attractive suspenders, and the naked ankles peeking out from under the material… It did something to Chiara on a visceral level. Stupidly. That was the correct descriptor of how this woman affected Chiara.
But next to the unvarnished lust, there was also intricate adoration, tenderness, and above all else, limitless love. And guilt. So much guilt, Chiara felt she might suffocate on it.
And the wondrous eyes kept looking at her, despite Aoife saying something to Vi, despite people milling back and forth in the now crowded corridor, and the distance between them. Vi was seeing only her, and the hope in Chiara’s heart bloomed.
Maybe they would make it to the other end of this clusterfuck they’d created. All these things that should have been so simple. All of this, which was supposed to have been a quiet divorce, a quiet courtship, and a quiet, happy five years of love.
Except while happiness was always straightforward, misery had no such requirements. And you always had to pay the toll.
Had Renate been her wake-up call? Was Frankie’s confession the first strip of her heart she had to pay for knowing the truth? And would whatever happened with Vi next, force her to surrender the rest of it?
Perhaps seeing her indecisiveness, Vi strode over, took her hand, and in a matter of minutes, they were making their way through the hospital’s labyrinth of hallways and passageways. Before long, Vi had them outside and was hailing a cab with one of those attractively self-assured gestures that Chiara knew would never go unanswered, because a car was at the curb next to them in an instant.
The trip to the Village was a blur of a cigarette-smoke-filled backseat and the dimming lights of the awakening city. Vi’s hand in hers, warm and sure, was an anchor amidst the stench and the sensory overload.
Even as Vi’s building appeared in front of them, that thin thread that had been tormenting Chiara for days tugged at her until she turned around.
She knew they were there even before her eyes caught sight of them, because that wonderful warmth was gone from Vi’s hand in an instant.
And as Charles faced them under the dying light of the lamp, Chiara remembered exactly where she had seen him. No, the dawn of Manhattan wasn’t the dusk of Paris, but she knew. And suddenly, so many things made sense. Only one question remained.
“We’ve been ringing the doorbell for ten minutes, Genevieve. You certainly keep inappropriate hours.”
Charles' voice sounded haughty and a little rough, maybe due to the early hour or the fact that both he and Gwyneth were decked out to the nines, clearly coming from some fancy reception. Possibly even her own, since the Poise party surely continued until dawn, despite the guests of honor leaving early.
He looked tired. His wife looked as bored as always.
“I’m an adult, father.”
“Being an adult doesn’t permit you to be rude, Genevieve. Invite us up. If your date can stand an interruption.”
His eyes swept over Chiara with the same indifference as always, and the last pieces of the Courtenay puzzle slid into place for her. Some things really were that simple. She had no more questions. Only answers. And now was the right time to share them. Vi had suffered enough.
“This is actually fortuitous, Charles. I would have sought you out within the next few hours myself.” Chiara straightened to her full height, looking Charles directly in the eye. Clearly, this wasn’t something he was accustomed to, because his gaze narrowed, and he lifted his aristocratic chin, the shadow of gray stubble making him look so much older.
“Chiara…” Vi’s voice trembled, and it was all she could do not to give in and gather her in her arms, as she should have done countless times five years ago.
Still, better late than never.
“Darling, I will explain, even if I would have preferred to speak to you first. Alas, there is only one way to untangle the Gordian knot. So please bear with me.”
The fear in Vi’s eyes almost stopped her, but instead, Chiara squeezed her hand before sweeping into the building, impassive as to whether she was followed. She knew she would be. At least one of the Courtenays would be curious. And Chiara counted on that curiosity. It had killed the cat, after all.
By the time they all found themselves inside Vi’s apartment, Charles was even more disgruntled, perched uncomfortably on the sofa, Gwyneth was apathetic, lounging in the armchair farthest from Chiara, while Vi stood in the middle of the living room looking at the entire gathering with somewhat bewildered eyes.
Chiara affected a smile and felt it stretch her lips unpleasantly. “Well, I don’t know about all of you, but I’ve had quite a night, and with as much bullshit and aggravation as you have caused me over the past several years, I have a lot to say, so I will make this, if not painless, then at least succinct—”
Charles’ jaw clenched before he seemed to will it to relax. “I have no idea who you think you are and what you are doing here, Ms. Conti, but I won’t allow you to speak to us like this. To order us around, to threaten us like common criminals—”
“There’s nothing common about you, Charles. Nothing whatsoever. And while law enforcement might be fascinated with this uncommonness, I must tell you, I simply don’t give a damn.”
She could see he was taken aback by her words as he looked around himself and invariably at the one person who was keeping her silence—the same as always.
Chiara took a step towards the windowsill and leaned on it—another window, another view, and the same city now almost fully awake and alive at her fingertips. She felt the anger she’d been trying to hold back roar to life, for herself, for Vi, for the time that they had lost.
“Five years ago, I was on top of the world. Yes, my wife had just been caught cheating on me, but I was the happiest I had ever been. I was in love, and I was loved back. Until I wasn’t… Or so I thought.”
“Chiara…” The sorrow in Vi’s voice made it sound hollow, her eyes alight with so much pain, so much self-recrimination. It had to end. Chiara knew she had to end it.
“For years, I believed Vi had betrayed me. That she had her reasons for lying to me when I asked if she had sold the pictures of me catching Frankie in the act. To this day, every time I remember that night, I remember her eyes. Just like now, they were full of self-loathing, because just like now, she was torn between her love and loyalty to you—the only family she has, Charles—and her sense of honor and doing what was right.”
“Chiara, please, I did lie that night.” The tremor in Vi’s voice was breaking Chiara’s heart. And when she finally looked from Charles' astonished face to Vi’s beloved features, she smiled at her with as much love as she was able to convey.
“No, darling. You didn’t. Or, at least, not entirely. You shook your head when I asked you if you knew who did it and I chose not to believe you, because how could you not know? After all, it had to be you, right? Nobody else had access.”
“I did lie, because I did know. My father—”
“How dare you!” Charles was on his feet in a second, but before he could approach Vi or even say anything else, Chiara simply stared him down and lowered her voice.
“If I were you, I’d call a lawyer, Charles.”
Vi gasped, and Charles' already red face turned a peaked, ruddy shade.
“I will ruin you, Conti. Defamation—”
“But I didn’t defame you, Charles. Not yet anyway.” Chiara shrugged, infusing it with as much nonchalance as she could muster. “It took me a long time to remember where I’d seen you before. Too long. And perhaps, had I remembered, I’d have figured things out sooner. Alas, faces are not my strong suit. Gowns are, though.”
She looked beyond Charles, but in her periphery, she saw him take a step back. “In fact, I gave you excellent advice just now. Because you will need that lawyer. Make it a very good one. I hear family law attorneys are hard to come by on the cheap. Your finances being what they are.”
In the silence of the room, Chiara actually wished for Binoche. That cat knew how to cut through tension in the most irreverent of ways. The strange detour her brain had taken made her smile. She’d never appreciated her thought processes more than in this moment. When her emotions were running her ragged, her mind had conjured up the perfect distraction to give itself a small, much-needed breather.
“I don’t understand.” Vi’s voice brought her back to the moment. It no longer trembled, and she wasn’t focused on Chiara anymore. Her burning eyes were now aimed at the one person who still hadn’t uttered a single word.
Gwyneth stood up, her lip curling in a move to rival any fairytale villain worth her salt. She tilted her head, a smirk now distorting her face. “What is there to understand, Cinderella? It’s like you’ve not read the fairytale. It was always the stepmother.” She turned and took a few steps towards Chiara, completely ignoring the other people in the room. “Was it the Silver gown?” Her words were flat, emotionless, as if she were discussing the weather and not years of theft, commercial espionage, and just plain old treachery.
“I was in London when that dress was shown, just before it was stolen, Gwyneth. And it was stolen. The Maestro would have never given it away.”
Gwyneth waved her hand. “Eh, the man is dead, and nobody else can say different.”
Chiara raised an eyebrow at the brazenness. “Be that as it may, I am alive, and I know it was you stealing designs and blackmailing Lucci and D&B throughout that summer. What, couldn’t quite get a foot in the door at Lilien Haus? Did Renate and Zizou actually outsmart you?”
“Neither Lucci nor D&B will say a word. They both paid one way or another—”
“I couldn’t quite figure it out, you know. Lucci and D&B perhaps were careless in screening their employees, but Vi didn’t get full access, because Lilien had nothing to show, and Zizou kept a close eye on her all summer. So it was the one piece that didn’t fit. And then I finally realized who it was I’d seen leaving her building with a camera. At that point, I thought I knew. I thought I had it all figured out.”
Charles gaped, his mouth opening and closing, and Vi watched, her face turning paler.
“But I was wrong, wasn’t I, Gwyneth? Look at him. This man? A co-conspirator in commercial espionage? I bet he never even suspected a thing.”
Gwyneth rolled her eyes and sucked on her teeth with disdain.
“Yes, he is rather pathetic for anything, really.”
“Gwen?” For a moment, the silence could have fooled Chiara into thinking that they were alone. Not even breathing could be heard from either of the other two people in the room. But now things were suddenly very loud. Charles' voice booming with sheer shock and his ragged breathing like thunder in the distance.
“What, my dear?” Gwyneth spat the word, then turned away from him, her shoulders completely relaxed, her countenance clear, as if the actual weather was the subject of their conversation, rather than the storm brewing inside the room.
“You like to dress well, and you like to be the center of attention, and you like to be seen for the Earl that you are. Except you squandered everything you had when I married you! And you’re well aware of it, yet you’ve never once asked how it is that there is money in our bank accounts.”
“Gwen—” He was no longer screaming, he was pleading with her, and Chiara looked on in astonishment at how little Gwyneth actually cared. Vi stood completely still, her face impassive, pale as a sheet.
“The camera was connected to the cloud. I had every photo she ever took. And I would have gotten the pictures of the collection from Como, too, except this klutz damaged my Nikon, and I couldn’t get access to them. So no Charles, don’t worry. I didn’t ever need your help. It was already a done deal when you brought back the camera. I had everything I needed the moment Genevieve clicked the shutter. All her sappy infatuation with Chiara, all four months of it. It seems pathetic runs in the family.”
Vi’s eyes that had been hollow now filled with so much rage, Chiara thought she’d be forced to restrain her. But Gwyneth just waved her hand and continued, ignoring the two Courtenays and the hearts that seemed to be breaking all over the threadbare carpet, betrayal and anger evident on both their faces.
“I was the only one who knew what was going on. Her puppy-dog adoration, his obliviousness, and the complete stupor every time he as much as glanced at her—”
“Stop!” And now there was indeed something of an Earl in Charles’ bearing, in the authority with which he stepped between Vi and Gwyneth.
“Father?”
Charles rubbed his face with his thin, bony hands, and when he finally spoke after what seemed like forever, his voice was full of sorrow.
“I could never look at you and not see your mother. You are such a strange child, Genevieve. It’s like genetics were punishing me from the start. I loved her. Her death broke me, and I couldn’t reason that it really wasn’t your fault. That she died to give life to you, but you did nothing wrong. I blamed you for years. I couldn’t stop missing her and then you… You are her! Down to the tips of your ears, to the way you tilt your head, how you sometimes bite your lower lip…”
