Page 5 of A Mistake of Identity
Maybe he was, Ellis didn’t know.
Rohan shifted Ellis to his other side with casual authority, his broad frame suddenly blocking Ellis’ view of everything except the sleek black Mercedes sedan purring at the curb. The movement was smooth but absolute—like being caught in the current, Ellis found himself carried along in Rohan’s wake. A man in the front passenger seat was out of the car before it came to a complete stop, pulling open the door for Rohan.
Ellis’ breath caught as his client all but shoved him into the back seat before sliding in next to him. The interior smelled of leather and something subtly masculine that triggered a memory: last week, walking past that fancy cigar shop in the Fourth Cat with Jean, dreaming about better things like they always did. The digital billboard cycling through PDC’s “40 Under 40” had shown that same face, that same commanding presence.
Gabriel Rohan—CEO of La Sauvegarde, a sprawling empire that touched nearly every corner of Porte du Coeur’s economy. The conglomerate handled everything from complex financial risk modeling in its gleaming downtown headquarters to boots-on-the-ground security through its subsidiaries. They were one of the region’s largest employers, and rumor had it their reach extended far beyond legitimate business—whispers of a private military force that operated in shadows where traditional security forces couldn’t go.
And here he was, the man who controlled it all through both his position as CEO and his family’s controlling share of stock, sitting next to Ellis in the back of a luxury car that need a driver. That same face from countless magazine covers andsociety pages, consistently ranked among PDC’s Most Eligible Bachelors.
This had to be Gabriel, not his younger brother Henri. Henri was the family’s golden party boy, more likely to be found drowning in admirers at some exclusive nightclub than sitting alone at a casino. Henri didn’t need to pay for company; he had socialites and models practically throwing themselves at him.
Besides, Henri was blonde.
Ellis turned to face the man as the car started moving. His heart hammered against his ribs as he considered his next words. Donovan had stressed discretion and barely given him any details about his client, but then the bellhop had openly acknowledged him, hadn’t he?
“Are you,” Ellis bit his lower lip, the question feeling dangerous even as it left his mouth, “Gabriel Rohan?”
#
Gabriel
Gabriel Rohan was pissed. His flake of a younger brother was supposed to have met him at the Lumière for dinner. Another mess of Henri’s making—this time, he’d maybe-accidentally-on-purpose seduced Élise Dubrule, an heiress whose family owned one of the largest hotel chains in Europe and whose father just happened to be one of their father’s oldest friends—the kind of scandal that required careful handling, especially with both families’ reputations at stake. Gabriel had arranged this dinner to discuss what Henri had been thinking and hopefully contain the situation before it exploded in all their faces.
The chit was beside herself, having thought Henri was devoted to her. That they were bound for marriage. If she had known any better—or rather, if she hadn’t willfully ignored Henri’s well-documented reputation—she would have seen right through his false visage. But that was Henri’s particular talent: making each conquest feel special, unique, and different from all the others who’d come before. He probably thought it hilarious, watching an Accor heiress fall for his practiced lines and manufactured charm, knowing full well he’d discard her like all the rest.
Now, she was making quite the spectacle of herself, acting the part of the wronged lover as if she were the first to fall for Henri’s carefully crafted deceptions. It was as if Dubrule’s familyname somehow made her immune to becoming just another of his amusements.
And now, true to form, Henri couldn’t even be bothered to face the consequences of his latest game. No call, no message, just Gabriel sitting alone at the casino for over an hour, his anger simmering hotter with each passing minute. He was about to call his brother and demand answers when a different opportunity presented itself.
Ellis Anouilh had slunk into the seat next to him with a confident facade that belied his obvious nerves. The man was handsome, not pretty, like too many male escorts meant for male company. There was something appealingly solid about him—tall and lean, with a build that suggested strength rather than carefully crafted fragility. But what caught Gabriel’s attention was the poorly concealed bruise darkening the man’s cheekbone. A Union escort would never be sent out looking less than flawless, and certainly not with fresh marks covered by cheap concealer. When Gabriel’s gaze fixed on the bruise, he caught the slight tensing in Ellis’ jaw, the way the man clearly wanted to turn away but held himself still under scrutiny.
It was quite clear that Ellis had mistaken Gabriel for a client—which was intriguing, as it meant this handsome escort didn’t recognize him. The calling card had explained everything: Heart Court was a non-union brothel in the Fourth Cat. Ellis was likely from the lower classes or perhaps a runaway, servicing common laborers and mid-level businessmen. This begged the question of why he was at the Lumière in the first place.
Someone had planned to meet Ellis here, likely a visitor to Porte du Coeur. A financier or a tourist with enough money to indulge in a cheap escort but lacking the connections to arrange something more discreet or to meet at a high-class brothel.
Too bad they would miss their appointment.
Gabriel’s anger at Henri still simmered beneath his carefully controlled exterior, a familiar tension coiling in his muscles that demanded release. And here, walking right into his path, was the perfect outlet—not some fragile plaything who would break at the first hint of rough handling, but someone with enough fire in his eyes to make breaking him truly satisfying.
Gabriel decided Ellis would be coming back to his Lafayette Square manor. He often used the place when the hour-long drive to the family estate in Second Cat proved too tedious, and it was conveniently close to La Sauvegarde’s headquarters. Tonight, it would serve a different purpose—helping Gabriel work out his frustrations in the most pleasurable way possible.
Upon their exit, Gabriel had spotted a squat man with a brown rat-tail snaking down his back. He was wearing a cheap black suit and an even cheaper maroon button-down underneath—the kind of outfit meant to pass as high-end to those who wouldn’t know better. The man typed furiously on his phone as he approached the front doors, eyes down, oblivious to his surroundings.
It wasn’t much of a leap to assume this was Ellis’ intended client for the evening. Just in case, Gabriel shifted his newly acquired escort to his left side, using his height and broader frame to block the man’s view of Ellis entirely.
His suspicions were confirmed when the man began a frantic search of the lobby, eventually giving up to perch on the fountain’s edge, waiting for someone who wouldn’t be coming.
Someone who was now Gabriel’s.
Gabriel shoved Ellis into the backseat of the Mercedes and slid in quickly after him, positioning himself to block any view between the lobby and his unexpected prize. As they pulled away from the Lumière, he watched through the tinted windows as the man continued his futile wait. A few minutes into theirdrive, Ellis finally whispered that one question, as if he had feared the answer. Gabriel knew the smile that spread across his face was predatory.
Gabriel reached across the short distance and grabbed Ellis’ chin between his fingers, forcing the man to maintain eye contact.
“I am. Does that frighten you, little bird?”
“Little bird?” Ellis asked, indignant, trying to pull away. Gabriel pinched the man’s face, causing Ellis to wince.
“You appear as if you might take flight. It seemed fitting.”
