Page 145 of A Very Merry Enemy
Lovelyisn’t the word I’d use.
“Dominic was in the neighborhood and thought he’d stop by to say hello,” my father adds.
“In the neighborhood, five miles outside of town? That’s convenient,” I say, shocked this is happening.
“We’ve been having a wonderful chat about your time in Paris,” Dad says.
Of course, they have. Because my parents don’t know what Dominic really is. Mom knows the PG-rated version, but I never told them how poorly he treated me and how he controlled me. All they see is the charming French chef who swept their daughter off to Europe.
“Have a glass of wine, sweetheart,” my mother says. “We were just about to have lasagna, and I made your favorite bourbon chocolate cake.”
I want to refuse. I want to grab Dominic by his expensive jacket and throw him off my parents’ property. But they’re looking at me with smiles, and I can’t make a scene.
“Fine,” I manage through gritted teeth.
We move to the dining room, and the situation feels surreal. Dominic sits at the table like he belongs here. My mother serves him sweet tea in her crystal glassware. My father chats about how successful the bakery has been since I started managing it.
This is a living nightmare.
I sink into the chair across from Dominic, and he gives me that smile again.
“Dominic told us about your scuba diving trip to Belize. It sounded incredible,” Mom says.
“It was a long time ago,” I tell her flatly.
“Indeed.” His eyes hold mine. “So many things were different then.”
My mother brings out the lasagna and cuts us each a slice. She places garlic bread on the table. I chug wine and end up filling up my glass as I glare at him.
“Why are you here?” I finally ask.
He glances at my parents, then back at me. “Because I miss you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Holiday,” Dad says. “You’re being rude.”
“You’re absolutely right. Apologies.” For the rest of dinner, I don’t say a single word. I eat, I drink, and I don’t engage in any of the conversations around me.
“Honey, you’re so quiet,” Mom eventually says when our plates are cleaned.
“You taught me if I don’t have anything nice to say, then I shouldn’t say anything at all,” I say as she brings out the chocolate cake. I watch in horror as she cuts Dominic an enormous slice. He takes a bite and practically moans.
“Mrs. Patterson, this is divine. Absolutely exquisite. Would you be willing to share the recipe?”
“Oh, of course!” My mother is glowing under his attention. “It’s been in our family for generations.”
I want to scream. I want to flip the table over. I want to tell my mother that Dominic Laurent doesn’t deserve her recipes,doesn’t deserve her kindness, doesn’t deserve to be sitting in our home, pretending to be a decent human being. But I sit there, fork clenched in my fist, and suffer through dessert while Dominic charms my parents with stories from Paris. He’s funny and gracious—everything he was when we first met. Everything he stopped being once he had me under his control.
My father laughs at his jokes. My mother asks about his bakery. They’re completely enchanted by him and it makes me sick.
Finally, my father glances up at the clock. “Well, it’s getting late. We should probably let you get back to the inn, Dominic.”
“Of course.” Dominic stands. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. It’s been a true pleasure.”
“Pleasure was ours,” my dad says. “You’re welcome anytime.”
Over my dead body.
