Page 43 of One Lovely Lie

But I keep those words on the inside. There’s no use pouring salt into an open wound when I already know how upset he is over it, even if he won’t admit it.

“I’ll call you every day,” I promise him, running the back of my fingers along his cheek. “You’ll get sick of me.”

He shakes his head sweetly as he kisses the tips of my fingers. “Doubtful. Either way, Avery and Carter are staying too, so it won’t be all that miserable.”

“Right,” I say while we both get dressed. This is the hard part now. I’m all packed up and ready to leave. What makes me feel slightly better is that Magnus looks as upset as I do right now. Without any words, we hug, holding each other tightly. We pull back just far enough for our lips to brush against each other, our mouths fusing into something bittersweet.

“It’ll be no time at all,” I whisper against his lips, nipping at his bottom one and giving it a little tug.

“I’ll be counting down the days.”

Despite missing Magnus, it feels good to be home. I love our townhouse; it’s always felt exceedingly warm despite the eclectic and modern furnishing. It smells like freshly baked cookies—not that my mother is the one who made them—and a feeling of nostalgia washes over me.

I drop my suitcase next to the front door and take off my coat, looking down the hallway in search of my parents. As soon as I get myself settled, my mother comes rushing in from the adjoining room, arms open in a greeting. As usual, her straight blonde hair is expertly pulled back in a low bun. She’d never degrade herself by wearing anything but dress clothes in the house, her heels clicking as she approaches me. Her makeup is spotless, despite me knowing we’re not going anywhere tonight.

“Daniel, sweetheart,” she cheers as she squeezes me tightly against her. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

“Me too, Mother,” I say with a smile, rubbing her back as we break apart. “The place looks great. New decorator?”

She rolls her eyes and groans. “Ugh, yes, but that dolt messed up the color scheme. Your father and I had to pay twice the original amount just to repaint the entryway. People can be so incompetent.”

Yes, that’s Sylvia Levingson, a saint to her child but a raging bitch to everyone else.

“You look so rumpled. Did you not change after getting off the plane?” she asks, fussing with the collar of my shirt and trying to smooth down my curls.

I chuckle half-heartedly as I gently swat her hands away. “Leave it, Mother.”

She presses her lips together in a tight line and then shrugs. “Fine. Why don’t you go to the sitting room and I’ll get us some drinks while we catch up.”

“Sounds good,” I say, kissing her cheek as I follow her instructions. I make my way to the sitting room, hoping that she makes this quick so I can crash after a shower, but I stop when I enter the room. “Um, Mother. Who is this?”

I look at the unexpected visitor who’s perched on the couch, refined and elegant. She’s a young woman, looks to be about my age, but I don’t recognize her. Objectively speaking, she’s gorgeous. She has this long, luscious black hair that travels down to her waist, and her makeup perfectly highlights her cheekbones and bright blue eyes. She smiles when she sees me, smoothing down her impeccably pressed dress.

“Oh, her?” my mother comments, coming back in with two drinks in her hands; a scotch for me and white wine for her. “This is Florence. You haven’t met?”

There’s something in her tone that makes me stand up straighter. It’s the voice she uses when we’re around particular people who are particularly important. Immediately, my refined upbringing comes to the forefront, and I offer Florence my hand. “I haven’t had the pleasure. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“You as well,” she says and her voice is melodic, song-like, and definitely French. “You are much handsomer than your parents told me.”

I raise my eyebrows at that and look back at my mother who seems just a tad bit guilty. “My parents told you about me?”

“Sweetheart, Florence is here visiting from France for a few days while she’s on her break from school,” my mother explains, handing me my drink. “We were hoping you could show her around the city when you’re not working.”

That gives me pause. Something is up. My mother has never had meshow someone aroundbefore, especially a pretty young woman. Based on Florence’s decorum, I have an itch about what this is about.

“Florence, I don’t think I caught your last name.”

“Duboit.”

There it is. Florence Duboit, aka daughter of Frances Duboit, aka owner and CEO of the largest pharmaceutical company in France.

This, per usual, is about business.

“Mother, where is Father?”

She wrinkles her nose and thinks it over. “In his study, I believe.”

I nod curtly and turn quickly to Florence. “If you could give us just a minute. Mother, may I speak to you?”

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