Chapter 524

Chapter 524:

What was I going to say? That I’d ended up in a bar fight and now had to be in court the next morning? That would only drag down her already low opinion of me.

Instead, I typed: “Have business to take care of. See you tomorrow night p>

“Want me to go talk to Mirabelle?” Lea offered.

“Bad idea.” There was nothing between me and Lea, but Mira didn’t know that. No way was I sending another woman to speak to my fiancée, especially not now.

“I should warn you,” Lea said. “Pierre’s parents are flying in. Could land any time. They’re going to be furious once they hear their precious boy got punched. They’ll want blood. Probably yours p>

“I can handle it p>

“I know. Titanova was practically built to fix other people’s messes. You’re good at it. But you should know, the Marchands don’t play clean. They’ll dig into your past, try to paint you as a dangerous thug. They’re media-savvy and well-connected. If there’s dirt, they’ll find it p>

“Let them dig. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of p>

“I know that. And it’s not like the Marchands built their empire on Sunday school morals either. I’m just thinking about what happens when the press gets involved. What Mirabelle might think if she reads about it. Have you told her? About your past p>

How was I supposed to explain to the woman I loved, a woman whose world revolved around jewelry and who got excited playing undercover cop, that my old life had been lived mostly in the gray areas of the law? That I’d solved more problems with fists and firearms than with contracts and clever words?

“Then you’d better hope the Marchands don’t release anything,” Lea said. “Mirabelle’s not like us. She won’t understand that you only did what you had to do to survive p>

I unlocked the car, and Lea got in. “I will,” I said.

I woke up with a stuffy head, a blocked nose, and a hangover. My head throbbed, my limbs ached, and my heart fluttered in a strange, jumpy rhythm—the result of a sleepless night.

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I saw Ashton’s text but didn’t reply. I didn’t want to talk to him. Not until I’d figured out what was going on in my own head. Franklin was dead. My father was dead.

I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a peaceful conversation. The last time he spoke to me without trying to squeeze something out of Ashton. The last time he gave me a smile that felt even remotely fatherly.

Still, he was my father. He gave me life. I could at least spend one day mourning him. Right?

I called Fabrizio to ask for the day off. He didn’t answer. His hangover was probably worse than mine. I remembered how much he’d drunk last night.

I rang Peter Carl instead and told him I wasn’t coming in.

“You and Fab both,” he said, sounding unsurprised. “What did you two get up to last night p>

I gave a vague answer.

“It’s fine. Take all the time you need. What do you want me to do with the letter, though p>

“What letter?” I asked.

“The one on your desk. The envelope says ‘For Mirabelle.’ No sender name, but I recognize Fabrizio’s handwriting. He must’ve left it there after you clocked out. Some kind of note about a design tweak, maybe. Want me to open it p>

A cold feeling settled in my chest. “No. I’ll be there soon. Don’t open it p>