“Lainey.”

My pleading voice does nothing to persuade her to look up.

“Tell them this is ridiculous. Tell them you won’t go through with it either.”

She still doesn’t look up, so focused on wringing her hands atop her lap.

My father, having had enough, gives a final, heavy sigh.

“You’ll do as you’ve always done, Emmett. You’ll represent the Mercier family with dignity and pride. Whatever protest you’re plotting, whatever outlandish acts you think might get you out of this…they’re futile. In six months’ time, the two of you will be wed, and that’s that.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Emmett

The rain from Italy follows us back to Boston. In the two weeks since my return, the streets have been a sloshy mess. Rain clouds blot out the sun, and a deep chill has set in over the city. I largely exist as if my life hasn’t changed since my last night in Italy. With unwavering determination, I focus on work. There are no petulant tantrums or shows of defiance. In fact, I’m on my way to meet my father at the future site of GHV’s headquarters in Boston.

We’ve spoken multiple times since Italy and I can tell he’s waiting for an outburst from me, but he won’t get it.

My car pulls up to the curb outside the building. Just inside the lobby, through the rain-splattered windows, I can see my father waiting with his assistant. The plan for today is to take a few minutes to walk the building since he hasn’t had a chance to see it in person yet, and then we’ll meet with a lead architect and engineer from Banks and Barclay to understand the full scope of the project and the timeline we’re up against.

My driver whips my door open, a large black umbrella already in place above my head. I take it, thank him, and head toward the building.

Other than a few raindrops on my shoes, I’m bone-dry when I walk into the building and join my father and Wilson. They stand side by side while Wilson shows my father something on his phone.

He shakes his head, his focus still on whatever Wilson is showing him as he speaks. “We need to reschedule the meeting.” Then he looks up and asks me tersely, “Pourquoi es-tu en tardif?”

To which I reply, “Pluie.” Though I’m not late. I’m precisely on time.

I won’t give in to his needling. He wants a fight, but I get more satisfaction out of denying him the pleasure.

“Le bâtiment est assez ancien.”

I almost laugh and reply in French, “Historical architecture always is.”

“And have you gathered an estimate for what it will cost to renovate this?”

“You act as if you haven’t donated millions of euros to the restoration of Notre Dame. You of all people should appreciate this building for what it could be.”

“I’m more worried about it turning into a money pit. Alexander is supposed to be overseeing this project. Where is he?” He looks out onto the street expectantly.