“Pierre, I am not prepared to live as your wife. I thank God you are well, but I want to apply for an annulment.”

He could not believe it. “I just told you, that God’s law . . .”

“I don’t believe you care about God’s law,” Sophie said coldly. “I believe you never intended fidelity. I know there were countless women. We have a son together, so I hope we will be courteous. Even friendly. But I shall file for civil divorce tomorrow, and I will seek to have this marriage annulled.”

“And I will resign my job; the new company probably belongs to you anyway.” Tom stood up. “But I will go back to Oxford, Father. And I will never speak to Judy Dean again. If you bring her into any place where I am, I will leave. This point is not negotiable.”

Pierre stared.

He could not believe it. It simply did not compute. His clingy son and his mouselike wife. Defying him. Refusing his authority. Sophie, whom he had been so sure would jump at the first bit of religious trash he tossed at her . . .

“I will not give you an annulment,” he said, with ice-cold tones. “I will fight you all the way to the Vatican. You will never get to marry that English bastard. You will love me, be with me, or be a lonely old maid for the rest of your life.”

Sophie could not stop herself.

“No contest,” she said, with contempt.

Tom bristled. “Do not speak to Maman that way, Papa. The fault was yours, not hers. You don’t own her. She was a good wife to you.”

A red mist, a pure, bright rage, rose up in his gorge, choking him.

“You dare to side with her?” he said. Intimidation, all the icy command of his personality, he now bore down on his son. “You are my blood.”

“Yes, but hers too.”

“I can disinherit you. I can reduce you to poverty.”

“I love you, Papa,” said Tom, standing and backing away. “But don’t threaten me.”

“Darling.” Sophie put a hand on his shoulder. “Your father is not himself. He’s been through a terrible ordeal. . . .”

“Don’t patronize me!” Pierre roared. “Don’t you dare! You are my woman, Sophie, and you will stay in my home!”

He was shaking. Never in all his years had he been so utterly defied. Not to his face. That was his magic, the magic of Pierre Massot, of Pyotr Vladekovitch, of Vladek the nameless—he manipulated, he commanded, he enslaved. And of all the creatures in the world, were not these two most utterly his?

But then there came another noise.

“Pierre, Pierre.”