“So many losing so much, and yet here you live alone amid such opulence, untouched and unscathed.”

“I’ve lived here alone my entire life. With the exception of the rotating series of nannies, au pairs, and tutors my parents hired to oversee the raising of their daughter.” She stopped, regretting her words. She sounded like the spoiled, entitled heiress she had sworn never to be. Jerome was right. She was lucky to be surrounded by luxury. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t how I wanted that to come out.”

Jerome finally moved and made his way over to the small table at the end of one of her sofas. He picked up the copy of Signal that was lying on its surface and examined it carefully. “Your subscription seems to be up to date,” he said coldly without looking at her. He dropped the magazine and lifted the framed black-and-white photo of a German officer from the previous war. “A relative of yours?”

Estelle felt her jaw slacken. Surely, he couldn’t possibly think that she—

“Doesn’t matter,” he said before she could reply. He set it back on the table carelessly and watched it wobble and then topple facedown. He left it where it lay and wandered over to the hearth, gazing up at the painting that hung above. “Is this painting supposed to represent betrayal?”

Estelle blinked at the abrupt question before she came to stand beside him and considered the image. It depicted a beautiful maiden with flowing auburn locks, arms outstretched, her bosom bare above a tunic of cobalt blue, her expression one of sorrowful resignation. A soldier had her restrained while another stood just behind her shoulder, ready to plunge the dagger he held into her heart. On the farthest edge of the painting, an older woman reached desperately for her daughter, trying to stop the inevitable.

“Not betrayal, exactly. It’s called The Sacrifice of Polyxena by Charles Le Brun,” she told Jerome. “She’s being sacrificed to appease the ghost of Achilles. The artist, Le Brun, became the official painter for Louis XIV. Which, I think, is the only reason why my mother bought it and had it hung—”

“I understand that we all need to make our own choices when it comes to surviving this war, but I thought you were better than this, Allard,” he said quietly, interrupting her again. “I thought that, after everything, you were with us.”

“What?”

He still hadn’t looked at her. “At least promise me that you will not betray Vivienne.”

Estelle recoiled. “Jesus. You think I’m one of them.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.” It came out as a raw whisper. “You can’t believe that.”

“What am I supposed to believe, given everything I’ve found in this apartment? You can’t play both sides and expect to win, Allard.”