Chapter 102.1

Chapter 102.1

Paperwork was stacked high on his desk, but André couldn’t focus on a thing all day. After seeming fine for a while, he was back to furrowing his razor-sharp eyes and letting out heavy sighs, one after another. The staff, picking up on his mood, grew quiet and timid.

His concentration had plummeted, and his thoughts wandered far away, clouded by a strange sense of unease.

Should I apologize?
For what— for making her my mistress?
And what would that even change?

A self-mocking smirk tugged at his lips.

Calling off his marriage with Lorraine now would be like jumping off a train at full speed.
Then why, he wondered, did he want so badly to commit that kind of suicide?

4 p.m. Sean Rafkin wrapped up his presentation on the prototype for the company’s new website, scheduled to launch at the end of the year, and asked if there were any questions.

André opened his mouth, grasping at straws.

[Last time, I overheard my secretary saying something about your tenth wedding anniversary…]

Sean couldn’t hide his surprise at the sudden turn from business to something personal.

He recalled last week—André had walked out of his office just as Sean was chatting with his secretary about anniversary plans, and the interruption had startled him.

He wasn’t sure what André was getting at, but nodded anyway.

[Yes, last Wednesday was our tenth anniversary. But why do you ask..?]

[When you’ve done something wrong and need to apologize to your wife, what’s been the most effective way to do it? A gift, perhaps.]

Catching the meaning behind the question, Sean swallowed hard.

Rumor had it that André de Lafayette had secretly become engaged to the daughter of an old, prestigious family. It seemed the rumor was true.

He couldn’t help but wonder about the woman who had managed to capture the heart of a man who seemed more machine than human. He’d always thought André did nothing but work. That he somehow found time for romance was a mystery in itself.

Ah, maybe he’d forgotten an anniversary after working too many late nights. Sean’s own wife used to hate that, too.

[Uh… flowers or chocolates are usually safe, I think? Last year, when I forgot my wife’s birthday, I brought her chocolates, wine, and a bracelet with a few small gemstones the next day, and she forgave me right away. Oh, and a bouquet, too.]

Sean laughed awkwardly as he spoke. André nodded, his face tense, and muttered,

[Understood. You may go.]

André left work earlier than usual and stopped by the flower shop in the basement of the building. He bought a bouquet of yellow freesias, Miran’s favorite. Then, spotting a chocolate shop right next door, he picked up a box of chocolates as well.

He was about to drive to Harry Winston to buy a bracelet when he turned the car around. Miran always seemed uncomfortable with jewelry.

The last time he had brought pieces from the Lafayette Residence, he’d placed them in a clear-lidded jewelry box on the shelf in her dressing room. But he’d never seen her wear any of them. They weren’t even the flashy, colorful kind; he’d chosen only simple diamonds and pearls, yet still, she hadn’t touched them.

More than anything, it felt wrong, as if he were trying to buy forgiveness with something expensive. So he abandoned the idea of the bracelet, drove to the Lafayette Residence instead, and took out two bottles of Miran’s favorite wine from the cellar.

By the time he reached the apartment lobby, holding the bouquet in one hand and a shopping bag with wine and chocolates in the other, it was just past six. In the elevator, he stared anxiously at the glowing floor numbers.

That morning, he hadn’t woken her. He’d turned off the alarm before it could ring, afraid she’d open her eyes and look at him with the same hollow expression she’d worn the night before. Then he’d slipped out, leaving only a cowardly little note behind.

Miran wasn’t the type to hold on to resentment for long. Maybe by now she’d cooled down. He hoped that when the door opened, she’d be smiling at him again.

André pressed the doorbell and listened closely. Usually, he’d hear the quick, light patter of bare feet across the marble floor. But this time, there was nothing.

Maybe she wasn’t home yet.

He took out his key and opened the door. The apartment was thick with summer heat, the brutal afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. Miran always turned on the air conditioner before he came home, even though she hated the cold air herself.

André stepped into the living room and looked around. The silence felt wrong. It was the first time since her trip to Washington that he’d returned to an empty apartment.