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37 Dinner With The Fontaines

ผู้เขียน: Angie Jacinta
last update วันที่เผยแพร่: 2026-08-09 07:11:50

Sebastian

We left the estate a little after midnight, and neither of us said much on the drive home, the weight of everything Beatrix had told us sitting too heavy for a conversation. Christabel fell asleep somewhere around the second bridge, her head against the window, and I let her sleep, grateful for the quiet, grateful that for a few minutes I didn't have to perform strength I wasn't sure I actually had.

The Fontaine dinner arrived two days later whether we were ready for it or not, and
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  • I Buried My Fiancé, Married His Brother   050 Where Beatrix Actually Was

    Christabel Sophie called before either of us had managed more than an hour of sleep, and I fumbled for the phone in the dark, Sebastian already awake beside me, both of us braced for whatever the alibi search had turned up. "I have it," Sophie said, no greeting, straight to the point in the way she'd learned suited us best at this point. "Beatrix's calendar, corroborated by three independent sources, places her at a charity board meeting on the afternoon Marcus met with the woman claiming to be Margaux Rousseau. Fourteen witnesses, sir. A room full of people who can confirm she was there for the entire two hour window." Some of the tension in my chest eased, though not entirely. "So it's not her." "It's not her, physically, at that specific meeting, no. Which means either Marcus misremembered the resemblance more significantly than we thought, or someone deliberately impersonated her, closely enough that a stranger would draw the connection even with an accurate memory." Sophie's

  • I Buried My Fiancé, Married His Brother   049 A Face That Shouldn't Exist

    Sebastian Christabel called me the moment she left Evelyn's apartment, her voice shaking so badly I almost couldn't understand the words at first. "Sebastian, she was real. A real woman sat in Marcus's office. He has her signature." "That's not possible. Sophie confirmed the identity was fabricated, the notarization, the property records, all of it." "I know what Sophie confirmed. I'm telling you what Marcus just told me." Christabel's voice cracked slightly, exhaustion and fear tangling together. "Someone real used that name. Someone with a face he can describe." I had Marcus Delacroix in my office within the hour, a nervous, precise man who kept adjusting his glasses like the gesture might help him make sense of what he was being asked to remember. "Describe her," I said, no patience left for gentle questioning after the day we'd had. "Mid thirties, dark hair, well dressed, very composed. She had all the right paperwork, or paperwork that looked right to me at the time. I had

  • I Buried My Fiancé, Married His Brother   048 A Recommendation That Wasn't Innocent

    Christabel "Evelyn," I repeated, the name landing strange in my mouth after everything we'd just learned about Gabriel, about the threat against Jane, about a conspiracy that seemed to keep widening every time we thought we'd finally found its edges. "She recommended the consultant who requested our home security records." "That's what the paperwork shows," Sophie said carefully. "I want to be clear that a recommendation isn't the same as direct involvement. She could have suggested the consultant in good faith, without knowing how the information would eventually be used." "Or she's been playing all of us from the very beginning, and the letter to Fontaine, the tears, the apology, all of it was just another layer of the same performance." Sebastian's voice had gone dangerously calm, the particular calm I'd learned to fear more than his anger. "I want her here. Tonight. I don't care what excuse she gives for being unavailable." "Sebastian." I put a hand on his arm, feeling the ten

  • I Buried My Fiancé, Married His Brother   047 She's Next, Unless

    Sebastian I don't remember deciding to move. One moment I was staring at that photograph of Jane through her own bedroom window, and the next I had Gabriel by the collar, slammed back against the wall hard enough to rattle the loose floorboard still hanging open beside us. "Who sent this." "I don't know." Gabriel's voice had gone thin, genuinely afraid now, all his earlier composure stripped away. "I told you, everything comes through drops, messages left in places, I've never seen a face." "That's my daughter, Gabriel. Someone photographed my daughter through her window and left a threat with your things, and you're telling me you don't know who." "I'm telling you the truth." His hands came up, not fighting, just steadying himself against the wall. "Sebastian, please. I know I don't deserve your trust. I know everything I've done makes me the last person you should believe right now. But I would never let anyone hurt Jane. Whatever else is true about me, that isn't." Christabel

  • I Buried My Fiancé, Married His Brother   046 Face To Face

    Christabel I don't remember the drive. One moment Sophie was reading that message out loud, and the next we were standing outside the same nondescript building from weeks before, security fanned out around the perimeter, Sebastian's hand locked so tightly around mine it almost hurt. "You don't have to come up," he said, though his voice lacked any real conviction behind the offer. "Yes I do." He didn't argue further. We climbed the same narrow stairwell together, and this time, when we reached the second floor landing, the door at the end of the hall stood fully open, light spilling out into the dim corridor, and a figure stood silhouetted against it, unhurried, waiting, like he'd known exactly when we'd arrive. Gabriel looked older than I remembered. Thinner, a beard he'd never worn before, but the smile that spread across his face when he saw us was exactly, horribly the same, easy and warm, like nothing at all had happened in the three weeks since I'd buried him. "Christabel.

  • I Buried My Fiancé, Married His Brother   045 What Sophie Actually Found

    Sebastian We were at the office within twenty minutes, Sophie waiting for us in the conference room with a specialist I didn't recognize, an older man with reading glasses pushed up into gray hair, three screens arranged in front of him showing the same grainy photograph blown up in increasing detail. "Mr. Vettel, Mrs. Vettel." The specialist nodded at both of us ,his expression carefully neutral in the way of someone used to delivering difficult news. "I've spent the last two hours running comparative analysis on the wrist mark visible in this photograph against the medical file Ms. Laurent provided." "And," I said, unable to keep the tension out of my voice. "The mark is consistent with the tattoo documented in that file. Same design, same approximate placement, same aging pattern given the photograph's timestamp relative to when the original medical record was created." He turned one of the screens toward us, the enhanced image now sharp enough to make out an unmistakable patte

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