Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

Because I now knew what Guillaume thought.

He thought Remy had done what Guillaume had always done and that’s why we ended.

And because he loved his son, and me, and our children, our family, it had tortured him that was the example he’d set.

When it wasn’t that.

It was Colette.

And she loved her husband.

So in her way, she’d come out to speak to me so I would go about ending that torture.

“It wasn’t about another woman, Colette,” I said softly.

“All right, dear,” she murmured disbelievingly.

Because this was Remy’s mother, and she should know, firmly, I repeated, “It wasn’t about another woman. He suffered for you with that. So much, he’d never do that to me. We’d been divorced two years before he had another woman.”

The skin beside her eye ticked.

That was all I’d give her on that.

But for her and Guillaume, I said, “I’ll talk with Remy and encourage him to sit down with his dad.”

“I love him, you realize, with my whole heart.” She took a delicate breath and clarified, “Remy.”

I slid my head to one side like I was relieving a muscle on the other, righted it and began to bid her adieu again.

“I know Remy has shared…” She couldn’t say the words. “But I do love him.”

“Colette, let’s not talk about this.”

“You think you know.”

“I do know.”

She turned on her cushion to fully face me. “Guillaume’s family was very close. His parents thought he could do nothing wrong. He was the apple of their eye. The brightest star in their sky. I was very happy he had what I didn’t. Your parents were lovely. I watched. I saw. They cherished you. Do you know the meaning of the word cherish?”

“Please, I don’t—”

“Until I had Guillaume, I didn’t have that. And even when I had Guillaume, I truly didn’t have that. How could I give something I didn’t have myself?”

“I’m acutely aware of your health, and I feel right now—”

“It was all I knew,” she hissed.

“No,” I retorted. “I’m looking at you now, and I know you knew better.”

She opened her mouth.

But this time, I got there before her.

“We’re done talking, Colette. If you have amends to make, they aren’t to me. They’re to my husband.”

“My grandchildren—”

Ah yes.

Last night was not lost on her either.

“And to them as well,” I carried on. “As I said before, but you didn’t catch it, so I’ll make myself clearer, you now have two and a half days to take care of important business. Honest to God, I hope you take advantage of them so maybe you’ll get more than two and a half days. Because as hideous as it might be for you, no matter how you look at it, time is running out.”

And with that, I left her looking perfect on her iron chair and dashed into the house and up to my daughter.





CHAPTER 21





Storm the Bastille





Wyn





“I want whatever the fuck is going to happen tonight like I want someone to tie me to a chair and pull my teeth out,” Remy muttered to himself where he stood beside me in the bathroom, hip to the counter, arms crossed on his chest, watching me as I peered into the mirror, gliding lip stain on my lips.

I didn’t have a chance to reply.

There was a knock on our door, we heard it crack open and Sabre call out, “You guys decent?”

“Yup,” Remy called back, pushing from the basin and turning toward the door.

I looked into the bedroom to see my children march in.

And my heart actually fluttered with how magnificent they were.

Sabre was wearing gray slacks that fit him so perfectly, they looked tailored for him, a sparkling white shirt with a navy-blue vest over it, and black loafers with his skin showing at his ankles, so either no socks or likely (because his mother taught him better) footies.

Yves was in darker gray slacks with a black shirt, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, and burnished leather dress boots.

And Manon was a vision in a flowing, mauve chiffon, long-sleeved maxi dress with a high, round neck. It was embroidered with big flowers in pink, purple and yellow with bold green stems and leaves. A dress I knew (because I’d bought it for her) had a full cutout back. Her lustrous hair was in a side pony.

Remy was in blue and gray. Blue slacks and a lightweight gray sweater, over which he wore a matching gray sports jacket.

I was in a currant-red, twist-front kimono dress that had dramatic sleeves, was delightfully slouchy around the middle and had a short hem that showed off my best asset: my long legs. My hair was smoothed up in a wide, velvety top knot. On my feet were Rene Caovilla gold, bejeweled, embroidered lace, slingback pumps.

And yes.

If my family was going to war, I didn’t care what it said about me, this was the armor I’d choose.

“Before you say it, we know we look like the fucking Kardashians,” Yves grumbled. “Sah and I have already puked.”

“I didn’t puke. I’m killing it in these duds,” Sabre replied.

I started laughing.

Manon moved forward and used the doorframe to lean into the bathroom. “And we have it figured out, Dad. If things get weird, I’m faking an epileptic seizure.”