The Ruined Bride of Velvet Nights by Brick Moving Ant

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Chapter 11

“Mom did have something she wanted to tell you before she died,” I said, gently adjusting the cashmere blanket around his shoulders.

Grand–père’s eyes fluttered open, a flicker of hope crossing his weathered face. “She thought of us at the end? What were her words, chérie?”

I gazed at him–this powerful man now so fragile against the Egyptian cotton pillows–and smiled

softly.

“I think I’ll keep that between Mom and me.”

His expression transformed from confusion to understanding. Tears welled in his eyes, but then, remarkably, he began to laugh–a gentle, knowing laugh.

whispered, reaching for my hand. “You are so much like her. The same

“Élise, my little ballerina… Papa’s waiting for you in the garden… your pirouettes were always… perfect…”

gradually relaxed in mine as he slipped away, peacefully reuniting with the daughter

Mom had indeed left a message. She had told me, on that final night in our Manhattan apartment, that she had forgiven

was hers to give,

unpayable, some

thirty, as the sole heir to the Rousseau empire, my life bears no resemblance to the broken girl who once pleaded for her father’s love. The corporate headquarters in Paris, the vineyard in Bordeaux, the jet, the yacht moored in

little compared

dawn to swim in the Mediterranean before breakfast on the

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Chapter 11

for dinner. Sometimes I disappear for months to

physical scars have faded to barely visible silver