Chapter 8

Dashiell paced the polished mahogany floor of his study. ‘Alfred, I need information on Elodie. Now.’ The long-suffering butler stood impassive, though a flicker of amusement crossed his aged eyes. ‘Of course, sir,’ Alfred replied, his voice calm and collected amidst the storm of Dashiell’s impatience. ‘But I do require more specifics. What exactly are you seeking? Perhaps where you misplaced your wife’s contact information?’ Dashiell’s jaw clenched. Alfred’s subtle dig was not lost on him. ‘Just get to the point, Alfred,’ he snapped. ‘Tell me everything you know about her. Where did she come from? Does she have any family? Friends? Anything.’ Alfred sighed. ‘Well, sir,’ he began cautiously, ‘when Mrs Kellan – your mother, I mean – asked me to help find a live-in nurse for you, I went to an agency which specialised in providing such services. Mrs Kellan – I mean, Elodie – came highly recommended, which, as it turned out, her recommendation was well-deserved.’ He paused, his gaze turning wistful. ‘Mrs Kellan – your mother – would probably be disappointed to learn about the divorce. Especially considering the delightful young woman you let slip through your fingers.’ Dashiell snorted. ‘She already knows, which is why she’s pressuring me to get that woman back. But she either lost her phone or threw it away, and I don’t know where she could go. Does she have an address in Danning? Where did she come from? Friends? Relatives?’ As he spoke, a chilling realisation dawned on him—he knew so little about the woman who had lived under his roof for months. ‘Let me go get her file,’ Alfred said, unable to resist a further jab. ‘Perhaps you’ll find the information you’re looking for amidst the details you deemed irrelevant at the time.’ He retrieved a slim file from his room and handed it to Dashiell. It contained Elodie’s qualifications as a nurse, a phone number, and an email address. Dashiell tried the phone number, but the response was immediate and disheartening: ‘The number you have dialled is no longer in service.’ His face darkened. He snatched the file and tried the email address himself, typing a curt message asking Elodie to call him. It bounced right back, the message ‘Delivery Failure’ like a slap in the face. Exasperation bubbled within him. The woman seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving him with nothing but a handful of useless information and a growing sense of frustration. ‘Alfred,’ he said, his voice strained, ‘I need you to talk to that agency which recommended Elodie. Find out everything you can about her. I need to know where she is.’ Alfred nodded. ‘I’ll get to it right away, sir.’ ‘No, not right now. Maybe tomorrow. Now I need you to get the car ready. I have a…date.’ Alfred’s lips twitched. He turned to leave, the door slamming shut with a resounding thud that spoke volumes about his opinion on Dashiell’s date, and his young master’s questionable priorities. *** The crystal chandeliers of ‘Le Ciel,’ perched high above the city’s twinkling lights, cast a soft glow on Dashiell and Selene. The air hummed with gentle chatter and the sweet melodies of a live pianist, but Dashiell’s mind was a million miles away. Elodie’s disappearance gnawed at him, a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch. Part of him, a tiny, nagging voice, echoed his mother’s concerns. Elodie, young and alone in the bustling city with pockets as empty as her room, was an easy target. The woman was undeniably attractive, a fact Dashiell wouldn’t admit even to himself, and he couldn’t help but worry. He cursed her stubbornness. If she hadn’t returned Miriam’s cheque – the likely source of the mysterious million dollars found in her room – he wouldn’t be in this predicament. He wouldn’t be consumed by a sense of responsibility he couldn’t quite explain. Selene, her emerald eyes filled with concern, reached across the table, her touch a gentle counterpoint to the tumult within him. ‘Dashiell, is there something on your mind? You look…troubled.’ Dashiell met her gaze, his expression a mask of nonchalance. ‘Just business matters.’ The soft candlelight danced across Selene’s face, accentuating the tremor in her lips as she sighed. ‘Dashiell,’ she began, her voice a silken thread weaving around the clinking of silverware, ‘you don’t have to lie to me. Is this about Miriam?’ Dashiell shifted in his seat, the luxurious cushions offering no comfort against the sudden prick of guilt. He couldn’t confirm, nor deny, the truth. His mother’s disdain for Selene was an open book, a constant thorn in his side. He could never understand why – Selene, with her gentle nature and brilliant smile, was everything Miriam disapproved of. ‘Do you think it would help if I spoke to Miriam?’ Selene continued. ‘Perhaps I could bridge the gap between you two.’ Dashiell’s heart lurched. The mere thought of his mother and Selene together was enough to induce spontaneous combustion. He imagined the sparks flying, the verbal daggers drawn, and the ensuing hurricane of passive-aggressive comments that would leave him looking like a hurricane victim himself. He quickly shook his head, the movement so rapid it almost caused him whiplash. He couldn’t let this happen. The potential fallout would be worse than a Kardashian family reunion on live television. ‘No,’ he said, his voice firmer than he felt. ‘I’m sure she’ll come around eventually.’ Selene’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of disappointment that Dashiell, in his self-absorption, failed to notice. He buried himself in his food, his mind racing. Suddenly, a thought struck him. Maybe Elodie could be the bridge. Miriam’s affection for the young nurse was undeniable. Perhaps, through Elodie’s gentle persuasion, Miriam’s heart could soften, paving the way for a fragile peace between the two women in his life. As dinner went on, Selene found it increasingly hard to maintain her smile. When the exquisite dessert arrived, a delicate chocolate mousse adorned with a single, glistening strawberry, she dug into it with nervous anticipation. But when she dissected it with a fork, all she came up with was chocolate and cream—no diamond ring nestled within. Her face fell. Each bite she took seemed to chip away at a carefully constructed illusion, a dream of a proposal that was rapidly dissolving like the melting chocolate on her plate.