Page 94 of Damaged Mogul
“Yes.”
Gage’s eyes widen in surprise. “Holy shit.”
“Nadine’s mom one upped Monica with a surprise baby. The fact Marciana was American didn’t play in her favor. She was lynched in the media and in the court of public opinion.”
“And you and Nadine ended up becoming friends.”
“Isn’t it ironic?” It’s a rhetorical question because I keep talking. “Nads is like a blood sister to me.”
“Doesn’t the former French president have children?”
“Yes, Nads has half-siblings, but they’ve never warmed up to her.”
“Like your half-brothers.”
“Like my half-brothers.” I bite down the bitterness. “We’ve struggled with imposter syndrome our whole lives. Our fathers are powerful and wealthy men, but we came out of the womb labeled as the undesirable progeny. We’ve spent our whole lives feeling less than. For my best friend, it’s worse because her name is splattered all over French social media forever more.”
“The American press didn’t spare her.”
“True, but she doesn’t live here, so those opinions don’t affect her everyday life. It’s not the case in France. She’ll never be able to escape the stigma. To this day, many circles in Paris give Marciana the cold shoulder, snubbing her, while singing the praises of former President Laurent Rocard de Villepin. It’s an unfair double standard.”
Gage shakes his head. “The onus is on the person doing the cheating to be on the up and up. In your case and Nadine’s, we’re talking about dirty old men, preying on young, vulnerable victims. Your mom was only nineteen—barely legal. Marciana Whelan was twenty-two—a woman, but still so young. As for you and Jean-Philippe, he’s a royal douchebag. I don’t care if it’s the French way or not, he should’ve made sure you two were on the same fucking page.”
The fire behind his words does something to me. So far in my life, I haven’t had that many people in my corner.
I respond with a sad smile.
“Can I ask you a question about your dad?” Gage changes the subject.
I brace myself. “Sure.”
“You always refer to Fisher asFather. Never as Dad or Daddy. There’s no steadfast rule, but for some reason, I can’t help but sense in your case, it’s deliberate.”
He’s perceptive.
“If I could still get away with calling him Fisher, I would. He put an end to that when one of his business associates thought I was his flavor of the month, commenting how he liked them younger and younger, bordering on not quite legit. I was seventeen at the time, so that guy guessed right. My father always treated me like a dirty little secret, so other than close family, few people knew he had a daughter. That incident creeped him out. After that, he demanded I call him Dad. I settled for Father. It allows people to know the type of relationship we have, without pretending he’s the doting dad figure you expect to see in a light-hearted romance movie of the week.”Warm and fuzzy are foreign words to Fisher Edgington.
Gage nods.
The energy in the room has shifted. This conversation is a mood killer.
Delving into my past tends to do that. So far, this evening has been such a high, I’d hate for it to end on a depressing note.
“There are a thousand more interesting things to talk about than Jean-Philippe, the former President of France, or my dysfunctional relationship with my father.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
I bite my lower lip, my cheeks flushing. “You know,” I say.
His gaze drifts down to my chest. “Why don’t you spell it out for me?”
Shit.
My bravado slips a little.
He cocks an eyebrow. “All talk, no action?”
He scoots his chair back.
