Page 42 of A Mistake of Identity
“I must say,” Maximilien said as his eyes traveled over Ellis’ carefully chosen clothes, “one can dress up a pig, but it remains, nonetheless, a pig. I’m rather surprised by my son’s current choice of companionship. Gabriel has never had to scrape quite so low before.”
The words struck like a knife in his chest, finding all the insecurities that Jean’s impromptu etiquette lessons over the past few weeks hadn’t managed to smooth away. Ellis tried to sit straighter, feeling like a child in a school play—acting a part he’d never quite learned his lines for.
“I had such expectations for him,” Maximilien continued, reaching for a folded newspaper. “La Sauvegarde requires someone who can stand beside its CEO as an equal. Someone who understands the delicate art of hosting the right dinner parties, attending the proper fundraisers without becoming...” His lip curled slightly as he dropped the Port du Coeur Post-Dispatch society pages onto Ellis’ lap. “The subject of unfortunate speculation.”
Ellis’ breath caught at the photo: he and Gabriel at the LaMontagne fundraiser. Gabriel’s hand possessively at the small of his back, Ellis looking up at him with naked adoration. The headline made his chest tight: “MYSTERY MAN: Rohan Heir’s Latest Scandal?”
The article was brutal in its casual cruelty. Speculation about Ellis’ conspicuous absence from society events that Gabriel otherwise attended in the weeks before and after the La Montague fundraiser—pointed comments about his obvious “low birth,” suggesting that the Rohan family was deliberatelyhiding him away. But it was the business implications that made Ellis’ hands shake: La Sauvegarde’s stock dropping twelve points, whispers of another Rohan scandal in the making.
Patricia Taylor’s words from the fundraiser echoed in his mind, that sharp curiosity in her gaze as she’d discussed Henri’s latest scandal. “One must be so careful with the Rohan image these days.” Those words felt heavier now, trapped in this limousine with living proof of how much image mattered to the Rohan family.
Ellis looked up from the paper to find Maximilien studying him with cold calculation.
“I believe we can come to an arrangement that benefits everyone,” Maximilien said, removing his tablet. “You seem like a practical young man. Someone who understands the value of appropriate compensation.”
“Appropriate compensation...” Ellis repeated back, stunned. Maximilien Rohan wanted to pay him off, again.
Maximilien’s fingers tapped on the tablet, his bank application opening with a soft chime. “Fifty thousand?”
Ellis’ throat closed so tight he could barely breathe, remembering nights when even fifty dollars meant the difference between eating and going hungry.
“No? Perhaps we need to adjust the figure. Two hundred thousand?” Maximilien’s lip curled when Ellis’ hands began to shake, his nails digging into his palms.
“Very well. A million. More than generous to make you return to whatever hovel you crawled out of. You must be the most expensive whore in Porte du Coeur.”
“I’m not a whore,” Ellis whispered, his voice smaller than he wanted it to be.
Maximilien’s laugh was sharp as broken glass. “Years selling yourself on the streets, well before you were even legal, says otherwise. Only two of those years at Heart Court. Didyou think I wouldn’t have you investigated, Ellis Anouilh?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a silky whisper. “By twenty-four, you could be in Florida. Your own sailboat. Your own life. All you have to do is take the money and disappear.”
“Gabriel loves me.”
“Gabriel has ‘loved’ half a dozen men over the years.” Maximilien’s voice dripped with disdain. “None lasted past a year. Do you really want to leave this relationship with nothing but bitter memories?”
“He bought me a boat—”
“Gabriel bought himself a boat,” Maximilien cut in. “Tell me, is this catamaran suddenly in your name?”
Ellis felt the tears he’d been fighting finally spill over.
“Name your price, little whore,” Maximilien said softly. “Everyone has one.”
The casual cruelty of the words snapped something in Ellis. He grabbed his gym bag and pushed open the car door, stumbling onto the sidewalk. The limousine rolled alongside him as he walked, but he kept his eyes forward, refusing to look.
“This is your last chance,” Maximilien called through the open window. “Take the money, live a good life. Or leave with nothing. Which will it be?”
“I’d rather end with nothing,” Ellis said, “and have these few happy months than make deals with the likes of you.”
Maximilien’s bitter laughter followed him down the street. Ellis broke into a run. His vision blurred, not stopping until he reached the Lafayette Square manor. He took the stairs two at a time, bursting into Gabriel’s study, where the man sat reviewing work notes on his tablet.
Gabriel glanced up with concern. “Are you alright, little bird?”
Little whore
Without a word, he dropped his bag to the floor with a dull thud, crossing the room in swift strides. Gabriel’s steady gaze tracked him, those dark eyes never wavering as Ellis straddled his lap. He captured Gabriel’s mouth in a desperate kiss, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the contact—his frustration, his anxiety, and something deeper, an emotion he wasn’t ready to name. Gabriel tasted of coffee and security andhome.
Eventually, Gabriel eased him back, those intense eyes studying his face. “What’s wrong, mon coeur?”
“Please, Gabriel.” His voice cracked. “I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I can’t—can’t...” His fingers dug into his own arms, nails pressing crescents into flesh. The urge to scratch deeper, to watch crimson wells appear, was almost overwhelming. “I want to scratch until I bleed, just to watch it flow because...” He couldn’t finish, couldn’t explain the chaos in his head.
