Torn (Deep 8, #5)

12. Harlow

TWELVE

Harlow

Baring my soul isn’t my forte. This mission drags up the ache of missing my father and the relentless pursuit of his killer. I would navigate the depths of hell for him, even if it means wearing an opulent masquerade for the elite.

Roger’s tenderness thrust me into an emotional abyss I’ve long avoided. In those fleeting moments, I felt cherished and tended by a man. He may be the most dangerous part of this op.

A fragment of my past is etched into my being as I plunge into the life I once had. Some things cling, refusing to be shed. The designer clothes grip me like a vise—reminiscent of my past existence—constrained and manipulated. I played a role, a facade for my family until it unraveled.

My mold shattered into a million pieces, setting me free while casting me into obscurity. Reenacting my former self is a means to an end. The urgency to find Lucas and uncover his secrets supersedes everything else. I’ll do whatever it takes to unearth the truth about my father’s murderer, and I believe he holds the key.

My fingers skim the luxurious fabrics of the collection of clothes. These should be donated to underprivileged women who need clothes for interviews. If they walked into an interview wearing these threads, the employer would wonder what they were doing there.

Making casual contact with the duchess during her busy day demands I transform for the part. The Versace black and gold bralette under a sleek black pants suit makes a subtle statement we belong in Luxembourg. Pins hold my hair away from my face as I apply my mask for the day.

Roger appears in the doorway. "Pippa sent me the duchess’s itinerary so I’m ready when you are. Am I forgiven?"

His Ralph Lauren polo and pants with a sweater wrapped around his shoulders radiate preppy charm, catching my eye.

"You’re forgiven, this time. You might be my favorite husband," I tease, squeezing past him to get my Louboutins.

"I thought I was your only husband," he huffs, feigning offense.

"There have been many others but none as handsome as you," I quip with a grin.

"Full disclosure would have been nice. I feel so used and disposable," he pouts.

"We’re all disposable. Get used to it," I snap, the harsh truth hangs in the air.

He stands behind me as we face the mirror. "I don’t think you’re disposable. You’re one of a kind. But don’t forget, love can be a tool of manipulation."

There’s silence as the words swirl around us. "Is that what you think?" I say in a soft voice.

"That’s what I know. I’ve lived it. You look incredible, sweetheart." He kisses my cheek.

"Sweetheart?" I scoff, deflecting the affection.

"I’m trying to find an affectionate name for you."

"Keep trying." I laugh. "Let’s go. Our first stop is the bank. We’ll open several accounts, talk to the financial advisor, and get a safe deposit box. Money speaks louder than words. The number of zeros will spread like wildfire, establishing our entrance into society. Nothing says, ‘I’m here!’ like money."

We walk to the Western Bank de Luxembourg as I scan the people on the street behind my Chanel sunglasses. Roger flanks me on the street side, keeping his gaze straight ahead. I open the door to the bank and make an entrance with my head up and shoulders back. The structure has seen better days since the early 1900s. My heels click on the worn dull marble floor.

The guard approaches us. "Moien, puis-je vous aider?"

I remove my sunglasses and wait for Roger to take the lead without looking at him. Maintaining a position of power will be crucial. They exchange information, and the guard directs us to a man behind a glass wall. We sit in high-back leather chairs as I place my Louis Vuitton handbag on his desk with an air of entitlement, my least favorite role.

"Parlez-vous anglais?" Roger asks if he speaks English for my sake.

"Of course, what can I do for you?" His eyes assess us from head to toe to see how much money his bank will be handling.

"We would like to open several accounts and a safe deposit box, please." I take the lead with my hands in my lap.

An hour passes while he gathers our information and opens the accounts by transferring the money. We’re offered champagne and a fruit plate. Roger plays his role perfectly, showing his irritation at having to provide so many documents.

"What size safe deposit box would you like?" His words are accompanied by a smile due to our large deposit.

I stand up and pull my bag onto my arm. "I’d like to see them. Having you tell me the size doesn’t help me with what I have to put in them."

He shows us to the safe deposit box room toward the back of the bank, which could prove to be convenient. The box we’re looking for is 808. We come across it in the first room we visit. I request a box similar to it and ask him if we could put things in it now. He obliges and closes the door behind him.

We look for cameras but see none. Roger stands behind me and hugs me as I apply a special putty to the bank keyhole and let it set. Peter is some kind of genius inventing things no one has thought of. I ease the mold out of the lock and put a note in our safe deposit box that says, "See you soon, Lucas."

We stride to the front door without a backward glance and walk arm-in-arm down the street. "We need to be seen making big purchases. Where should we go?" I ask.

"I’ll lead the way." He kisses me on the temple, giving me an unexpected shiver.

We hop on a bus because cars are not an option in Luxembourg. Clean air is a luxury. The bus lets us off at the Grand Rue, a shopper’s paradise. Every designer you could want lines the streets and top art galleries show off their latest talent. If you want to make a splash, buy an expensive piece of art.

My arm intertwines with Roger’s as I snuggle up close to him. "Whenever I travel someplace new, I buy a piece of art from a local artist." We stop in front of a large canvas painting of Luxembourg in a style reminiscent of Cezanne and Van Gogh. The colors pop with layers of paint to give it texture.

"This will look great in our villa in Monaco," I say loud enough to be heard by the people around us.

The gallery owner approaches us wearing a smile. "Can I help you make a purchase today?"

"Purchases." I sigh. "I have two houses to fill but I’m a bit fussy."

He nods, recognizing the temperament of another woman with too much money. The trick is to never look at the price tag. How much it costs is of no consequence. We leave, dropping close to fifty thousand dollars, and they will deliver the pieces to the hotel. Roger breaks out in a sweat but I’m as cool as can be.

Caale Caffi, a coffee shop and vintage furniture store sets the stage for our next move. The atmosphere is a step back in time with piles of books and antique chairs. The walls are covered with Renaissance replica paintings.

A woman sits by the window sipping her cappuccino. She’s older than me by thirty years but doesn’t look a day over fifty. Botox, facials, and sunscreen are her secret. Her outfit is a vintage Chanel suit, indicating she’s from old money and a higher status.

We sit at a table close to her to discuss our latest purchases, hoping the duchess will join our conversation. She is the final piece to put in place on our outing.