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"ANTONIO, WHERE ARE YOU taking me?" I say, half joking and half-scared. I woke up this morning and he tossed me a suitcase and told me we were going to France. One airplane ride later, here we are. It's not like he dragged me here by the hair or anything, but I'd really like to know our final destination. I chew on my lower lip, staring out the window of the small convertible he rented. Sunshine, blue skies, and a view of the ocean rush by the car as he makes a hairpin turn along the edge of a cliff. I am getting far too many James Bond vibes to feel safe in this scenario.

"You'll find out," he says. His cheeriness is alarming. Is he... whistling? If so, what tune? I try for a moment ot catch a hint, then realize it's a Disney song.

"Are you whistling Can You Feel The Love Tonight from Lion King?" I ask as he steers the sleek black Porsche along a sharp curve, making me hang onto the dashboard for dear life. "Also, are you driving like you want us to die because you've decided I know too much and you want to kill me, or...?"

"This is a perfectly reasonable speed," he says, only driving with one hand on the wheel. "And, yes. That was a great movie, but the song was first sung by Elton John."

"My life is flashing before my eyes." I cling to my seatbelt, the fabric digging into my palms. I try to imagine Antonio listening to Elton John and have to bite back a laugh. "So many regrets."

"Am I one of them?" he says it like it's a joke, but something in his eyes tells me he's more serious than laughing.

My heart pounds. I've talked myself into a corner, it seems, and I can't find a way out. All the dating guides I've read come to mind and tell me to be mysterious. "You know what? I haven't figured that one out yet."

"Fair enough." He places his other hand on the wheel, causing my stomach relax a little bit and unfurl from its tightly clenched knot of intestinal pain. "And it's niece, by the way."

"What?" Why is he talking about someone's niece? And now?

"We're in Nice, France," he says, shading his eyes with one hand rather than just putting on the pair of aviators that are tucked into the collar of his linen shirt. Men. Is he just wearing the sunglasses there to look cool? It's working, but also risking both of our lives. "To answer your question."

"Oh. Thanks." I knew that, I just thought it was pronounced nice. French immersion has failed me now.

"You didn't know that, did you?" he says, casting a teasing glance my way.

I roll my eyes. "Shut up."

The rest of the car ride lapses into peaceful silence, only broken by the wind rushing past and the faint strains of classical music playing on the radio. I hum along, staring out the window. When he told me were going to France this morning, I dug out my floppy black sunhat and a white linen dress, forgoing my usual black outfits. Sometimes, a pang of longing hits me when I hover over my mother's name in my contact list, wishing she would call me or even just drop a text. But now, I try to savour the moment. We're in France. Shouldn't I be happy?

"What are you thinking about?" he says, his gaze fixed on the road as we move from the French countryside into a more populated area of Nice. Buildings and shops start cropping up on the side of the road, small market stalls and cobblestone paths winding through.

"Just my mother," I say, not sure why I bother to tell him the truth. Is it to get him to trust me? Because I'm tired of feeling like I have to walk on eggshells with him, and maybe I'd just like to break them just for the sake of making an omelette? Actually, that might not be the correct idiom, but who cares? "I miss her."

"What's she like?" he probes. Antonio pulls up next to what looks like a bakery. Getting out of the black convertible, he opens my door for me, looking like he stepped straight out of an Armani cologne commercial.

I swallow thickly as he offers me his hand to help me out of the car, my ankle-strap, pointed-toe flats clattering against the cobblestones. The sunhat thankfully hides my expression from him, but it also makes his invisible to me. I tilt my head back to look at him, grateful for the ribbon tied beneath my chin that keeps the hat in place as a strong gust of wind threatens to blow it away.

"She's, um... she's..." Kind doesn't quite cover it. Nor does loving. Like all people, she's too complicated to be properly described. "She really loves me. And I really love her. She's all the family that I've ever had, and she's always worked incredibly hard to ensure that I never missed out on anything growing up. She can be overprotective, but I know it's because she cares."

A small bell jangles as the bakery door opens and shuts, a satisfied customer exiting and getting on their bicycle, placing a cardboard box of almond croissants into the basket. Her long, blonde hair streams behind her as she rides down the street, like a fleeting figure in a dream.

"I'd like to meet her," Antonio says, and the suggestion causes me to raise my eyebrows beneath the broad brim of my hat.

"Really?" I untie my hat and tuck it under my arm as we enter the bakery. He opens the door for me to go first, and I take the moment to rearrange my face into something more collected than the open-mouthed look of shock. I try to picture Antonio and my mother in the same room together, but I can't. "Do you... do you mean that?"

"Of course," he says, sounding like he's the one who's shocked that I would question his suggestion. "She's obviously very important to you."

Am I important to you? I tuck away the question for a better time and stare up at the chalkboard menus behind the counter. Words in French run across the board and I can pick out a few. Beurre is butter, croissant is, well, croissant, and chocolat is chocolate. Inside the bakery, it's small, cozy, and homey, but also a tiny bit too stuffy for my taste. The weather seems too nice to be cooped up, or maybe it's only the restlessness threading through my bones that makes me want to get out and go for another drive all day, to feel free.

I fiddle with the silk ribbons on my hat. "Can we eat on the patio?"

He nods and then leans over the counter, ordering for us in Italian. To my surprise, the baker replies in fluent Italian before gesturing toward the tables outside. We walk outside, and I retie my hat, a feeling of apprehension blooming and unfurling like a toxic plant inside of my chest. "I brought you here to meet some people, some friends of mine. They used to work with Charles--I mean, with your father."

Nerves flutter in my stomach. "And you didn't think it was a good idea to tell me until now?"

"I..." He rocks back and forth on his feet, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Surprise?"

I huff in annoyance just as another bell rings, telling us that our order is ready.

The waitress carries a tray out to the patio and sets it down on the table. "Bon appetit."

"Merci," I say because Antonio seems distracted, his gaze fixed on something, or someone, in the distance. Just then, a beautiful, petite blonde walks--no, floats--up to our table, a handbag tucked in the crook of her arm and her nude Louboutins tapping against the ground.

"Bonjour, Madame Allard," he says, double-kissing her cheeks Euro-style. She's married. Something in me sinks and I keep reminding myself that my jealousy is sinful, useless, and pointless. "Ou est votre mari?"

"He's parking the Lambo," she responds in French-accented English. "Who is the girl?"

"I'm Christina Martell," I say, my shoulders relaxing slightly as I rise to shake her hand.

Marie smiles, pulling out her own chair and sitting down daintily, crossing her slender legs at the ankles. "Enchantee. Anne, Pierre, and Tomas should be on their way soon."

She directs the last line at Antonio, piquing my curiosity. I sit back down, leaning forward with my elbows on the table. I help myself to a beignet, enjoying the taste of the fried dough dusted with powdered sugar. It melts in my mouth, leaving a sweet aftertaste behind. As promised, the guests arrive slowly, trickling in one by one. First, a tall, dark-haired and bearded man who dwarfs Marie and plants a kiss on her mouth must be her husband, Dominic. Then, Tomas, a lone wolf who is roughly the same height as his sister, with springy blond curls. Finally, Anne and Pierre, the twins, arrive side by side.

My mind swims as the names and faces blur together. It may only be a gang of five, but the introvert in me is overwhelmed by meeting so many new people at once. Still, gratitude and maybe something else warms my chest. He didn't have to introduce me to these people. To his friends. But he did.

The only question is, what does it mean?

"SO, PIERRE'S DAUGHTER," MARIE says when Christina gets up to go to the bathroom. A cigarette rests between her index and forefinger before she brings it to her lips, the posture making her look like a blonde Audrey Hepburn. "She's very... very unlike her father. Yet there is something of her, a little je ne sais quoi that reminds me of him."

"Really?" Having only met the man once or twice, I lean forward, curious to hear what she has to say. Maybe I am a touch too wrapped up in my own conception of Christina to know who she really is. Marie blows out a puff of smoke, making me push away the impulse to cough in her face. "In what way?"

Marie pauses, leaning back in her chair and gazing up at the bright blue sky. Clouds of noxious cigarette smoke drift around us, matching the fluffy white ones that birds fly by. "She's very quiet, but Pierre has always been that way, too. He is always watching people, you know, to calculate their next move. Or find his next move, I suppose, in relation to them."

I give a noncommital, "Hmm."

I never thought of Christina as particularly Machiavellian and I don't believe that family is dictated by blood. But she is quiet. And she is surprising. And I grew up suspecting anyone and everyone of not being who they said they were and not doing what they promised to do. Why should Christina Martell be any different, just because she's beautiful and not from this life, draped in a veneer of innocence?

"I hated Pierre at times, but..." Marie gives a Gallic shrug as she sips her espresso. Behind the cigarette smoke, she smells sweet, like candy. Cloying. "You cannot deny that he is a very powerful man."

A bird flutters by. As I finish the last bite of my madeleine, the buttery crumbs melting on my tongue, all I can think is that I know far too much about powerful men. And I know all about the damage they can cause.

"Yes," I say. Sebastian floats into my mind and leaves again, just as Christina returns to the wrought-iron table and greets me with a smile. I return it, brushing away thoughts of my older brother. "I'm sure he is."