A Gamble Called Marriage - Chapter 19
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Maël, after carefully calculating the consultation fee, stepped out of the car.
It wasn’t because the conditions offered were insufficient, nor because he hated lies and deceit. Spouting such absurd, ridiculously characteristic nonsense of his.
“Ha.”
A sudden dry laugh escaped. Yves’ car remained unmoving, trying to quell the irritation rising within him. Meanwhile, Maël, who had been standing briefly in front of the marine museum with its bright yellow submarine and ticket booth in the background, knocked on the window.
Knock, knock.
As Yves rolled down the window, light poured in profusely through the gap. The pale lawyer blended with the sunlight. Even his sunglasses seemed inadequate to shield him, as though his eyes stung. Yves furrowed his brows.
“Yves, I’m just asking out of curiosity.”
Why was he lingering instead of leaving? What could he provide? What were the limits of the information he could offer?
It was the question Yves expected. Whatever it was, answering wouldn’t be difficult.
“Did you take the dinner money I gave you?”
However, Maël brought up an unanticipated question.
“The thing you angrily threw away.”
A white envelope that had landed starkly on a dusty, dirty floor. It was such a vivid image that it couldn’t be forgotten. Yves tried to gauge Maël’s intentions before opening his mouth.
“It’d be too late to go back and retrieve it now.”
“If you didn’t take it, I thought I’d give it to you again. My delivery method that day wasn’t exactly perfect either.”
Faced with such nonsensical words, Yves couldn’t help but retort.
“Do I really look that destitute?”
“It’s not that—I just thought it’d be better to clarify. It’s been bothering me.”
Maël’s belated display of pride seemed laughable, considering he hadn’t bothered to hide his temper earlier. Yves smiled as he looked into his transparent, light brown eyes.
“I don’t care much for weak-willed lawyers.”
With that, he stepped on the gas. The last thing Yves saw of Maël’s composed face was his expression, now scrunched up in irritation.
Trying to project an image of being untouchable and spotless, wasn’t he? Yves couldn’t help but wonder how a family law attorney, dealing mostly with sordid divorce cases, managed with that personality.
Well, not that he cared that much.
Turning the wheel, Yves tapped the touchscreen. As soon as the call connected, he spoke.
“Didn’t I originally have a meeting related to sponsorship today?”
He’d had to cancel prior plans because of the insistence of an impulsive client. And he had turned down the client with a consultation that barely lasted six minutes.
If Mickola found out the whole story, he’d be fidgeting with dissatisfaction. After a brief silence, Mickola replied.
—The director of the Monaco Marine Museum requested the meeting.
“I’m nearby now.”
—I’ll check if they’re still available today and get back to you.
When it came to people looking for funding, refusal was rarely an option. Knowing the answer beforehand, Yves looked for a place to park nearby.
Monaco was a compact neighborhood, crammed tightly between mountains and the sea. In this capitalist haven, the only things money couldn’t buy were yacht mooring docks along the coast and exclusive parking spots on the ground.
For parking, Yves had to circle the area and drive along the coastal road connected to the marine museum’s basement.
The whole neighborhood resembled a spiral parking structure perched on cliffs overlooking the sea. At the end of a winding road, just before entering the tunnel leading to the parking lot, traffic came to a halt.
‘What a day,’ he thought grimly.
Yves tucked away his sunglasses and rubbed his temples. Then he spotted, just five minutes after stepping out of his car, the man walking along the adjacent sidewalk.
He followed him with his eyes out of sheer boredom.
Maël walked slowly to a stone wall about waist-high, pushed a section of it open, and slipped through.
Through the small opening, it looked as though he were leaping into the cliffside, with nothing but the sea below.
For a moment, Yves gripped the steering wheel tightly. But it was just a trick of perspective. Although invisible at his angle, there must have been stairs, as Maël gradually disappeared from view.
When only the top of his head was barely visible, a loud honk blared from the car behind.
Yves let out another dry laugh, though this time, he didn’t know why.
—
“Our roadmap is clear and well-defined.”
On the red walls inside the marine museum hung an octopus, with a squid suspended midair.
With every step, the museum director passionately elaborated on sharks, jellyfish, turtles, and Atlantic bluefin tuna. Even as he opened the door to his office, his words showed no sign of slowing down.
“You may think of us as just another museum under the association’s umbrella, but we work closely with the UN’s Ocean Envoy and the International Mediterranean Science Exploration Committee.”
Sipping coffee on a plush sofa, Yves listened silently, surveying his surroundings instead.
The space revealed the director’s strong personality. From seashells and works by the marine painter Aivazovsky to photographs and essays by famous ocean explorers, wetsuits on mannequins, and vintage phonographs, the director’s office was as cluttered as its owner.
“Of course, all of this is made possible thanks to the support of the late Grand Duke and the palace. But to continue our research for the marine environment…”
The request for funding was long-winded, to say the least.
Yves wasn’t particularly averse to donations. Were there still people in the world who viewed the wealthy’s donations as acts of goodwill? It was merely a matter of taking a cup of water from the sea to pour into whichever pit of need—whether for tax breaks or image management—each individual required.
In Yves’ case now, it was closer to image management. More precisely, it was to generate a single article in the future mentioning how his commitment to the ocean resembled that of the late Grand Duke, who was truly passionate about the sea.
“The ocean is important, indeed.”
When Yves casually pulled out his checkbook, the director, quick to catch on, handed him a fountain pen.
Numbers and a black signature slid smoothly over the checkbook. Taking the detached check, the director smiled broadly and moved toward his desk.
“Mr. Valois, did I mention that donations are eligible for tax deductions? I believe I received your secretary’s contact information before—if I send the tax invoice documents to that address… Oh, one moment.”
The director fumbled around, searching for something to press the check down with. Eventually, he grabbed the paperweight supporting some LP records beside the phonograph. As a result, a few records slipped and scattered under the desk.
Yves, who had been rising to leave, paused while picking them up. One of the LPs, with a woman’s face dominating the cover, had caught his attention. The director, perhaps noticing Yves’ lingering gaze, spoke again.
“Milica Milošević. She was an opera singer from way back. Truly extraordinary in a piece called Medea. Such a stunning beauty, and her voice—an absolutely resonant soprano.”
On the black-and-white LP cover, a dark-haired woman glanced sideways with a mocking expression. When Yves handed it to him, the director took it and rambled on.
“She used to perform frequently in Monaco, but who knows what she’s up to now? Maybe she returned to her home country. I think she was from Eastern Europe. She was immensely popular. After performances, the stage would be covered in roses thrown by the audience. That was the kind of romantic era it was. Do you enjoy opera, Mr. Valois?”
“Not at all.”
Yves replied, leaving no room for the director to feel awkward before continuing.
“My secretary will get back to you regarding the documents.”
Stepping outside, Yves loosened the tie constricting his neck. He knew he could head straight to the underground parking lot from the museum, but he wasn’t in the mood to get back into his car just yet. He headed toward the long promenade winding around the back of the marine museum.
Fearless seagulls perched on the stone walls and then disappeared. Yves squinted against the intense sunlight of the early Mediterranean spring.
Despite the bright weather, the salty, chilly wind ruffled his hair relentlessly. Nevertheless, he kept walking until he reached the dark tunnel leading to the parking lot, where he paused to gaze at the endless blue sea.
As he inhaled deeply and lowered his gaze, he spotted Maël.
Maël was sitting on the middle of the stone stairs, endlessly checking something on his phone while speaking on a call. Whenever the waves surged strongly, the seawater frothed and lapped at the edges of the steps.
“Samira, this isn’t about betraying your husband. It’s about protecting yourself and your daughter. You have the diagnosis report, don’t you? Just take a photo of it and send it to me. That’s all you need to do—just that one thing.”
Re-adjusting a slightly loose wireless earbud, Maël spoke earnestly.
“I’m always on your side, Samira. It’s okay if you need a bit more time. And there’s no need to apologize for crying. No, I’ve told you before, haven’t I? You can call me anytime. I’ve got plenty of time.”
His voice, blended with the sound of the waves, carried a heavy sincerity.
The entire time Yves listened, Maël kept his head down, eyes glued to his phone screen. Seeing the hunched, frail figure, Yves was reminded of the vile repulsion he had felt at the Grand Duke’s palace.
“Enough already!”
Maël had stepped forward then, and Yves knew it was the lawyer’s laughable sense of justice.
At first, it was amusing. Then it became irritating. Not because of the barking blond but because of the Cinderella’s knight stepping in front.
“Pathetic.”
Yves despised people like that—those who recklessly involved themselves without considering the situation. Upright people who didn’t break, who believed in justice and fairness, who thought they should help what was right, who grew stronger in the face of what needed to be protected. Specifically, people like Maël.
Every time Maël acted that way, Yves felt an urge to grab his pristine white nape and throw him into the hell Yves had lived in.
How long could that clear face endure there, and how straight could it remain? If what he wanted to protect was so grand, how far would he go to safeguard it?
In a garbage dump where there was nothing to defend and no one to support, there were only heaps of trash to trample on to climb higher.
Why not just take care of himself? Who did he think he was to protect anyone?
Yves scoffed. The wind swept through his hair. It was clear now that a mood lift wasn’t in the cards.