Chapter 4 Eldest Son Falls

# Chapter 4: Eldest Son Falls

Moving into the Albert penthouse felt like slipping into enemy territory wearing their own uniform. The staff welcomed me with professional courtesy, showing me to my "suite"—a euphemism for what was essentially a small apartment within their massive home. My quarters included a bedroom with an en-suite bathroom, a sitting area, and a small study where I would conduct Elliot's lessons. The décor was tasteful if impersonal, all cream and taupe with abstract art that matched nothing but offended no one.

Perfect. Neutral territory for me to contaminate with purpose.

I unpacked methodically, arranging Claire Fontaine's life on display—expensive skin care products in the bathroom, French novels on the nightstand, a framed photo of "my parents" (actually stock photography models) on the desk. I swept the room for surveillance devices, finding none. Either they respected privacy as promised or their monitoring was too sophisticated for my detector. I would operate assuming the latter.

My first official day wasn't scheduled until tomorrow, giving me time to familiarize myself with the layout of the penthouse. I changed into yoga pants and a fitted top—casual but flattering—and ventured out under the pretense of exploring my new workplace.

The penthouse occupied the entire top two floors of the tower, connected by a private spiral staircase. The lower level housed the formal areas—living room, dining room, Albert's office, and the music room where I'd met Elliot. The upper floor contained the family's private quarters, plus a home gym, media room, and roof garden. Security keypads protected certain areas, including Albert's office and the family bedrooms, but the rest of the space was accessible.

I was examining the bookshelves in the main living area when a voice startled me.

"Either you're a literature enthusiast or you're casing the joint."

I turned to find Lucas Albert watching me from the doorway. Unlike his father, Lucas had changed dramatically in three years. The pretty boy playboy had hardened into something sharper—his once boyish features now angular, his body leaner and more muscular. Success had polished him like a stone, but his eyes remained the same—entitled, calculating, cold.

I forced myself to breathe normally, to smile as if I wasn't looking at the man who had held me down while acid burned through my skin.

"Mr. Albert," I said, extending my hand. "Claire Fontaine. I'm Elliot's new tutor."

He approached with the lazy confidence of a predator who had never been prey, taking my hand but not shaking it—instead turning it over to examine my palm like a fortune teller.

"Lucas, please. 'Mr. Albert' is my father." His eyes traveled over my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Has anyone ever told you that you have extraordinary eyes?"

I allowed a small smile. "Occasionally."

"Their color is remarkable. Almost... familiar." He hadn't released my hand.

My pulse quickened. Was it possible he recognized something in me? Some echo of the girl he'd destroyed?

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I gently extracted my fingers from his grasp. "I was just acquainting myself with the space. Elliot and I will be working primarily in my study, but I find it helps to understand the whole environment."

"Environment," he repeated, moving closer than propriety allowed. "That's a clinical way of describing a home."

"Is it a home?" I asked before I could stop myself. "It feels more like a museum."

Rather than take offense, he laughed—a genuine sound that momentarily transformed his face into something almost human. "Touché, Ms. Fontaine. It's more mausoleum than home, preserving the corpse of a family that died years ago."

The unexpected candor caught me off guard. I'd prepared for many versions of Lucas—the arrogant heir, the calculating businessman, the cruel playboy—but not this self-aware cynic.

"Please, call me Claire," I said, recalibrating. "And I didn't mean to offend."

"You didn't. I appreciate honesty. It's rare in this..." he gestured vaguely at our surroundings, "gilded cage."

He moved to the bar cart in the corner, pouring amber liquid into two crystal tumblers without asking if I wanted one. "Scotch? Eighteen years old, single malt. Like dating my last girlfriend, but with better complexity and a more satisfying finish."

I accepted the glass but didn't drink. "It's a bit early for me."

"It's always five o'clock in the Albert household," he replied, taking a substantial swallow of his own. "Rule one of surviving here: alcohol helps."

"Is survival difficult?" I asked, watching him carefully.

His eyes met mine over the rim of his glass. "You've met my father. What do you think?"

I allowed Claire to appear thoughtful, concerned even, as if genuinely interested in this family's dysfunction. "He seems... demanding."

"That's diplomatic." Lucas moved to the window, looking out over the city he would someday inherit. "So you're tasked with teaching Elliot to parlez-vous français? Good luck with that."

"He seems intelligent. Gifted, actually."

"Oh, he's brilliant," Lucas agreed. "Also deeply fucked up. We all are." He turned back to me with a sardonic smile. "Family tradition."

I sipped my scotch now, needing its burn to steady myself. Being alone with Lucas awakened muscle memories of terror—my body remembering his weight, his hands, his casual cruelty. I forced those memories down, focusing on Claire's calm exterior.

"Every family has its complications," I offered neutrally.

"Not like ours." He studied me with renewed interest. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"The usual—some dried-up governess type with sensible shoes and a stick up her ass. Father typically hires women who remind him of his third-grade teacher—the one person who ever told him 'no.'"

I allowed a small laugh. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Oh, I'm not disappointed." His eyes traveled slowly down my body. "Just curious why he broke pattern."

"Perhaps he recognized quality teaching doesn't require orthopedic footwear."

Lucas laughed again, draining his glass. "Quality teaching. Right. That must be it." He set his empty tumbler down with a decisive click. "So, Claire Fontaine from Paris, what's your story? Why are you really here?"

The directness of the question was unexpected. I maintained my pleasant expression, though my grip tightened on the crystal glass.

"I go where interesting opportunities arise. Your brother presents a unique challenge."

"Bullshit," he said, not unkindly. "Women who look like you don't choose to live in other people's homes teaching language to mute teenagers. You're running from something, or toward something."

I arched an eyebrow. "That's presumptuous."

"I'm good at reading people. It's my one marketable skill." He moved closer again, invading my space with deliberate intent. "Your eyes..."

My breath caught. "What about them?"

"They're hiding something." His voice lowered. "Something painful."

For a dangerous moment, I felt myself slipping—Claire's careful persona threatening to crack under the weight of Cynthia's rage. I wanted to scream in his face, to make him see the girl whose life he'd destroyed. Instead, I took a step back, creating distance.

"We all have our secrets, Mr. Albert."

"Lucas," he corrected, something shifting in his expression. "And yes, we certainly do."

The tension between us was interrupted by the arrival of Elliot, who appeared silently in the doorway, his dark eyes moving between us with unsettling perception.

"Elliot," Lucas greeted without turning around. "Come meet your new jailer."

I set my glass down and moved toward the younger brother. "Bonjour, Elliot. I was just getting acquainted with the penthouse."

"And with Lucas, apparently," came Albert Senior's voice as he entered behind his younger son. "I see you've met the whole family now."

There was a note in his voice—possessiveness, perhaps, or warning—directed at Lucas rather than me. Interesting. I filed the observation away.

"Ms. Fontaine was exploring the library," Lucas explained, his demeanor instantly shifting to something more formal in his father's presence. "I was offering the Albert family welcome."

Albert's eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm sure Ms. Fontaine appreciates your hospitality. However, I believe she and Elliot have a preliminary assessment scheduled."

It wasn't true—our first lesson wasn't until tomorrow—but I recognized the dismissal for what it was.

"Of course," I replied smoothly. "Elliot, shall we go to the study?"

The boy nodded, turning without a word to lead the way. As I followed him, I felt Lucas's eyes on me—speculative, hungry, and something else I couldn't quite identify.

"Claire," he called after me. I paused, looking back over my shoulder. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted in that way I remembered from before—the posture of a man used to getting what he wanted. "We should continue our conversation sometime. I have questions."

"I'm sure you do," I replied, maintaining Claire's composed smile. "But as your father pointed out, duty calls."

As Elliot and I walked toward my study, I could feel the weight of Lucas's stare following me, raising goosebumps along my spine. He'd said I looked familiar. He'd noticed something in my eyes.

I would need to be more careful around him—the eldest son was more observant than I'd anticipated. But his interest could also be useful. I remembered the collection of his DNA mentioned in the plans. Getting close to him might be necessary, even if the thought made my skin crawl.

In my study, Elliot sat at the small desk without prompting, his expression unreadable. I took the chair opposite him, studying this silent, watchful boy.

"We don't actually have a lesson today," I told him honestly. "Your father just wanted to separate me from your brother, I think."

Elliot's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and wrote quickly before sliding it across to me:

*He doesn't share his toys.*

The insight was startling from someone supposedly disconnected from family dynamics. "Is that what I am? A toy?"

Elliot reclaimed the notebook, writing again:

*To them, everyone is. Be careful.*

I felt a chill at the warning. This boy saw more than he let on. "Thank you, Elliot. I will be."

He nodded once, then stood and walked to the door, pausing to write one more note before leaving:

*Your eyes are different colors. Left has more gold than right.*

I froze, immediately reaching for my compact mirror. He was right—the colored contacts didn't perfectly match. The difference was subtle, noticeable only to someone paying extraordinary attention.

Like Lucas had been.

I closed the compact with shaking hands. Day one in the Albert household, and already my disguise was being scrutinized. I would need to be more vigilant, more perfect.

But I'd also confirmed something valuable: Lucas remembered my eyes. Some part of him recognized the girl he'd destroyed, even if he couldn't place why.

I smiled at the irony. His guilt—or perhaps just his subconscious—was betraying him. The very memory he'd tried to bury with money and threats was now haunting him, wrapped in a pretty new package he couldn't help but unwrap.

"We are going to know each other very well, Lucas," I whispered to the empty room. "Before I'm done, you'll remember exactly who I am."