The livestream clicked off with a muted chime.
Outside, the terrace stood empty, Claude and Maximilian had already slipped away down the private stairwell, leaving only a lingering hint of sandalwood in the warm summer air.
Marceline immediately dropped the phone onto the emerald velvet cushion beside her.
“We’re done.”
She exhaled so deeply her chest collapsed with it, a low, ragged sound that made Kate break into a quiet laugh.
“You look like you just survived a tactical interrogation,” Kate observed.
“I can finally breathe again.” Marceline sank back into the sofa, her head tipping toward the ceiling, her eyes shutting tight.
“Mon Dieu, thank God.”
André studied her face in the dim amber lighting, watching the flush slowly fade from her throat.
Then, with absolutely zero instinct for self-preservation, he leaned forward.
“You definitely slept with him.”
Marceline’s eyes snapped open.
A suffocating, heavy silence descended on the sofa.
Even the low thud of the deep house music seemed to fade into the background.
Kate slowly turned her head toward André, her gloss wand frozen in mid-air.
“André.”
“What?” he asked innocently.
Marceline just stared at him, her dark eyes wide, unblinking, and suddenly lethal.
“What did you just say to me?”
André gestured vaguely toward the empty glass doors leading out to the terrace.
“Claude.”
“I know who Claude is.”
“Celine, darling, you were staring at him like you were trying to burn his clothes off with your mind.”
Kate quickly covered her mouth with a manicured hand.
A vivid, furious crimson surged right back up Marceline’s neck, flooding her cheeks.
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were,” André insisted, taking a calm sip of his champagne.
“I was looking at his cigarette!”
André blinked, adjusting his scarf.
“His cigarette?”
“Yes!”
Kate lost her composure entirely, letting out a sharp, incredulous laugh.
“Celine.”
“What?”
“You were staring directly at his mouth,” Kate pointed out, her eyes sparkling with dark amusement.
“You literally lost your ability to speak standard French for twelve seconds.”
Marceline froze, her jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched near her ear.
André pointed at her triumphantly.
“Exactly!”
Marceline grabbed a heavy silk throw cushion from the sofa and hurled it directly at his head.
“Shut up!”
He caught it smoothly against his chest, laughing out loud.
“Oh my God.
You actually did.
The untouchable Marceline Laurent actually succumbed.”
“I did not!”
“You did.”
“André!”
“How much champagne did you consume last night?”
“I am going home.” Marceline snapped her leather clutch shut with a violent clack and stood up, her black silk dress falling back into place around her ankles.
Kate was still shaking with quiet laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Celine, wait, don’t leave—”
Marceline pointed a razor-sharp, manicured index finger back and forth between the two of them.
“Nobody is discussing this.
Ever.
Not a single word leaves this rooftop.”
André raised both hands in a dramatic surrender.
“Fine, fine.
My lips are sealed.” He paused for a half-second, a wicked grin pulling at his lips.
“Though I will be holding onto this information for maximum future leverage.”
Marceline narrowed her eyes into dangerous slits.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’m just saying,” André murmured, leaning back into the velvet cushions, “suddenly your ten-year war of absolute, bitter hatred makes a lot more sense.”
Marceline spun on her heel and began marching toward the private elevator without another word, her heels clicking against the dark parquet floor like rhythmic gunfire.
Behind her, Kate leaned into André’s shoulder, watching her retreat.
“She is genuinely going to murder you in your sleep tonight.”
André took another slow, satisfied sip of his champagne, his eyes dancing with delight.
“Worth every single second.”
The private elevator descended in heavy, suffocating silence, the brushed-brass interior reflecting a woman currently waging war against her own mind.
She still hated the Auclair family.
That was an indisputable, immutable law of her universe.
Elliot’s tragic death was tied to their dirty corporate hands and no amount of physical distraction could ever rewrite history.
The problem—the absolute, infuriating catastrophe—was Claude himself.
He wasn’t behaving like the monster she had built in her head.
And that irritated her to the point of madness.
Hating a genuinely awful man was easy.
It was clean, simple, and required zero emotional bandwidth.
But hating a man who was quietly, consistently protective?
A man who sent discreet emergency packages without expecting a thank-you, who kept his distance when she was sober, and who carried himself with a quiet, unshakeable decency?
That was infinitely harder.
Her mind scrambled, frantically building defenses to keep the rage alive.
He’s manipulating me, she told herself as she stepped out of the lobby doors into the cool night air, the smell of rain and exhaust lingering on the pavement.
He’s playing a long game because he knows how much I despise him.
He’s trying to erode my defenses, to make me lower my guard so he can control me.
He’s probably pulled this exact, brooding hero act on a dozen other women.
Her driver held open the heavy black door of her sedan, and Marceline slid into the plush leather interior, her eyes drifting out the tinted glass as the car pulled away from the curb.
Then, two blocks down near the grand steps of the hotel avenue, she saw him.
The sedan paused at a red light.
Outside, under the warm yellow glow of a street lamp, Claude was standing near the curb, his dark suit coat resting over his arm.
An elderly woman—a frail street vendor burdened with a heavy wooden cart of night-blooming flowers—had tripped on the uneven cobblestones, her blossoms scattering onto the wet pavement.
Claude didn’t call a staff member.
He didn’t look around to see if press cameras were flashing.
Without a second thought, he crouched down on the damp ground, his tailored trousers resting directly against the dirt.
Long, elegant fingers—the very same hands that had held Marceline pinned to a mattress hours ago—carefully gathered the bruised lilies, placing them back into the basket.
He spoke to the woman in a low, gentle tone, handing her a thick wad of folded notes from his pocket before helping her stabilize the heavy cart.
Marceline watched from behind the dark glass, her throat going entirely dry.
There was no strategy there.
No corporate gain.
No audience to impress.
Just raw, unscripted decency.
Damn him, she thought, her stomach twisting violently.
Damn him to hell.
She violently yanked her gaze away, staring fixedly at her own reflection in the dark car window.
He was an Auclair.
She hated him.
That should have been enough.
Instead, a darker, far more toxic ache settled deep in her chest—a toxic mix of humiliation and lingering desire.
The way he had made her beg for him last night.
The way he had played every inch of her body like an instrument, reducing the proud Marceline Laurent to a breathless, pleading mess.
And now, walking around Paris acting as if absolutely nothing had happened between them—as if she hadn’t shattered in his arms—made her feel exponentially worse.
She couldn’t even fathom why his indifference hurt so much.
Was she angry that he had taken advantage of her, or was she privately unraveling because he was currently acting like she meant nothing at all?
Marceline pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, closing her eyes as the city lights blurred past, completely unable to answer her own question.