The weeks bled into one another, marked by a quiet, mechanical rhythm that Marceline clung to like armor.
Work became her sanctuary.
She drowned herself in quarterly budgets, supply-chain reconfigurations, and late-night visual reviews for the summer launch.
She arrived at the Maison Laurent offices before Nora, and she was routinely the last person to leave the top floor, watching the sunset bleed out over the Paris skyline through her floor-to-ceiling windows.
When she wasn’t working, she was reading.
The Paget file remained open on her secure drive—a permanent tab on her private tablet that she returned to like a dark bible.
She memorized every line of the clinical police report.
She cross-referenced every timestamp from the night Elliot died with the employment logs from the Auclair logistics subsidiary.
She traced and retraced the Auclair family crest stamped onto the digital pages until the sight of it felt like a physical burn behind her eyelids.
It was a deliberate, daily ritual.
She needed the anger.
She needed the cold, sharp reminder of who the Auclairs were and what they took.
It was the only thing capable of scrubbing away the lingering phantom of Claude’s hands, his voice against her ear, and the terrifyingly civilized way he had treated her during their meeting.
Fortunately, Paris was wide enough—or perhaps Claude was strategically distant enough—that his paths didn’t cross hers.
There were no sudden run-ins at executive lunches.
No lingering glances across low-lit lounges.
The blonde-haired, blue-eyed perfect heir to the Auclair empire seemed to have completely vanished from her physical universe.
Her social life returned to a manageable baseline.
She had drinks with Kate on Tuesday nights at a quiet hotel bar in the 6th arr., where they talked exclusively about beauty campaigns and gossip that had nothing to do with corporate dynasties.
She endured André’s dramatic dinner parties, where, after a few sharp warnings from Marceline, he finally stopped dropping vague, sly hints about “mysterious rooftop encounters.”
Without Claude’s presence throwing her nervous system into chaos, her days became considerably easier.
She could breathe.
She could sleep—mostly without waking up reaching for a space that wasn’t hers.
She had her hatred back, neatly packaged and anchored by Elliot’s dossier.
She was entirely in control again.
Or at least, that was the lie she successfully told herself every single night until her tablet chimed with an incoming email notification, carrying an invitation to the annual Paris Commerce Gala.
And right at the top of the confirmed guest list sat one specific, unavoidable name.
The Grand Palais was a wash of amber light, clinking champagne flutes, and the low, elegant thrum of Paris’s elite.
Crystal chandeliers suspended high above the glass roof reflected off the polished marble floors, casting a diamond-like glow over tailor-made tuxedos and floor-length silk gowns.
On paper, everything was pristine.
Marceline looked immaculate.
She wore a floor-length, deep emerald velvet dress with a high collar and a striking open back, her dark hair pinned up into a sophisticated, loose knot.
She moved through the room with effortless poise, accepting compliments on Maison Laurent’s recent quarter, offering razor-sharp insights to foreign investors, and executing every social grace expected of her name.
Except Vivienne was watching.
Standing near the edge of the mezzanine balcony with a glass of crisp white wine resting between her manicured fingers, Vivienne didn’t miss a single beat.
She saw the way Marceline’s left hand kept imperceptibly tightening around the stem of her champagne flute.
She noticed how her little sister’s grey eyes flicked toward the sweeping grand staircase every time the heavy double doors opened, checking each new arrival with a sharp, guarded intensity.
Marceline wasn’t bored.
She wasn’t her usual cool, unbothered self.
She was hyper-vigilant.
Vivienne waited until the group of venture capitalists Marceline was speaking with scattered toward the buffet before stepping smoothly to her sister’s side.
The rustle of Vivienne’s navy silk gown was the only warning Marceline got before a quiet voice cut through the ambient orchestra music.
“You’re going to snap the glass if you hold it any tighter, Marcie.”
Marceline’s hand instantly relaxed, though her posture didn’t lose an ounce of its tension.
She didn’t turn her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the crowd below.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve scanned the entrance four times in the last ten minutes,” Vivienne murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.
Her tone was light, but her eyes were entirely focused on Marceline’s profile.
“And you’re breathing like you’re preparing for a tactical raid, not a charity gala.”
Marceline swallowed, forcing her shoulder blades to drop half an inch.
“I am simply monitoring our key retail competitors.
The Minister of Commerce is here, and Papa expects us to secure the exclusivity clause before dinner.”
“Papa is currently arguing about import tariffs with the Swiss ambassador in the corner,” Vivienne pointed out dryly.
“He hasn’t looked at you once.”
She stepped directly into Marceline’s line of sight, forcing her younger sister to look her in the eye.
“What is it, Marcie?
You’ve been on edge for two weeks, and tonight you look like you’re waiting for a bomb to drop.”
Marceline opened her mouth to deliver a smooth, practiced brush-off, but the words caught in her throat.
Because right at that exact second, the heavy brass doors at the top of the grand staircase swung open, and the master of ceremonies announced the arrival of the Auclair delegation.
The grand ballroom of the Palais Garnier was a gilded cage of staggering opulence.
Soft, warm light poured down from massive crystal chandeliers, reflecting off gold-leaf moldings and polished marble floors.
The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, expensive cigars, and the subtle, metallic tang of cold champagne.
Marceline had arrived at the gala braced for warfare, or at the very least, a deeply uncomfortable standoff.
Instead, Claude was performing the ultimate corporate magic trick, he was being entirely, infuriatingly normal.
Except he didn’t look at her.
Not once.
He moved through the crowded room with absolute, magnetic ease.
He greeted her mother with a warm, respectful kiss on both cheeks.
He shared a brief, sharp joke with Vivienne.
He laughed effortlessly at something Lilian said, his sharp blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
He even engaged her father in a long, serious discussion about European trade tariffs, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Victor Laurent like an equal.
But when it came to Marceline?
Nothing.
No lingering glance across the crowded room.
No low, dangerous remark delivered under his breath as he passed.
No quiet, secret smile meant only for her.
He behaved as though she were made of thin air.
Marceline stood near the tall archway, watching him from across the polished floor, her manicured fingers tightening until her knuckles strained against her skin.
Fine, she thought bitterly.
She plucked a fresh flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s silver tray.
Excellent.
Across the room, Claude turned smoothly, resting one hand in his tux pocket as he listened to a foreign diplomat.
Perfect.