The ambient thrum of the orchestra washed over the grand ballroom in heavy waves, punctuated by the high-pitched clinking of crystal flutes and low, polished laughter.
Vivienne stepped back inside from the loggia, her silk gown whispering against the marble as she seamlessly slid up beside her younger sister.
She followed Marceline’s rigid, unblinking gaze straight across the room, tracking Claude as he smoothly stepped into a circle of senior tech investors.
“Oh,” Vivienne murmured, the single syllable rich with sudden realization.
Marceline didn’t look away.
Her posture remained razor-straight, her grey eyes tracking the sleek line of Claude’s jaw as he laughed at a comment from a broad member.
“What?” Marceline asked, her voice laced with sharp, defensive ice.
“He’s stopped doing it,” Vivienne said quietly, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her vintage champagne over the rim of her glass.
Marceline’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at you.”
“Good.”
Vivienne tilted her head, her sharp, analytical gaze sliding from Claude back to Marceline’s tense profile.
“You don’t look very pleased about it, Marcie.”
“I am thrilled.”
“You’re currently glaring at him like you’re contemplating corporate assassination.”
“I am not glaring.”
“Marceline, darling, your jaw is locked so tight I can hear it from here.”
Marceline finally tore her eyes away from across the room, rounding on her sister.
“You know what?
He is absolute, insufferable perfection at being unbelievable.”
Vivienne’s dark eyebrows rose, a microscopic smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing!”
“Ah,” Vivienne noted dryly, setting her glass onto a passing waiter’s tray.
“That’s apparently the catastrophic problem, isn’t it?”
Marceline said absolutely nothing.
She couldn’t.
Because that was exactly the problem.
For years—long before that dark, ruined night in his hotel suite—Claude Auclair had spent every shared room, every joint venture meeting, and every red carpet looking at her as if she were the only woman in Paris.
His heavy, blue-eyed gaze had been a constant, suffocating weight she had learned to brace herself against.
Now?
He acted as though she were made of glass.
As though she were a ghost occupying his perimeter.
And somehow, his complete, maddening absence of attention made her far more furious than his obsession ever had.
The heavy scent of gardenias and expensive oak wood hung thick in the VIP lounge, where Céleste Laurent was currently holding court.
With an authoritative, gloved hand resting lightly on Marceline’s elbow, her mother steered her seamlessly toward a circle of elder statesmen from the Ministry of Finance and a pair of high-ranking Swiss bankers.
“You all know my youngest, Marceline,” Céleste announced, her voice pitched in that smooth, practiced octave reserved exclusively for high society.
“She’s been spearheading our new retail expansion on the West Bank.”
Marceline instantly wiped every trace of her conversation with Vivienne from her face, locking her signature, icy socialite smile into place.
“Minister.
Monsieur Vaneau,” she greeted them, dipping her head with practiced grace.
“A pleasure as always.”
“Ah, Mademoiselle Laurent,” Minister Vaneau boomed, swirling his amber scotch.
“We were just discussing the shift in luxury consumer habits.
Your father insists the traditional brick-and-mortar flagship is still king, but I hear you’ve been pushing for something a bit more…
radical for the summer campaign.”
“Not radical, Minister,” Marceline replied smoothly, her voice dropping into its effortless, persuasive executive cadence.
“Simply precise.
The modern luxury client doesn’t want to be sold an heritage brand, they want to feel as though they’ve personally unlocked a secret.”
Across the circle, the Swiss banker raised his glass in silent approval.
“Sharp.
Very sharp.
Celeste, your daughters are going to run this city in five years.”
“They already do, darling,” Céleste cooed, patting Marceline’s hand with quiet pride before leaning in slightly.
“Though I keep telling Marceline that a bit more warmth in her public appearances wouldn’t hurt.”
Marceline maintained her flawless smile, though her fingers tightened around her champagne stem beneath the drape of her velvet dress.
“Maman, warmth is for boutique brands.
Maison Laurent commands respect.”
Céleste laughed softly, turning her back to glance over the crowd.
“You sound just like your father.
Speaking of which—” Her mother’s eyes flicked over Marceline’s shoulder, her tone shifting into something distinctly calculated.
“The Auclairs are standing near the grand arch.
Have you spoken with Claude tonight, Marcie?
He’s been looking exceptionally poised this evening.”
Marceline felt a sharp, violent spike in her pulse, but her expression didn’t so much as twitch.
“Briefly, Maman,” she said flatly, taking a measured sip of her champagne.
“We discussed the retail partnership logistics.
Strictly business.”
Céleste’s eyes narrowed slightly, a maternal, scarily perceptive glint passing over her features before she smoothed it away.
“Of course.
Strictly business.” She tapped Marceline’s arm gently.
“Hold that thought, darling.
The Minister’s wife is calling me over.”
As her mother floated away into the sea of silk and tuxedos, Marceline stood alone among the dignitaries, forced to maintain her pleasant, polite smile while her blood burned like acid.
Eventually, despite every ounce of willpower she possessed, her eyes drifted across the room again.
He was like a blossom in full bloom, surrounded by honeybees.
Three breathtaking women had practically walled him in near the grand archway—a rising French actress hanging on his every word, a sharp-looking gallery owner, and a former model who was laughing just a little too loudly at whatever he’d said.
Claude stood at the center of it all, devastatingly polished, offering them that low, quiet charm.
Marceline closed her eyes.
A heavy, suffocating weight settled right behind her ribs.
She took one long, slow breath, letting the ambient noise of the orchestra, the high-pitched giggles, and the clinking glasses wash over her until it all just sounded like white noise.
She opened her eyes, immediately turned her back on him, and set her half-empty champagne glass down on a passing silver tray with a quiet, decisive clink.
She was done.
Entirely, utterly done for the night.
She smoothed down the dark green velvet of her dress, threw her shoulders back, and walked straight toward the quiet exit of the loggia to call her driver.
As she passed the tall glass doors, she muttered under her breath in a low, poisonous whisper.
“…Quel connard.”