By Tuesday afternoon, the oppressive, rain-slicked skies of Paris seemed to echo the cold order Marceline had forcibly restored to her own mind.
She had successfully compartmentalized her life into three rigid, impenetrable boxes.
Maison Laurent.
Professional.
The Paget investigation.
Personal.
Claude Toussaint Auclair.
Absolutely none of her business.
The third box was, unfortunately, leaking like acid into the other two.
So she did what she always did when the silence grew too loud and her thoughts became too chaotic.
She worked.
The studio in the 11th arrondissement was a chaotic sanctuary of harsh daylight bulbs, the hum of high-powered industrial fans, and the thick, sweet scent of luxury setting sprays and fresh floral arrangements.
Camera gear cluttered the polished concrete floors, surrounded by rolling racks of silk wardrobe options.
The moment the red ring-light clicked on, Marceline effortlessly shed the cold, paranoid skin of her corporate identity and stepped seamlessly into Celine.
“Bonjour, everyone,” she smiled directly into the lens, her voice warm, light, and engaging, while a lead makeup artist dabbed a damp sponge against her cheekbone.
“We’re testing the new Maison Laurent skin tint today, and apparently I’m being trusted with my own face before noon, which seems unnecessarily ambitious for a Tuesday.”
A ripple of genuine laughter bounced through the crew behind the monitors.
Her online presence was a carefully crafted masterpiece, striking a vastly different tone from her sharp, terrifying corporate persona.
On camera, she was polished, but entirely approachable.
She joked with her millions of followers, effortlessly poked fun at her own privileged lifestyle, and wasn’t remotely afraid to admit when a product was absurdly overpriced.
She was, above all else, brilliant at selling a dream without coming across as a salesman.
“The finish is the truly important part,” she continued, tilting her head toward the ring-light so the camera caught the seamless glow of her skin.
“I don’t want something that looks like heavy foundation.
If I’m paying this much money, I want strangers to assume I simply woke up annoyingly well-rested.”
The makeup artist snorted, pulling back her brush.
“That’s scientifically impossible.”
“Exactly,” Marceline winked straight into the lens, her smile flashing with easy charm.
“That is precisely why we have high-end cosmetics.”
The camera crew laughed again, the tension in the studio dissolving under her magnetic rhythm—completely unaware of the furious, dark storm buried just beneath her flawless surface.
The studio break room smelled faintly of stale espresso, hot studio lights, and the crisp, clean scent of cut stems from the nearby floral arrangements.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the gray Parisian rain beat a quiet, rhythmic pattern against the glass, blurring the skyline into a wash of muted charcoal and slate.
During a twenty-minute lighting setup break, her social media manager, Zoé, slithered into the leather armchair beside her, handing over an iPad glowing with live engagement metrics and top-voted comments.
Celine looks tired today.
Girl are you okay??
You seem distracted in the last slide…
Why are you drinking sparkling water in every single story lately?
Marceline stared at the last line, her thumb freezing mid-scroll over the illuminated glass screen.
“How do people notice everything?” she muttered, her brow furrowing slightly.
“It’s literally just water.”
Zoé shrugged, casually taking a sip from her own paper coffee cup.
“That’s literally your job, Celine.
You built an entire brand on micro-details.”
Marceline’s frown deepened as she handed the iPad back.
“I hate my job.”
“You have four point two million followers.”
“I hate them too.”
Zoé broke into a sudden, quiet laugh.
“They adore you.
And you know it.”
Marceline looked back down at the screen resting in Chloe’s lap, watching a flood of heart emojis roll past the live comment feed.
A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her lips despite the heavy weight dragging in her chest.
“I know,” she admitted softly.
That was the quiet contradiction of her life—and the exact reason her digital persona actually worked.
Beneath the rigid expectations of the Laurent empire, she genuinely enjoyed the warmth of her audience.
She didn’t broadcast a fake, sterile version of absolute perfection.
Her followers saw enough of Celine—her dry wit, her morning bedhead, her genuine appreciation for good artistry—to feel as though they knew her.
They felt like her confidants.
But there was a sharp, iron-clad vault inside her that no algorithm would ever breach.
She never spoke about her family’s dark, legacy-driven politics.
She never mentioned the suffocating horror of her kidnapping years ago.
She never uttered the name Elliot Paget, or the blood-stained files resting in her desk drawer.
And she would die before she ever let four million people see even a single shadow of Claude Auclair.
The studio’s air grew warm under the relentless glare of the softboxes, thick with the scent of setting spray, warm vanilla perfume, and the sharp bite of fresh espresso.
Rain continued to drum against the high, industrial windows, casting a soft, moody light across the velvet couches where Marceline sat waiting for the next hair change.
Zoé leaned against the edge of the vanity table, holding up her phone.
“We have fifteen minutes before the second look.
Let’s do a quick, impromptu livestream.
The engagement is already peaking from the skin tint teaser.”
Marceline sighed, a subtle tilt of her head signaling her reluctant agreement.
“Fine.
Five minutes max.”
Zoé tapped the screen, and the phone went up.
The notification flashed live, and within seconds, the view count exploded into thousands, a chaotic waterfall of comments cascading down the glass display.
CELINE WHERE ARE YOU AT SHOW US THE SECOND LOOK PLEASE WHAT PERFUME ARE YOU WEARING TODAY??
ARE YOU SINGLE RIGHT NOW???
Marceline leaned in slightly, her dark eyes tracking the lightning-fast scroll until her gaze landed on the last line.
“You people are remarkably persistent,” she said dryly, a cool, amused smirk playing on her lips.
Behind the lens, Zoé let out a quiet laugh.
Marceline’s eyes glided over the screen as she tilted her head back, keeping her tone light, airy, and entirely unbothered.
“Yes, I’m single.”
Technically.
She paused, a sharp beat of silence stretching just long enough for the chat to react with a sudden burst of question marks.
“Very single,” she added, her voice dropping into a smooth, deliberate cadence.
Her expression didn’t so much as twitch.
She kept her polished, easy smile perfectly in place, but beneath her flawless composure, her mind betrayed her with a sudden, violent flash of memory.
Claude.
The low, commanding rumble of his voice in the dark.
The bruising, absolute possessiveness of his hands resting heavy against her waist.
The devastating, unreadable hunger in his blue eyes right before he had completely unraveled her control in that hotel suite.
A wave of unwanted heat rushed through her veins.
She forcefully shoved the image back into the dark vault of her mind, immediately dragging her focus to the very next comment scrolling past.
“Someone asked what I’m doing this weekend,” she said quickly, expertly steering the live audience back onto safe ground.
She offered the camera a brilliant, practiced smile.
“Probably working.”
Zoé glanced up from behind the phone, raising an eyebrow.
“Probably?”
Marceline’s smile sharpened, her eyes flashing with a spark of her real, uncompromising self.
“Definitely working.
Rest is highly overrated.”
She smoothly leaned into the ring-light, picking up the next question without missing a single beat.