The bright, late-morning sun beat down on the cobblestones outside the Four Seasons Hotel George V, reflecting blindingly off polished black limousines and the gilded iron gates of Avenue George V.
The air smelled of exhaust, summer humidity, and the sweet scent of hot crêpes from a nearby cart.
The three Laurent siblings finally stepped through the heavy glass doors.
Vivienne had arranged for them to spend the afternoon on a sleek private yacht along the Seine, because apparently Sunday boredom became a high-end maritime activity when your family possessed excessive amounts of wealth.
Allard was already pulling up his phone, passionately debating where they ought to dock for a late seafood lunch.
Marceline pulled a pair of oversized black Chanel sunglasses from her handbag and slid them up her nose, desperate to hide behind the dark lenses.
And then—
“Marcie!”
She froze dead in her tracks on the hotel steps.
Allard pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
Vivienne’s lips twitched upward in pure, unadulterated amusement.
A few meters behind them, Claude’s younger sister, Lilian, who happened to be stepping out onto the pavement with the rest of the Auclair family, stopped and glanced toward the loud voice.
Across the sun-drenched pavement stood Lucien Moreau.
His messy, dirty-blond hair was perfectly tousled by the summer breeze, his brown eyes bright and hyperactive.
Dressed in tailored linen shorts and a printed silk shirt, he bore the enormous, infectious grin of a man who had just discovered Christmas came early.
He waved enthusiastically over the heads of two startled bellhops.
“Marcie!”
Marceline’s shoulders dropped half an inch in absolute defeat.
“Oh, no.”
Allard grinned, leaning in close to her ear.
“Your admirer has arrived.”
“He’s not my admirer.”
“He is aggressively your admirer.”
Lucien jogged over, the leather soles of his loafers slapping against the pavement, completely unbothered by the high-society crowd surrounding them.
“I was hoping I’d see you!”
“Why?” Marceline asked flatly, her voice dry as parchment.
“Because I haven’t seen you since Thursday.”
“That was three days ago, Lucien.”
“Exactly.” He beamed down at her, entirely unphased by her cold tone.
“It was three unbearable, terrible days.”
Marceline stared at him behind her dark lenses.
“You are deeply exhausting.”
“Thank you, darling.”
A short distance away, standing beside the hotel’s valet stand, Claude watched the entire exchange unfold.
His cool blue eyes tracked the casual movement from Lucien’s sun-bleached blond hair down to the way he stood just a little too close to Marceline.
Then he looked at Marceline.
Then back to Lucien.
Then to Marceline again.
Maximilian, leaning casually against the polished wing mirror of a dark sedan beside him, noticed the sudden, sharp shift in his atmosphere.
“What?”
Claude kept watching, his broad shoulders squared, his jaw tight.
“Nothing.”
“You look intensely confused.”
Claude’s expression remained perfectly, ruthlessly composed, though his blue eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter.
“Does she have a thing for blondes?”
Maximilian slowly turned his head toward him, blinking.
“What?”
Claude gestured with a microscopic tilt of his chin toward Lucien.
“He’s blonde.”
Maximilian looked at Lucien’s golden head.
Then he looked directly at Claude’s equally striking hair.
“So are you.”
Claude paused for a fraction of a beat.
“Exactly.”
Maximilian stared at him in complete, jaw-dropped astonishment.
“Are you seriously evaluating hair color competition right now?”
“I’m not competing.”
“You are unequivocally, pathetically competing.”
Claude ignored him entirely, keeping his gaze locked across the pavement.
Lucien had already launched into a wildly animated pitch, gesturing toward the street.
“Are you three headed somewhere?”
“We’re taking the boat along the river,” Marceline answered, adjusting her handbag.
Lucien’s light eyes practically sparkled.
“Can I come?”
Marceline responded instantly without a second’s hesitation, “No.”
Lucien looked heartbroken for approximately half a second before brightening right back up.
“I’ll rent another boat and tail your stern.”
“Lucien.”
“I’m joking.” A short beat.
“Mostly.”
André, who had just stepped out of the lobby doors pulling on a leather watch, overheard the banter and muttered under his breath, “The guy is completely out of his mind.”
Kate chuckled beside him, adjusting her sunglasses.
“He’s harmless, André.”
“Harmless isn’t the issue.” André watched Lucien grin down at Marceline, throwing an arm casually around Allard’s shoulder.
“He’s hopelessly in love.”
Kate shrugged.
“He has been for about six years.”
André’s eyes flicked over toward Claude, who was still standing stock-still by the valet, watching the scene like a hawk calculating a strike trajectory.
André’s eyes widened slightly in dark realization.
“Oh, this is getting very interesting.”
Claude caught the remark and finally tore his eyes away, checking his watch.
“It’s not.”
Maximilian grinned wickedly.
“Sure it’s not.”
Claude pulled down his cuff, his voice dropping into a razor-thin tone.
“He’s her childhood friend.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
Maximilian’s grin widened.
“You literally just asked me if she has a thing for blondes.”
Claude gave him a look cold enough to freeze the Seine.
“I deeply regret telling you anything.”
Meanwhile, Marceline was currently being half-guided, half-dragged toward the waiting town car by a thrilled Lucien, who was enthusiastically listing the artisan pastries he’d already bought for their river cruise.
Just before stepping into the back seat, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder.
Her grey eyes cut through her sunglasses, accidentally locking onto Claude’s.
He wasn’t Exchanging a single smile.
Neither did she.
For one long, agonizing second, the heavy, volatile tension snapped tight between them across the noisy Paris street, completely drowning out the traffic and the chatter.
Then Lucien cheerfully called out from the open car door, “Marcie!
Come on, the champagne is getting warm!”
She immediately broke the eye contact and slid into the leather interior.
Claude watched the sleek black car pull smoothly away into the afternoon traffic.
Maximilian quietly folded his arms, taking a slow sip of his sparkling water.
“Definitely a thing for blondes.”
Claude let out a heavy, irritated sigh, “Shut up, Max.”
The hot summer air on Avenue George V grew heavy with the scent of roasted chestnuts, warm asphalt, and exhaust fumes as the sleek black sedan carrying Marceline and Lucien melted smoothly into the midday traffic.
Claude stood on the hotel steps, his hands shoved deep into his trousers pockets, his unblinking blue eyes fixed on the empty space where the car had been just seconds before.
Maximilian glanced at his side profile, catching the dangerous, subtle lock of Claude’s jaw.
“Don’t,” Maximilian warned softly.
Claude didn’t flinch.
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever insane strategic maneuver is currently forming in that head of yours.”
Claude pulled his phone from his inner jacket pocket.
The screen illuminated, revealing three unread notifications from his executive secretary regarding the evening’s quarterly board summary.
He dismissed them with a single swipe of his thumb.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” Claude asked, his tone deceptively casual as his fingers moved rapidly across the glass.
Maximilian frowned, adjusting the collar of his linen shirt.
“I have a late lunch at Monsieur Bleu with the Swiss investors.”
“Cancel it.”
Maximilian blinked, caught entirely off guard.
“Excuse me?”
Claude was already typing out a series of swift, uncompromising commands to his staff.
“Move the Zurich video conference to Monday morning.
Cancel the board dinner at the club.
Reschedule the charity foundation committee meeting.”
Maximilian stared at him in complete, unadulterated shock.
“Why on earth are you clearing your entire schedule on a Sunday afternoon?”
Claude slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, smoothing down the lapel of his charcoal suit with practiced precision.
“I’m going boating.”
A long, suffocating silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant honking of a taxi on the boulevard.
“You hate boating,” Maximilian said flatly.
“I don’t.”
“You literally called it ‘floating around aimlessly on dirty river water while pretending not to be thoroughly bored’ three weeks ago in Cannes.”
“I’ve reconsidered my stance on maritime recreation.”
Maximilian looked down the sunlit boulevard toward the Seine.
Then he looked toward the direction Lucien’s car had driven.
Then he turned his head slowly back to Claude.
“You are unequivocally, clinically insane.”
Claude met his gaze with a perfectly flat, unreadable expression that could have passed for stone.
“Are you coming?”
Maximilian let out a long, heavy breath, shaking his head in total disbelief.
“Apparently I have a front-row seat to a slow-motion trainwreck, so yes.”
Before they could step down toward the valet stand, a quiet voice spoke up from behind them.
“I’m coming too.”
Claude turned.
His younger sister, Lilian, was standing near the glass doors, holding a small leather handbag, her blue eyes glittering with razor-sharp perception.
She had been watching her brother from the doorway the entire time.
Claude’s brows drew together slightly.
“Lilian, go back inside with Maman.”
“Absolutely not,” Lilian replied smoothly, taking a deliberate step toward them on the marble steps.
Her lips curved into a wicked, knowing smile as she looked directly at Claude’s rigid posture.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.
Somebody needs to document you spiraling in real-time.”
Claude’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping into a dangerously stern register.
“I am not spiraling.”
“You cleared your entire Sunday schedule because a dirty-blond heir smiled at Marceline Laurent,” Lilian pointed out dryly, pulling a pair of oversized sunglasses over her eyes.
“That is the very definition of a high-stakes emotional collapse, brother.”
“It’s a corporate strategy observation,” Claude denied strongly, turning on his heel and striding toward his waiting driver.
“The river is public domain.”
Lilian exchanged a delighted, horrified look with Maximilian before falling into step beside him.
“He’s completely lost his mind, hasn’t he?” she whispered.
Maximilian chuckled quietly under his breath.
“Oh, entirely.
Get in the car.”
The sleek yacht glided effortlessly down the Seine, leaving a foaming white wake that shimmered under the blinding summer sun.
The deck was filled with the clinking of heavy crystal, soft bossa nova drifting from the speakers, and the occasional burst of easy, ringing laughter that echoed across the water toward the Passerelle Léopold-Sédar-Senghor.
For the first time in weeks, Marceline had almost succeeded in relaxing.
The six of them—Vivienne, Allard, Kate, André, Lucien, and Marceline—had settled around the white leather seating on the upper deck.
Trays of fresh oysters on crushed ice, caviar tartlets, and chilled bottles of Dom Pérignon littered the low teak table.
Lucien was practically vibrating with energy, regaling everyone with absurd stories from his recent trip to Ibiza while Marceline leaned back into the cushions, her dark sunglasses hiding her eyes, a faint, genuine smile touching her lips.
It was absurdly, effortlessly fun.
Then André poured himself another glass of champagne, traded a devious, knowing look with Kate, and ruined everything.
“You know, Marcie,” André began casually, swirling his glass, “speaking of unhinged devotion…
do you remember two summers ago at the villa in Cap d’Ail?”
Marceline’s smile instantly faltered behind her glasses.
“André, don’t.”
Kate burst into a sudden, delighted cackle, leaning forward over her knees.
“Oh, please tell me you’re bringing up the terrace incident!”
“What terrace incident?” Allard asked, looking up from the edge of the deck.
He was holding a unlit Montecristo cigar between his fingers, his blue eyes immediately lighting up with wicked, brotherly interest.
“No,” Marceline warned sharply, sitting straight up.
“Absolutely not.
It is an urban legend.”
“It’s really not,” André grinned, gesturing toward Lucien with his glass.
“We were all sitting out by the pool, three bottles of rosé deep.
Marcie was wearing those razor-sharp Saint Laurent stilettos, looking like she was about to execute a corporate takeover, and Lucien—stone-cold sober, mind you—looked her dead in the eye.”
Vivienne lifted her flute to her lips, tilting her head.
“And?”
Kate delivered the blow with absolute, gleeful punchiness, “And he genuinely, passionately begged her to step directly on his face.”
Vivienne instantly choked, letting out a sharp, strangled cough as champagne nearly flew out of her nose.
She slammed her glass onto the teak table, clutching her chest, half-dying and half-laughing uncontrollably into her silk napkin.
Allard threw his head back, letting out a deep, booming laugh that echoed off the riverbanks.
He spun his cigar between his fingers, shaking his head in absolute, unadulterated amusement.
“Non.
Tell me you didn’t.”
Marceline squeezed her eyes shut, dragging both hands up to cover her face as a sudden, scorching wave of pure mortification burned through her cheeks.
“I was standing right there.
I witnessed the whole thing.
It was deeply traumatic.”
Instead of showing even a single shred of shame or embarrassment, Lucien sat up straight on the leather bench, threw his arms over the back cushions, and beamed with absolute, shameless pride.
“I still do!” Lucien declared loudly, his brown eyes sparkling with zero hesitation.
“Any time, Marcie.
Standing room only.
I am entirely available.”
“Lucien!” Marceline gasped, her voice strangled as she threw a decorative velvet throw pillow squarely at his head.
Lucien caught the pillow effortlessly, hugging it to his chest while grinning like a lunatic.
Allard was practically wheezing, pointing his cigar at Lucien.
“The man has no pride.
Absolutely incredible.”
“It’s not lack of pride, Allard,” Lucien corrected smoothly, winking over at Marceline.
“It’s called unwavering loyalty to a superior aesthetic.”
“I am going to throw myself off this boat,” Marceline muttered into her hands, her face burning hotter than the midday sun, entirely unaware that a second, dark-hulled luxury yacht was currently easing into the channel less than fifty meters behind them.