Kate and André exchanged a sharp, devious look across the teak table, their eyes glittering with the exact same unhinged realization.
While Marceline was busy fanning her flushed face and glaring at Lucien, André quietly slid down to the lower deck to whisper urgent instructions to the captain and crew.
Kate casually positioned herself near the stern, pulling out her phone and clicking onto her official Instagram account.
“Marcie, darling!” Kate called out innocently, waving her hand.
“The chat about you is going absolutely feral right now.
Come do a quick ten-second wave for the stream before we dock!”
Marceline let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh, but the polished, professional influencer inside her kicked in instantly.
Smoothing down her cream silk trousers, she stepped toward the railing where Kate was holding up the glowing phone screen.
“If this is another question about my marital status, I’m throwing the phone into the Seine,” Marceline muttered, stepping right up to the polished teak edge.
“Smile!” André chimed in, suddenly appearing on her right with a blinding, wicked grin.
Before Marceline could even process the mischievous glint in his eyes, André and Kate gave her a coordinated, firm—and entirely controlled—shove right between her shoulder blades.
A sharp, collective gasp echoed across the deck.
SPLASH!
The cool, murky green water of the Seine engulfed Marceline, her dark sunglasses floating off as she broke the surface a second later, coughing, dripping, and murderously furious.
“ANDRÉ!
KATE!
I WILL LITERALLY EXECUTE YOU BOTH!” she shrieked, wiping wet hair from her eyes.
On the Laurent deck, total chaos erupted—predictably spearheaded by pure, unadulterated stupidity.
“MARCIE!
I’M COMING!” Lucien yelled, not even bothering to take off his pristine leather loafers, his phone, or his designer linen jacket.
With zero braincells engaged and zero tactical preparation, the dumbdumb hurled his entire body over the side in a wild, ungraceful belly-flop, splashing directly into the water beside her.
“Lucien, you absolute idiot!” Marceline yelled, treading water as he popped up beside her, grinning like a wet retriever.
“I saved you!” Lucien announced proudly, wiping water from his face before realizing the immediate flaw in his rescue mission.
He blinked, looking up at the towering wooden hull of the yacht.
“…Wait.
How do we get back up?”
Above them, Allard didn’t even lose his temper.
With terrifying, clinical efficiency, he had already dropped his cigar into an ashtray and was barked calm, authoritative orders into his radio, navigating the boat’s speed down while crew members deployed the hydraulic swim platform and threw life rings.
Meanwhile, less than fifty meters away on the dark Riva yacht, the sudden commotion caused a dead silence.
Claude’s grip on the polished railing tightened so hard his knuckles turned stark white.
The cigarette dropped from his fingers, plunging into the water below.
His body moved on pure, raw instinct—taking a half-step toward the edge of his own vessel, his blue eyes wide, his chest heaving as his heart slammed against his ribs.
Every protective, violent fiber of his being screamed at him to dive straight into the river and rip her out of the water.
Then his eyes landed on Lucien, splashing uselessly beside her, treading water and making her laugh despite her rage.
Claude froze.
He stood utterly paralyzed in the summer heat, a agonizing, silent battle waging behind his unreadable eyes.
If he jumped, he would blow his entire cover—proving to Marceline, to his family, and to all of Paris that he was still utterly, helplessly obsessed with her.
But if he stayed on the deck…
Maximilian stepped up beside him, placing a firm, subtle hand on Claude’s shoulder, feeling the rigid, vibrating tension in his best friend’s frame.
“She’s fine, Claude,” Maximilian said quietly, watching Allard’s crew lower the ladder.
“The boat is stopped.
She’s completely fine.”
Claude didn’t answer.
He couldn’t breathe.
He just stood at the edge of his ship, watching Marceline haul herself onto the platform, drenched, furious, and entirely out of his reach.
The dark Riva yacht drifted silently on the sparkling water, its engine idling with a low, vibrating hum that echoed against the stone embankments of the Seine.
The heavy scent of diesel fuel, wet river weed, and hot teak hung thick in the warm afternoon air.
Lilian quietly stepped up beside her brother at the stern railing, watching the dripping scene unfold across the channel.
“You know,” she murmured, her voice smooth and laced with sharp, playful taunting, “for someone who claims she means absolutely nothing to you…”
Claude’s head snapped toward her, his blue eyes flashing with cold, dangerous warning.
“Lilian.”
She offered him a serene, innocent smile, adjusting her sunglasses with one manicured finger.
“I didn’t say a word.”
Across the water, the hydraulic platform on the Laurent yacht creaked softly as it hit the waterline.
Marceline finally reached the lower rung of the stainless-steel ladder, her wet silk clothes clinging to her frame.
Allard leaned down, his strong grip locking around her wrist, and hauled her aboard in one effortless, fluid motion.
Lucien scrambled up the ladder directly after her, displaying considerably less dignity as he slipped twice, squeaked his wet leather loafers against the teak, and flopped onto the deck like a landed fish.
He sat dripping on the sun-warmed wood, wiping river water from his brown eyes, and grinned up at her like he had just won a Olympic medal.
“I saved you.”
Marceline wiped a wet strand of hair from her forehead, staring down at him in absolute, unadulterated disbelief.
“You complete idiot.”
“You’re very welcome, Marcie.”
She snatched a plush white bath sheet from a terrified crew member and threw it straight at his face.
“You jumped into the Seine without even thinking about how you’d get back up!”
Lucien pulled the heavy towel down, his dirty-blond hair sticking out in every direction.
“The logistics were irrelevant!
I was busy saving your life!”
A few feet away, André leaned over to Kate, whispering behind his hand, “Zero brain cells.
Absolutely unburdened by thought.”
Kate nodded in solemn, grave agreement.
“Literally none.”
Allard took a slow, deliberate drag from his cigar, blowing a thick ring of gray smoke into the summer breeze.
“The boy is extraordinarily lucky he’s handsome.”
Marceline wrapped a second towel tightly around her shivering shoulders, taking a long, deep breath to steady her racing pulse.
Instinctively, her dark eyes flicked back across the river toward the dark-hulled ship.
Claude was still standing at the railing, bathed in the blinding golden light of the Parisian afternoon.
This time, he didn’t look away.
The stoic, distant mask had cracked, leaving his intense, burning gaze exposed and unblinking across the open water.
And for once, neither did she.