The concealer holds, but barely.
I move through the grand hall like a ghost in couture, champagne flute untouched in my hand, watching my husband accept congratulations for my work.
"Brilliant strategy with the Asian market expansion," says Bernard Vautrin, the editor of Revue du Vin, pumping Frank's hand like he's already had four glasses of the good stuff. "How did you manage to secure the Shanghai partnership when Moët couldn't even get a meeting?"
Frank laughs, warm and self-deprecating, the performance so polished I almost believe it myself. "Persistence, Bernard. And understanding that the Chinese market requires patience. You can't rush quality, and you can't force relationships. You have to pay attention to what people actually want."
Those are my words. The exact thing I said in the board meeting eighteen months ago when I pitched the expansion strategy that Frank initially called "naive" and "overly ambitious."
"The key was recognizing that luxury wine isn't just about taste in emerging markets," Frank continues, leaning in conspiratorially. "It's about heritage. We positioned ourselves as the authentic French experience, not just another label on a shelf."
Bernard nods like he's receiving wisdom from the oracle at Delphi. "And the sustainable packaging initiative? That must have been a nightmare to implement across the supply chain."
"Worth every headache." Frank sips his wine with theatrical satisfaction. "Sometimes you have to sacrifice short-term profits for long-term brand integrity. Not everyone in the industry has the courage for that kind of vision."
The sustainable packaging initiative took me fourteen months to develop. I sourced the materials, negotiated with suppliers, redesigned the logistics network, fought with the board over costs.
Frank signed the final approval document without reading it and then complained for a week about the font I'd used in the presentation.
"Madame Chevotet, you must be so proud of your husband."
I turn to find a woman I don't recognize—press, probably, based on the recorder barely concealed in her palm. She's young, eager, with cropped auburn hair and wide hazel eyes, the kind of journalist who still believes she can find truth at industry parties.
"Immensely," I say, tasting the lie. "Frank's dedication to the company is truly remarkable."
"And what's your role in the business? Do you work alongside him?"
Frank's hand appears on my shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to remind me of the bruises hidden beneath my dress.
"My wife prefers to stay out of the spotlight," he says smoothly. "She's my rock at home. The steady foundation that allows me to take risks in the business. Not everyone needs to be in front of the camera to make a difference."
The journalist nods, already losing interest. Who wants to interview the rock when you can talk to the architect?
"Speaking of cameras." The photographer, a wiry man with an impressive mustache, gestures toward the award display. "Monsieur Chevotet, if we could gather the leadership team for the official portrait?"
"Excellent idea." Frank releases my shoulder and straightens his jacket. "Bernard, you'll join us? And Claude, Marie-Hélène—come, come."
The board members drift toward the display case like planets orbiting a sun that generates no light of its own. I take a step forward automatically.
Frank's gaze catches mine across the room.
The message is silent and absolute. Stay where you are.
I stop mid-step, pretending to adjust my bracelet, pretending my cheeks aren't burning beneath their careful layers of makeup.
How could I forget?
I am never allowed in the photographs, never permitted in the press releases, never mentioned in the interviews. The public doesn't even know my face.
"Difficult, isn't it? Watching someone else wear your crown."
The voice comes from my left, honey-sweet and razor-sharp.
I turn to find Sandrine Béliveau standing beside me, champagne flute dangling from manicured fingers, her smile the kind that promises nothing good.
She's twenty-two. Blonde. Beautiful in the generic way of women who've never had to develop personalities because their faces did all the work.
Sandrine is Frank's latest distraction, though she's lasted longer than most—six months now, practically a record.
"I'm not sure what you mean," I say carefully.
"Oh, please." Sandrine laughs, a tinkling sound that sets my teeth on edge. "Everyone in this room knows who really runs Domaine Pasquier. Well, everyone except the people writing the checks and taking the photos. But that's rather the point, isn't it?"
I take a measured sip of champagne I don't taste. "You seem very well-informed for someone who's been in the industry for... how long has it been? Eight months?"
"Nine, actually. But who's counting?" She tilts her head. "Frank tells me everything, you know. The late nights you spend in the office. The way you've prevented this company from collapsing under his... let's call it 'creative leadership.'"
"Frank is a visionary," I say flatly.
"Frank is a man who can't tell a Burgundy from a Bordeaux without checking the label." Sandrine steps closer, her perfume cloying and expensive. "But he's very good at other things like taking credit, making decisions, choosing the right people to elevate."
The emphasis makes my stomach tighten. "Is there a point to this conversation, or do you just enjoy the sound of your own voice?"
"The point, Madame Chevotet, is that I know what's about to happen." She gestures toward Frank, still posing for photos, still basking in applause meant for me. "He's retiring tonight. And he's going to name his successor."
The champagne flute trembles in my hand. I grip it tighter, willing my face to remain neutral. "Frank hasn't mentioned anything about retirement."
"He wanted it to be a surprise. A gift, really." Sandrine's eyes glitter with amusement poorly disguised as warmth. "After everything you've done for this company... He said it was finally time for the world to see what you earned."
Could it be true?
The announcement he insisted I witness... It makes a terrible kind of sense.
"He said that?" My voice comes out small. "He said I've earned it?"
"His exact words were that no one knows this company better than you do." Sandrine touches my arm, a gesture so tender it almost feels sincere. "I think he finally realizes what he has in you."
Hope blooms despite the bruises beneath my dress, despite the ache in my cheek, despite every rational thought screaming that Frank has never given me anything without extracting payment first.
But maybe the award tonight reminded him of what I'm capable of.
"You look surprised," Sandrine observes, her smile widening. "Perhaps you should find a better spot for the announcement. Somewhere visible. I'd hate for you to miss your moment in the spotlight after waiting so long."
She drifts away, leaving me with a heart beating too fast and palms gone slick against the champagne glass.
Frank steps up to the microphone, and the room falls silent.
This is it, I think, straightening my spine, lifting my chin. This is finally it.
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