At 8:50 AM, I stood outside Alan Delaunay's penthouse—a glass-walled fortress overlooking the Champ de Mars—and seriously considered running. The Maybach that had collected me idled at the curb below, the driver paid to forget I existed.
Thirty-six hours without sleep. My makeup was flawless, my blouse pressed, my hair smoothed into submission. All armor, all lies.
I pressed the bell. The sound echoed somewhere deep inside, expensive and cold.
The door opened. Alan stood there in a fresh white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his eyes dark and impossibly focused.
"Élise," he said. Just my name. Not Madame Garnier, not a polite greeting.
The shift hit me like electricity—a caress and a threat wrapped in two syllables.
I stepped inside before my nerve failed. The penthouse was a monument to wealth and isolation: black marble floors, steel beams, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking a Paris that felt like another planet entirely.
And sitting on a white leather sofa, legs crossed and espresso cup balanced perfectly, was Anna Artois. She looked like she'd been born in that penthouse, all silk and blonde perfection.
My stomach dropped.
Henri Delaunay stood by the window, a thin silhouette against the morning light. He turned when I entered, his gaze reptilian and assessing.
The entire Delaunay power structure, contained in one cold room. Perfect.
"Monsieur Delaunay. Mademoiselle Artois." I nodded to Anna, then to Alan. "Monsieur."
Professional. Calm. A woman who definitely hadn't spent the last hour spiraling in the back of a luxury car.
I placed the bound merger documents on the glass table with a soft thud. "The files are complete. Cross-referenced and finalized."
Anna's eyes tracked the movement, then flicked to Alan with something sharp and possessive. She stood, gliding over to place a manicured hand on his arm.
"Alan, chéri," she purred, "must we do this now? I was hoping we could—"
"The files are in order?" Alan cut her off without even glancing down. His gaze was fixed on me.
I swallowed. "Cross-referenced and collated, as requested."
"Good."
Anna's smile tightened. Her hand slipped from his arm, and I watched her recalculate in real time—this wasn't the distant, controlled CEO she knew.
Henri Delaunay moved from the window, his footsteps silent on the marble. He picked up a pen with thin, deliberate fingers and began signing the documents.
The scratch of his signature was the only sound in the room. When he finished the last page, he looked up—not at Alan, but at me.
"You are efficient, Madame Garnier." His voice was dry as old paper. "Discreet."
"Thank you, Monsieur."
He turned to Alan, and his expression shifted into something colder. "A valuable asset. Do not let her become a distraction."
The warning hung in the air, sharp and clear. Anna's eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
I kept my face blank, my hands loose at my sides. Inside, my pulse hammered.
"I'll see you at the office," Alan said to me, dismissing the entire room with two sentences.
I nodded and left, feeling Henri's reptilian gaze on my back until the elevator doors closed.
The workday at Veridian was psychological warfare disguised as corporate bureaucracy.
Alan was everywhere. Not loud, not obvious—just there. A constant, focused presence that made my skin prickle.
Before the confrontation, he'd been a cold, distant figure. Now he was a hunter, and I was something he couldn't quite solve.
At 10 AM, he buzzed my desk. "My office."
I walked in, tablet ready. "Yes, Monsieur?"
"The Ministry meeting. Confirm the time."
I pulled up my screen, confused. "It's at two PM. I sent the confirmation this morning."
"Good." He didn't look away. "That's all."
I left, my hands shaking.
At noon, another buzz. "Élise. Office."
This time he wanted a meeting moved by fifteen minutes. A meeting that didn't matter, that could have been handled via email.
He stood too close when I pulled up the calendar. His voice dropped lower when he spoke. Every interaction felt loaded with the memory of the iris pin, the confrontation, the lie I'd told at five in the morning.
He wasn't being cruel. He was studying me. Searching for the crack in my story.
By late afternoon, my nerves were stripped raw. When the intercom buzzed again, I seriously considered faking a medical emergency.
"Élise. Now."
I grabbed my tablet and walked into his office, my jaw tight. "Yes, Monsieur?"
He was standing by his desk, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. "My grandfather was impressed by your discretion."
I said nothing.
"He also reviewed your work on the Cléry Foundation files from five years ago." A lie. I could feel it. "He agrees the Iris Project archives need a final audit before the engagement gala."
My blood went cold.
"He wants you to do it," Alan continued, his gaze locked on mine.
"Me?" The word came out too sharp.
"You." He moved to his computer, entered a password with deliberate keystrokes. "You now have Level 4 clearance. Full access to the Iris archives, including legacy files."
The screen changed, showing a new folder structure I'd never seen before. My heart slammed against my ribs.
"I want a complete report on all gala-related activities," he said, his voice soft and lethal. "Starting with the Musée des Arts."
A trap. This was a trap.
He was giving me access to the exact event I'd lied about, watching to see what I'd do with it. If I hesitated, he'd know. If I dug too deep, he'd know.
"I'll start immediately," I said, forcing my voice steady.
He nodded once. "Good. I expect preliminary findings by tomorrow morning."
I left his office and went straight to my desk. My hands hovered over the keyboard, my mind racing.
I had no choice. If I refused, he'd know I was hiding something. If I delayed, same result.
That night, alone at my desk while the rest of the 40th floor sat empty and dark, I logged into the secure server. My fingers trembled as I navigated through layers of encryption.
I found the folder: IRIS_GALA_MUSÉE_5Y.
I clicked it open. My breath caught.
It wasn't party photos. It was surveillance. Thousands of images, time-stamped and cataloged with clinical precision. High-angle shots from cameras I'd never noticed, capturing every corner of the museum.
I scrolled through them, my stomach twisting. There—a blurred image of two figures dancing, their masks silver in the dim light. Me and Alan.
I kept scrolling, faster now, my pulse thundering in my ears. More dancers, more champagne, more meaningless socialites.
Then I froze.
A photo, time-stamped 18:47—before the gala had even begun. It showed a dark alcove near the museum's back entrance.
Two men stood close, their faces sharp in the frame. Henri Delaunay, thin and severe in an expensive suit.
And standing across from him, his expression nervous and eager, was my old boss from the Cléry Foundation.
The man whose scandal had destroyed my life.