I walked through dark Parisian streets, umbrella doing jack shit against the rain currently trying to drown me. Most sane people were tucked away in their apartments.
Not me. Sanity was a luxury I'd pawned off years ago.
Hôpital Américain de Neuilly rose ahead like some glass-and-steel monument to how broke I was about to be. Expensive as hell, but worth every euro I didn't have.
Sofia Marchand was smoking outside the entrance, watching the rain like it owed her money. "Late night hospital run number what, fifteen this month?" she called out.
"Lost count after twelve."
She took a drag, eyes narrowing. "You look like death warmed over and served on a dirty plate."
"Your bedside manner needs work."
"I save the nice voice for patients. You're my friend, which means you get the truth." She stubbed out her cigarette. "When's the last time you ate something that wasn't from a vending machine?"
"Does coffee count as food?"
"Jesus Christ, Élise."
"What? It has nutrients. Probably."
She followed me inside, heels clicking that judgy rhythm I'd learned to ignore. "You're going to collapse. Like, actually hit the floor and traumatize some poor intern."
"I'll collapse when Amélie's better."
"That's not how human bodies work."
"Watch me prove medical science wrong through sheer spite."
She didn't laugh. Sofia used to laugh at my gallows humor. Not anymore.
The hospital smelled like industrial-strength disinfectant trying really hard to mask the scent of fear and expensive desperation. I navigated the corridors on autopilot.
Left at the nurses' station. Right past radiology. Straight through the pediatric wing. Room 104. My second home.
Amélie was sleeping, small and impossibly fragile under white sheets. Tubes snaked from her arms like she was some kind of tiny cyborg.
Monitors beeped their relentless electronic lullaby. But her face—God, her face was peaceful. Calm. Like she wasn't fighting for her life every single day.
I sat down and stroked her hair. Still soft. Still perfect.
Sofia appeared with her tablet, that look on her face that meant incoming bad news disguised as medical jargon. "Latest results came back."
"Good or bad?"
"Stable."
"Stable is code for 'we need more money,' isn't it?"
She sighed. "The new treatment protocol might help, but—"
"How much?"
"Élise—"
"Sofia. How much?"
She looked everywhere except at me. "Thirty thousand euros. Over six months."
The number hit like a fist wrapped in a medical bill. I kept my face neutral. Years of practice. "When do we start?"
"Did you hear what I just said? Thirty thousand—"
"I heard you. When do we start?"
"You can't just… How are you going to do it?"
"I got the Veridian job. I'll make it work."
"You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"Three days, actually. I'm improving."
"That's not an improvement. That's a medical emergency waiting to happen."
"Then it'll happen in a hospital. Convenient."
She wanted to argue. I could see it written all over her face—that doctor's instinct to fix everything, save everyone. But she knew me well enough to know when I'd made up my mind.
"You're impossible," she muttered.
"And yet you love me."
"Jury's still out on that."
She left around midnight. I stayed in the chair, holding Amélie's hand, watching her breathe. In, out. In, out. The most beautiful sound in the world.
I must've passed out because suddenly sunlight was stabbing my eyes and my phone was screaming at me.
8:47 AM.
"Shit. Shit shit shit!"
I kissed Amélie's forehead—warm, thank God, no fever—and ran.
Paris streets were packed with the morning rush. I dodged tourists taking pictures of literally nothing, businessmen who walked like they owned the sidewalk. Every slow-moving human obstacle in a five-mile radius.
My lungs were on fire. My heels were medieval torture devices I'd voluntarily strapped to my feet.
Ten minutes late when I hit Veridian's lobby. I flashed my badge at security—didn't even slow down—and threw myself into the closing elevator like I was diving for home base.
That's when I saw him.
Alan Delaunay. Perfect suit. Perfect hair. Perfect expression of vague disappointment, like I was a stock that had underperformed.
My heart flatlined.
"You're late, Madame Élise. Ten minutes. Do you think this company is trivial?"
I shook my head, panic clawing up my throat. "No, Monsieur. I'm deeply sorry. Won't happen again."
"It better not." He studied me like I was a quarterly report with concerning numbers. "You understand we maintain certain standards here?"
"Absolutely."
"Standards that include punctuality. Presentation. Commitment."
"I understand, Monsieur Delaunay."
"Do you?" He tilted his head, and something in his gaze sharpened. "Because you look exhausted. And now you're late. Should I be concerned about your dedication to this position?"
Every cell in my body screamed to defend myself. To explain. To tell him I'd been at a hospital watching my daughter fight for her life. But I couldn't show weakness. Couldn't give him ammunition.
"You have my full commitment, Monsieur."
"Then prove it."
The elevator chimed and he stepped out without another word. Leaving me alone with my racing pulse and the suffocating certainty that I'd just made everything infinitely worse.
Welcome to day two of hell.
The rest of the day was yesterday's nightmare on repeat, except someone had turned up the difficulty level just to fuck with me.
Impossible schedules that defied the laws of physics. Documents that needed to be flawless by yesterday. Phone calls to people who acted like I'd personally ruined their lives by existing.
I handled it. Stayed sharp and efficient. But around 5 PM, while I was delivering the finalized contracts to his office, Alan looked up from his screen with that analytical gaze that made my skin prickle.
"You're proficient." He leaned back in his chair. "Faster than my last three assistants."
"Thank you, Monsieur."
"Where did you learn to format merger documents?"
The question felt loaded. "I picked up various skills at the foundation. We handled corporate partnerships."
"Corporate partnerships." He repeated it slowly, like he was tasting the words for lies. "With Veridian?"
My pulse kicked. "Among others. It was part of the grants process."
"Interesting." He stood, moving around his desk with that controlled precision. "Because Veridian's partnership with Cléry Foundation was quite... intimate. Before everything collapsed."
He was close now. Close enough that I caught his cologne again—that cedar and bergamot that pulled at memories I couldn't afford to examine.
"I wasn't involved in the financial side," I said carefully. "Just event coordination."
His eyes held mine. "And yet here you are, working for the company that was at the center of that scandal. Doesn't that seem like an odd choice?"
"I needed the salary." The truth, at least partially. "Circumstances change."
"They do." He tilted his head slightly, studying my face with an intensity that made heat crawl up my neck. "What circumstances changed for you, Madame Garnier?"
The question hung between us. Personal. Probing.
"Personal ones," I managed. "As I mentioned yesterday."
Something flickered in his expression before his voice dropped lower. "You're very good at deflecting. It makes me wonder what you're protecting."
My throat went tight. "I'm protecting my privacy, Monsieur. Surely that's my right."
"Of course." He stepped back, but his gaze didn't leave mine. "Privacy is sacred. Until it becomes an obstruction."
The words felt like a warning wrapped in silk, but I kept my voice level despite my hammering pulse. "Will that be all?"
"For now." He returned to his desk, dismissing me with a gesture. "But Élise? I always figure out the puzzles that interest me. Always."
The way he said my name—without the formal Madame—sent electricity down my spine. I left his office on legs that felt unsteady.
That had been a threat. Or a promise. Or both.