Alan’s POV
I lived in a pediatric ICU chair for two days. Uncomfortable doesn't begin to cover it—my back felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my spine, and the fluorescent lights made everything look like a crime scene. But leaving wasn't an option.
I set up my laptop on my knees and systematically dismantled what was left of my grandfather's empire. Phone calls were brief, brutal, surgical. "You're fired. Security will escort you out." "Transfer those assets by end of day or face legal annihilation." "I don't care what promises were made. That era is over."
Every thirty seconds, my eyes flicked to the heart monitor. Making sure those numbers stayed steady. Making sure my daughter kept breathing.
Weird how that becomes your entire world—a screen showing vitals, a five-year-old who barely knows me, and the woman sitting across from me who I'd somehow managed to fuck things up with for five straight years.
Élise brought me coffee that tasted like burnt disappointment and sandwiches I couldn't eat. We barely spoke, but the silence wasn't that charged, dangerous thing from the office anymore.
It was just... shared. Exhausted. Two people who'd burned down an empire together and were now sitting in the ashes, making sure the one good thing we'd created survived.
Sofia came and went, updating us in medical jargon I half-understood. Élise's brother showed up once, took one look at my face, and wisely decided to come back later. Smart kid. I wasn't exactly in a "meet the family" mood.
On day three, Amélie finally got moved out of the ICU. Élise stayed with her while I dealt with the corporate cleanup. Reception called up—some nervous junior I didn't recognize. "Mademoiselle Artois is here to see you, Monsieur."
Anna walked into my office looking like she'd just closed a multimillion-euro deal. Which, technically, she had. Not dressed for mourning. Dressed for business.
"Alan," she said, voice cool as expensive champagne. "A pity about your grandfather. I hear the stress was too much for him."
I didn't stand. Didn't play the polite game we'd been trained for since birth. Just gestured to the tablet on my desk. "The transfer is complete. Ten percent, as promised."
She picked it up, reviewed the transaction with the precision of a jeweler examining a diamond. A small, satisfied smile touched her lips. "You kept your word. I'm impressed."
"As did you," I replied. "Your father's vote was decisive."
"My father does what is necessary to protect his interests." She slid the tablet into her briefcase. "As do I."
She walked to the door, then paused. Turned back. "He underestimated you. He underestimated her. Fatal mistake."
"He's not the only one," I said, and meant it. I'd underestimated Élise from the moment she walked into my office. Thought she was just another competent assistant. Turned out she was the woman who'd burn down the world to protect our daughter. Our daughter. Still getting used to that.
Anna's smile widened—predatory, genuine. "Don't get too comfortable, Delaunay. You may have won the company, but Paris is still my city." She held out a perfectly manicured hand. "It was a pleasure doing business with you."
I shook it. Clean. Professional. "Anna."
"Good luck," she said, eyes glittering with something between amusement and warning. "You'll need me again. A man with this many new enemies always does."
She turned and walked out—heels clicking on marble, head high. Not a defeated ex-fiancée. A powerful woman who'd just secured her own empire. Respect where respect was due. The woman knew how to play the game.
I went back to the hospital that afternoon, stopping at some overpriced toy store because apparently that's what fathers do. The saleswoman tried to show me educational options. I bought the biggest stuffed tiger they had. Security officer material.
When I walked into Amélie's new room, she was sitting up in bed coloring. The TV was on—some grim-faced reporter standing outside my grandfather's estate, delivering the sanitized version of events. "Henri Delaunay has suffered a minor stroke and will be retiring immediately, ceding control to his grandson."
Minor stroke. Right. That's what we were calling total annihilation now. The scandal was buried—financial crimes, illegal experiments, using his own great-granddaughter as a lab rat. All absorbed by the Delaunay name's gravitational pull. Henri was under house arrest in his gilded cage, powerless, erased. But to the world? Just a tired old man retiring for health reasons.
Élise glanced up from the window where she was sitting. Our eyes met, and something in my chest tightened. She looked exhausted, beautiful, terrified, fierce. Everything I didn't deserve and somehow got anyway.
"Papa!" Amélie's voice cut through my thoughts.
I froze. The word was still new, still hit like a punch every time. But I forced my face to soften, held up the tiger. "I brought you a co-worker. He's in charge of security."
Amélie giggled—actual, real, healthy child laughter—and immediately made the tiger attack her coloring book. "He's fired! He ate my picture!"
"Then promote him," I said, completely serious. "He's showing initiative."
She dissolved into giggles again. I'd conquered a billion-euro empire but making a five-year-old laugh felt like a bigger achievement. Weird how perspective shifts when someone calls you Papa.
I looked at Élise over Amélie's head. She was watching us with this expression I couldn't quite read—hope mixed with fear, like she was afraid if she blinked too hard the whole thing would shatter. I knew the feeling. We were standing in wreckage, trying to figure out how to build something from the debris.
The war was over. Henri destroyed, company secured, Amélie saved. We'd won. But winning doesn't give you a blueprint for what comes next. Doesn't tell you how to turn "we're allies protecting our child" into "we're a family."
I crossed to where Élise sat, held out my hand. She took it, our fingers lacing together like they had under that boardroom table, except this time there was no battle looming. Just the terrifying, impossible question of what we'd become.
Amélie held up her drawing—a crayon massacre of a tiger devouring what might have been a castle. "Look! Papa's company!"
I laughed. Couldn't help it. "Accurate."
Élise's fingers tightened around mine. I glanced at her, saw the slight smile tugging at her lips, and thought: Yeah. We'll figure this out. Somehow. One tiger drawing at a time.