By mid-morning, Veridian hummed like a wasp's nest that someone had poked with a stick.
People roamed around like well-dressed ghosts—documents in hand, tea going cold, breakfast they'd grabbed but never actually eaten.
I sat at the edge of the boardroom table, fingers flying over my laptop. Documenting every cold demand that fell from Alan Delaunay's mouth.
Presentation to the Ministry. Client dinner rescheduled. Another policy rewrite because the first three weren't soul-crushing enough.
Time was passing. Days bleeding into each other. And I was finally getting used to this. The pace, the pressure, the constant sensation of barely keeping up.
But Alan? Still as harsh as day one.
"You don't work fast enough," he said, not even glancing up as I placed a stack of papers on his desk.
I gave him a look. Silent. Pointed. The kind that said ‘are you fucking kidding me right now.’
He either didn't notice or pretended not to. Probably the latter.
‘It's all for Amélie,’ I remembered my mantra. ‘Shut up. Keep working. Keep her alive.’
The weirdest part? Alan's commands were getting increasingly specific. And suspiciously timed.
Yesterday, I was on break—legally mandated fifteen minutes, thank you very much—sharing coffee with Thomas from Legal. Nice guy. Explaining the building layout because I still got lost on the regular.
My phone buzzed. Alan: "Bring me the Mercier contract. Now."
I excused myself, tracked down the assistant who handled Mercier accounts. She looked genuinely confused. "He's not supposed to need this until tomorrow. I haven't even finalized—"
"Well, he needs it now."
And of course she handed it over, because no one disobeyed the CEO.
Today, same thing. I was talking to Marc from IT about my computer freezing every five seconds. He was leaning over my screen while I watched him work from my seat at the desk when the phone buzzed.
Alan. Some urgent document that apparently couldn't wait. Again.
The pattern was getting obvious. And deeply annoying.
Every time I talked to a male colleague, suddenly Alan needed something. Immediately. Urgently. Right fucking now.
My suspicion meter was redlining.
By evening, I was in his office sorting papers, the silence so thick it had texture. Glass walls meant everyone could see us, but somehow it still felt intimate. Charged.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it and kept sorting.
Buzzed again. Alan glanced up, frowning slightly. I ignored it harder.
Third buzz. When his frown deepened, I only silenced my phone without looking.
Fourth buzz…
"Do you need to take that?" His voice had an edge.
"No, I'm—" I pulled out my phone to silence it permanently.
Sofia's name lit up the screen. Text message preview: “Amélie's fever is rising. Please come as soon…”
My throat closed and everything stopped—my breathing, my heartbeat, the entire fucking world. I read the full message.
Sofia: Amélie's fever is rising. Please come as soon as you can.
Alan was still talking. Numbers. Projections. Things that didn't matter. Lives weren't collapsing in his perfectly temperature-controlled universe.
"Monsieur Delaunay." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Please, I need to step out. My daughter—"
"After the presentation."
He didn't even look up for an answer and with that the old fear flickered. The one that said any mistake would cost me everything.
But this was Amélie. My daughter.
And suddenly his presentation could burn.
"She's in the hospital," I said quietly. "And I won't let her face that alone."
Silence. Long and unbearable. The kind that stretches until you think you might suffocate. Then he finally looked up. Actually looked at me.
Something flickered in his expression, but gone too fast to read.
"Go," he murmured, voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "Just don't make it a habit."
I didn't wait for him to change his mind. Rain was falling by the time I reached the hospital. Heavy and relentless. Like Paris itself was crying with me.
The glass doors slid open on that familiar soundtrack and I ran straight to my destination.
Room 104.
Amélie was sleeping beneath a tangle of tubes. Cheeks flushed with fever. A paper swan clutched in her small hand—the one I'd folded last week during a long night here.
I brushed a curl from her forehead. Hot. Too hot. Then exhaled the breath I'd been holding since that text.
"She spiked around four," Sofia said from the doorway. Doctor mode. "Hundred and three point nine."
"Is she—"
"Not critical. We've got her stable."
"Stable." The word tasted like ash. "What does that actually mean?"
"It means she's fighting. And we're helping her fight."
Sofia moved around the room checking monitors and adjusting IVs. Doing all those competent doctor things that made her invaluable and me completely useless.
"We'll do everything possible, Élise. You know that." I nodded, because couldn't speak. Didn't trust my voice. "You can't lose hope. Not now."
"Hope…" I almost laughed. Almost. "That's all I have left."
She squeezed my shoulder and after a while left me alone with my daughter. I sat in the chair I'd sat in a hundred times before. Held Amélie's small hand. Closed my eyes.
‘Please,’ I thought to whatever deity might be listening. ‘Please not her. Take me. Take everything. Just not her.’
The desperate prayer of mothers everywhere.
Time passed in that weird hospital way where minutes feel like hours and hours feel like seconds. Sofia checked in periodically. Updated me with words I barely understood.
I nodded. Agreed. Whatever it took.
Eventually, visiting hours ended. Hospital rules. The polite but firm reminder that I couldn't actually live here.
I kissed Amélie's forehead, still too warm, whispered promises I wasn't sure I could keep and left.
The taxi ride through Paris was all rain and blurred lights. My eyes burned from crying. My chest felt hollowed out. Exhaustion sat on my shoulders like a physical weight.
When my phone chimed, I almost ignored it. Probably Sofia with more updates or another crisis to manage. But I glanced at the screen anyway.
Email notification. Hospital billing department.
My stomach dropped. Here it comes. The official invoice that would destroy me.
I opened it because I'm apparently a masochist.
Your account balance has been updated.
Previous debt balance: €47,392.18
Current debt balance: €0.00
All outstanding charges: PAID IN FULL
Payment source: Anonymous
I stared at the screen. Read it again. Then again. The numbers didn't change. Forty-seven thousand euros. Gone. Erased.
My hands started shaking. This wasn't real. Couldn't be real.
It should be some system glitch. Administrative error. Something that would correct itself by morning and leave me even more fucked than before. Must be.
But the email sat there. Official hospital letterhead. Account number. Date stamp.
Relief hit first—hot and overwhelming, making my chest tight and my eyes burn. Amélie's treatments covered. Then fear crashed over it, cold and suffocating.
Someone had paid this.
Someone knew about Amélie. Someone knew I was desperate. Anonymously. But this definitely can't be true, I'm sure I'll see an error message tomorrow.
I closed the email with trembling fingers. Couldn't look at it anymore. Couldn't process what it meant.
Rain streaked the taxi windows. Paris blurred into meaningless lights.
Tomorrow. I'd deal with this tomorrow. Confirm whether it was real. Figure out—
I couldn't finish the thought. Because right now, all I could feel was grateful and terrified in equal measure.