I slammed my apartment door so hard it echoed through the entire corridor. Probably pissed off the neighbors. Didn't care.
Heels off. Thrown somewhere. They could live on the floor. I was done being civilized.
Then I heard footsteps on the stairs.
"What the…" A man appeared, arms spread wide, grin so bright it could power a small city. "Luc?!"
My brother rushed down and grabbed me in a bear hug, laughing at my complete shock. "Surprise, sœur!"
I breathed in his familiar cologne. The cheap one he insisted was "vintage inspired" but really just smelled like a tourist shop in Montmartre.
"When did you… I thought you weren't back for another three months."
He pulled back, hands on my shoulders, smile softening. "I know you need me. And Amélie needs me. What kind of brother and uncle am I if I don't come back early?"
Something in my chest cracked. Good crack, the kind that lets air in.
"You're an idiot," I said.
"Yeah, but I'm your idiot."
We ordered pizza and pastries because cooking was for people who had their lives together. Neither of us qualified.
Ended up on the balcony floor—cold tiles, Paris night air, wine glasses, scattered takeout boxes.
Luc stretched out, propping himself against the railing. "So. Amélie. How is she really?"
"She had a fever spike today." I took a sip of wine. "But she's stable now."
"And the bills? Last time we talked, you were drowning."
I stared at my glass. "Someone paid them. All of them. Forty-seven thousand euros. But i don’t think it’s true—some system glitch maybe"
He nearly choked on his pizza. "What? Who?"
"Anonymously."
"Élise." He set down his slice, eyes sharp. "People don't just pay fifty thousand euros anonymously. That's not charity. That's—" He stopped. "Does your boss know about Amélie?"
My stomach tightened. "He knows I have a daughter. He let me leave work today when she spiked the fever."
"And he's obscenely rich, right?"
"Luc—"
"Think about it. You start working for this billionaire. Then suddenly your hospital bills vanish? Come on."
"That's insane. Why would he do that?"
"I don't know. Control? Interest?" He studied my face. "Or maybe there's something else going on."
Heat crawled up my neck. I looked away. "Oh shit." His grin returned. "You like him."
"I don't—"
"You're blushing! You never blush!"
I took a long drink. "It doesn't matter. Even if he did pay—which is ridiculous—it doesn't mean anything good."
"Why not?"
"Because rich people don't do things out of kindness, Luc. Everything has a price."
"Maybe he likes you and doesn't know how else to show it."
"By buying my compliance?" I shook my head. "That's not—I can't think like that."
"But you are thinking about him." He picked up his guitar, started playing softly. "A lot, apparently."
I stood, pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. Watched smoke curl into Paris night.
"What are you thinking about so hard?" Luc asked.
I didn't answer.
"Is it him?" I turned, gave him a look and then his eyes went wide. "It IS!"
I sighed. "I don't know, Luc. I feel like I know him even though I don't. Like we're closer than I realize somehow." I took a drag. "And I think I'm starting to like him. Which is a problem because I really, really don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Because he's my boss. Because there's a power imbalance the size of the Eiffel Tower. Because if he did pay those bills, I need to know why. What he wants from me."
Luc set down his guitar. Walked over. "Life is short, Élise. If you like him, figure out what's actually going on. Just don't run from it because you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified." He bumped my shoulder. "But you're thinking about it. Which means it's already too late. You're already in it."
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Because he was right.
* * *
The next morning, I walked into Alan's office like nothing had happened. Like my entire world hadn't shifted slightly off its axis.
No comment about Amélie's fever or my brother showing up or the emotional crisis I'd had on my balcony. No mention of the hospital bills mysteriously paid.
Just professionalism and repression. My two favorite coping mechanisms.
I stood beside his desk, waiting for orders. The atmosphere already felt thick. Charged with something unsaid. So I cleared my throat trying to sound casual, confident even.
All the things I absolutely wasn't.
"Monsieur Delaunay, I've been meaning to ask. Maybe you'd like to share a coffee sometime—"
He held out a file. Didn't even look up from his screen.
"I need you to prepare these documents for my engagement. My fiancée and I need everything finalized by next week."
My heart stopped and dropped through the floor. Then through the building, straight to the center of the earth.
I stood there. A complete frozen statue of humiliation.
When Alan looked up, there was a slight confusion in his expression. "Did you say something?"
He hadn't even heard me. My pathetic attempt at asking him out.
He'd just... talked right over it.
I swallowed the knot trying to strangle me from the inside. "Nothing," I managed. Voice barely working. "It was… nothing."
I grabbed the file and left before I could do something stupid. Like cry or scream or throw his expensive paperweight through his expensive window.
The hallway was too bright. Too long. My heels clicked against marble too loudly.
Fiancée.
Of course he had a fiancée. Of course he was engaged.
Every moment I'd replayed in my head suddenly reframed itself with sickening clarity. When he'd grabbed my wrist at the Henri Passel meeting, pulling me away from that creep—he'd been engaged. When he'd let me leave for Amélie's fever, voice going soft—engaged. Every time I'd caught him watching me through the glass walls, every charged silence in elevators, every interruption when I talked to male colleagues—all of it while planning his wedding to Anna Artois.
And last night. God. Last night when Luc had convinced me that life was short and I should go for it. When I'd actually believed there might be something between us worth pursuing.
The attraction didn't make sense anymore. It never had. He was my boss, engaged, completely unavailable, and I'd built an entire fantasy around possessive hand-grabs and the way his cologne made my pulse race.
But knowing it made no sense didn't make it hurt less. Didn't stop my chest from feeling hollowed out. Didn't stop the humiliation from burning through every nerve ending.
Of course I'd let myself feel something for a man who was literally planning his wedding.
I made it to my desk. Sat down and opened the file with shaking hands.
Documents about the engagement. Guest lists. Venue contracts. All the proof I needed that I was an absolute idiot.
My phone buzzed.
Luc: How'd it go?
I typed back with trembling fingers.
Me: He's engaged.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Luc: Fuck. I'm sorry.
Yeah. Me too.