Chapter 3 #4
“The Exposé will be held in Souverain Lafontaine’s chateau. I need a distraction while I look around for a bit.” Fernand code for stealing. “Nothing big, but I need all focus on you for a minute while I slip away.”
“No.” She staggered back toward the door she should’ve never walked through. “No one messes with the Counseil and lives. I’m not one of your na?ve little faithfuls anymore, Fernand. I won’t sacrifice everything just so you can line your pockets.”
“Damn it, Elara! It’s not about that. We have a chance to really change things this time!” He raked a hand through his curls. “Lafontaine has something important, something he doesn’t want to get out. If I can find it, maybe I can—”
“Enough! I don’t want to know anything anymore. This isn’t a game!”
Dangling her dreams in front of her as a way to feed his own selfishness was ruthless even for him.
His shoulders drooped, softer. Like the lover he used to be.
“I know it’s not.” Slower this time, like a question, he reached for her fingers, and—damn her—she let him take them and twine them with his own.
“Help me, and you’ll see. We’ll finally be able to turn the tide for the Restes. I just need everyone at the Exposé to look away for five minutes.”
Gaetan would want her to deny him, to get back out there and try to find someone who would take her in. But Gaetan wasn’t starving with nowhere else to go.
The pristine box glimmered just behind Fernand, a clean slate.
And it wasn’t an unreasonable task. Everyone at the Exposé would be looking to impress with their most powerful creations.
The Counseil would spend the night being dazzled and distracted.
Elara just needed to be a little more head-turning.
No. Elouise Auclair had to be a little more head-turning.
The documents were solid. Real. The backstory just plausible enough to work and keep her real identity away from anyone who so much as looked twice.
“No one’s asking you to win,” he added. “We both know you won’t even make it through the Exposé into the real rounds.”
The truth stung, especially hearing it from him.
“What if the coat doesn’t work?” she heard herself ask.
He motioned. “Try it.”
“Now?”
“All you have to do is believe you’re not Elara Rousseau.”
He said it like a taunt, and that’s what made her grab it. The sturdy material was heavy yet soft. It was smooth and rich, the finest fabric she’d ever seen, let alone held.
This was the only way she could preserve her mother’s real legacy. Corinne Rousseau had also been a brilliant chef, and the only way Elara could share that with the world was by abandoning the name she’d destroyed.
The coat. The papers. They were her way out.
Elouise Auclair was an untested recipe, capable of being anything.
If she performed well at the Exposé, her name—her new name—would spread, and she could find an apprenticeship across the Joyaux.
She could leave behind the unpaid rent, the curse of Rousseau, and all the troubles she’d amassed.
And one day, when she finally became Directeur, she could build her mother’s dream bakery.
If this damned coat didn’t kill her first.
The fabric slipped over her arms, shaping and reshaping to fit her wide frame and bold curves. It stretched around her middle and hugged her close and warm. No more rashes from hand-me-down clothes, no more buttons bursting off their strings.
It fit perfectly.
The name, Elouise Auclair, flickered as if trying to discern whether she was its true owner.
This was her way out. Forever.
“If I do this, I’m gone.” He went to reply, but she held up a finger.
“I won’t come back until I’m a Directeur and able to buy the café.
” She kept his gaze locked as she gently pulled the neck of her dress down, just enough to reveal the tattoo.
It was ablaze now, licking orange and red flames across her chest. “No more calling for me. I’ll have this removed. We’re finished.”
Of all the reactions, she never expected to see pain across his furrowed face. It was a glimpse past the hardened Restes vagrant to the boy she’d once loved.
Tender. Daring. Protective.
Which made it all the more painful to watch his expression sharpen to ice. “Deal. Try it. Say your name.”
Her mother’s name.
Her new name.
Elara took a shaky breath, closed her eyes, and let the past go, holding on to only the things she wanted to carry forward. Goodbye to secret rebel meetings and the memory of clutching her mother’s dying body. Goodbye to stolen kisses with Fernand as they crafted plans by candlelight.
She tried to envision the things Elouise Auclair might need: bread lessons with Gaetan, discovering flavor profiles with her mother, a stunning enrollment season performance, the struggles of being a Restes baker.
“I … am … Elouise Auclair.”
She waited, but the collar didn’t cinch her throat; the threads released no poison. Her new name glimmered up at her, content.
Fernand turned on his heel to pour another drink. “One night, and you’re free.”
Carefully, she folded the coat back into the parcel.
Then she faced him, drink raised for one final toast.
“Deal.”