Two Girls From Cressford
Country: Aurivelle
City: Auremont
Alvara
The table had never felt fuller.
Not only with food…though Mom had made everything perfectly, the way she always did when something mattered…but with the warmth of people who had lived through something together and knew it.
Slow-roasted chicken thighs.
Roasted garlic mashed potatoes.
Honey-glazed carrots.
Rich chicken gravy that had been simmering since afternoon.
Both families gathered around one table.
The Danes and the Sorens.
The way it had been since Cressford.
The way, somehow, it always would be.
Leo had been in an exceptionally good mood since six o’clock.
Which meant he had been impossible since six o’clock.
“So,” he said, dropping into his seat with the energy of a man who had prepared material. “You’re both going to Paris tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I said.
Mr. Soren, who had learned to survive Leo’s moods with the patience of a saint, simply reached for the gravy.
“You’re not going,” I said.
“I know.”
“Just confirming.”
“I have made peace with it.”
“You texted me four times today about it,” Isabella said.
“That was grief,” he said solemnly. “It passed.”
Mom sat down and looked around the table.
“Thank you for coming.”
“They live next door,” Leo said.
“Leo,” Mom warned.
“I’m just acknowledging geography.”
He picked up his fork.
Dinner became what dinners should be.
Warm.
Easy.
Alive.
Mr. Soren told a story from work that had everyone laughing.
Leo asked Isabella three separate times if she had packed his list.
“What list?” she asked.
He produced it immediately.
On his phone.
Formatted.
Numbered.
“This has twenty-seven items,” Isabella said.
“You’re going to Paris.”
“I’m going for Fashion Week. Not to restock a department store.”
“Check item fourteen.”
She read it.
“A beret?”
“A specific beret. Details in notes.”
“There are notes?”
“Attached.”
“Leo.”
“The notes are comprehensive.”
“I’m not buying you a beret.”
“Then item seven.”
“No.”
“Item twenty-two is affordable.”
“No.”
“Item three…”
“Leonard,” Mom said.
He put the phone away.
Reached for more potatoes.
“I’ll resend it later,” he muttered.
“I will block your number.”
“From Paris?” he gasped. “You’d block me internationally?”
“Enthusiastically.”
Mr. Soren stared at his plate to hide a smile.
Mom looked briefly toward heaven.
I ate my chicken and felt something so ordinary and so precious I had no word for it.
After dinner, the Sorens stayed for tea.
The evening softened.
Mr. Soren and Mom spoke quietly at the table.
Leo and Isabella continued their argument about the list in the sitting room at reduced volume.
I sat at the kitchen island with tea.
Mom came beside me after a while.
We sat in silence.
Then she said…
“I used to wonder what it would look like.”
I looked at her.
“When you arrived somewhere. When everything you were… everything I could see in you before you could always see it yourself… finally had room.”
My throat tightened.
“I just didn’t know it would look like this.”
“Like what?” I asked.
She turned to me.
“Like you.”
That reached somewhere nothing else could.
“Mom…”
“Go to Paris,” she said simply. “Then come home and tell me everything.”
I reached for her hand.
She held mine.
The kitchen was warm around us.
Leo and Isabella bickering faintly from the next room.
Mr. Soren laughed softly at something unseen.
Everything exactly as it should be.
The Sorens left at nine-thirty.
Isabella paused at the door.
“Eight o’clock,” I said. “Don’t be late.”
“I’m never late.”
“You should say that about yourself,” she added.
“I have never been late.”
She laughed.
“The Maison Aurelle days? The institute? I used to wait hours.”
“Isabella!”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“I hate you.”
“I love you, my love.”
She walked out grinning.
Ridiculous girl.
I was in my room by ten.
The suitcase is open on the floor.
Final checks.
Outfits confirmed.
Accessories packed.
Documents secured.
I was folding the last piece when the door opened.
Leo.
He stood in the doorway.
Then I looked at the suitcase.
“Need help?”
“I’m almost done.”
He came in anyway.
Sat on the bed.
Watch me fold.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“No.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He nodded.
“I would be.”
“You’d also try to smuggle yourself in the luggage.”
“I considered it.”
“I know.”
Silence again.
“I’m proud of you.”
Simple.
Complete.
I stopped folding.
“Leo…”
“Don’t make it weird,” he said immediately. “I said it. So move on.”
I laughed softly.
This boy.
This young man.
Who had grown beside me through everything.
Who said heavy things lightly because that was the only way he knew how.
“Thank you.”
“Move on.”
“Help me with the zipper.”
He stood at once.
Relieved to have a task.
We zipped the suitcase together.
“Will you get me the beret?”
“I’ll get you everything on the list. Send it later.”
“You’re the best sister alive.”
I looked at him.
“Also start researching universities. January intake is close.”
He blinked.
“Any school you want. Money isn’t the problem anymore.”
He turned away too fast.
Trying to hide the tears already in his eyes.
Then faced me again.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“You were my brother,” I said, touching his face. “That was enough.”
“I’m not little.”
“I know.”
He carried the suitcase to the corner.
Then paused.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I was turning away when he stepped forward suddenly and pulled me into a hug.
“Thank you for being my sister,” he said quietly. “Thank you for being so strong.”
Then he let go.
Opened the door.
Left before I could answer.
I smiled into the silence.
I woke up at six.
Dressed carefully.
Dark indigo wide-leg trousers.
Cream fitted turtleneck.
Long camel wool coat.
White sneakers.
Hair in a low bun.
Minimal everything else.
When I stepped into the hallway, Leo appeared immediately and took the suitcase.
“I’ve got it.”
I smiled and followed him downstairs.
Mom was already in the kitchen.
Of course.
Breakfast was waiting.
Simple.
Warm.
Exactly right.
We were outside by seven-thirty.
Isabella stood with her father nearby.
Her assistant beside the driver.
Evander is waiting too.
Leo loaded my suitcase without being asked.
Then I stepped back.
Mom came forward.
Straightened my collar.
The way she always did.
“Call me when you land.”
“I will.”
She held my face for one brief moment.
Then let go.
I turned toward the car.
My phone vibrated.
Seren.
I answered.
“Good morning, Ms. Dane. Quick update before departure. Mr. Hawthorne has arranged his private jet for your travel today.”
I stopped walking.
“His private jet?”
“Yes. Full crew. Departure at nine from the Hawthorne private terminal.”
The November morning stood still around me.
“He won’t travel with you today,” Seren continued. “He arrives tomorrow. But he wanted the trip to be…” she paused. “Right.”
My chest moved.
“He said that?”
“He said…and I quote…‘make sure everything is exactly right.’ ”
I looked up at the pale sky.
Paris in a few hours.
On Grayson’s jet.
Because he wanted it to be right.
“Thank you, Seren.”
“See you at the terminal.”
I turned back.
Mom and Leo were watching me.
Saying nothing.
Isabella was already walking over.
I pulled her aside.
“Grayson sent a private jet.”
She froze.
Then covered her mouth dramatically.
“Alvara.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” I said.
“Do you know what this means?”
“I know. Get in the car.”
We both turned.
Our families were waving.
So we waved back.
Then we left.
The Hawthorne private terminal was exactly what I expected.
Quiet.
Controlled.
Entirely separate from ordinary chaos.
We stepped inside.
Then boarded.
The jet was extraordinary.
Not loud.
Not excessive.
Just elegant enough to never need to prove it.
Cream leather seats.
Soft lighting.
Clean lines.
And on the table beside my seat…
There was a single white rose.
With a card.
I opened it.
Paris deserves you.
I held it for a moment.
Then tucked the card into my bag.
Across the aisle, Isabella pretended to check her phone.
But I saw her smile.
The flight was four hours.
Seren worked.
Olivier, Isabella’s manager, reviewed schedules.
Isabella and I talked about the week ahead.
Shows.
Meetings.
Introductions.
Possibilities.
Then somewhere over the English Channel, we both went quiet.
I looked out the window.
And felt the same thing.
That we were two girls from Cressford.
Flying to Paris Fashion Week.
On a private jet.
With our names on buildings in Auremont.
Isabella reached across the armrest.
Found my hand.
I held hers.
Neither of us spoke.
Paris appeared beneath us like something imagined too beautifully to be real.
Grey.
Golden.
Endless.
More beautiful than photographs.
More real than dreams.
I pressed my fingers to the glass.
And felt every version of myself that had carried me here.
The hotel was in the 8th arrondissement.
Elegant without trying.
Historic in the way only Europe knew how to be.
Our rooms were side by side.
We checked in.
Changed.
Then because Paris was outside and we were in it…
We went walking.
The evening was everything.
Cold November air.
Golden lights.
A city so beautiful it no longer noticed.
We found a small restaurant Isabella chose.
Nothing formal.
Nothing arranged.
Just extraordinary food and a corner table.
At one point she looked around and said…
“We’re actually here.”
“We are.”
“In Paris.”
“Yes, Isabella.”
“For Fashion Week.”
“Yes.”
She laughed softly.
“I keep thinking I’ll wake up.”
“You won’t.”
“Because this is real,” I said. “And real things don’t disappear when you stop looking at them.”
She looked at me.
Then smiled.
I was back in my room by nine-thirty.
Paris glowed outside the window.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Then I picked up my phone.
He answered on the second ring.
“You’re there.”
“I’m here.”
“How is it?”
I looked at the city.
“Exactly what it should be.”
“That’s good.”
“Grayson.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For the jet. For the rose. For… all of it.”
Silence.
That particular kind.
“Always,” he said.
I exhaled slowly.
“I wish you were here.”
The words left before I could stop them.
The line went quiet.
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
His voice was lower now.
“I know.”
“Get some sleep.”
“I will.”
“Alvara.”
“Yes?”
“Paris is lucky to have you in it.”
I pressed my lips together.
I looked out at the lights.
“Goodnight, Grayson.”
“Goodnight.”
And this time…
Neither of us rushed to end it.