70. Chapter 70
seventy
M onroe closed her laptop with a quiet click one last time, the sound oddly satisfying.
Around her, the office still hummed with energy.
Phones rang softly, keyboards tapped, and conversations flickered in French and English.
Everyone played their part to keep the publishing house not just functioning, but thriving.
She glanced around once more, letting herself take it in. The shelves stacked with proofs and printed copies, the whiteboards with colour-coded lists, the quiet pride of people who cared deeply about the work they were doing.
It felt good. Busy, but good.
Leaving her laptop where it was—there was no need to lug it home—she stood and slipped on her jacket. A few people smiled and nodded her way, and she returned the gesture with a polite wave as she made her way down the corridor.
Chloé’s office door was half-closed.
Monroe paused, then raised her hand and knocked gently.
“ Entrez ,” came the familiar voice, slightly muffled.
Chloé looked up from her screen as Monroe stepped inside, her eyes instantly softening when they landed on Monroe. “Hey,” she said, already rising from her seat. “You survived day one.”
“I did.” Monroe smiled. “And I left my laptop on the desk. That’s how you know I’m coming back.”
Chloé crossed the room towards her, slipping her arms around Monroe’s waist. “I was hoping you would.”
Monroe leant into the embrace. “I really enjoyed it.”
“I told you,” Chloé murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek, “you belong here just as much as I do.”
The words meant so much more than just the office.
“So,” Monroe asked a little tentatively as she stepped back, giving Chloé space, “how was your day? Nearly finished?”
“I have one more email to answer and then oui , I am done and we can go home.” Chloé walked back around her desk and stopped. Her index finger pressed against the corner as she glanced up at Monroe with a hopeful look. “I promise. No more than ten minutes.”
“I can wait. In fact, it’s not that late. Why don’t I go to the boucherie and pick up something for tonight?” Monroe smiled. “I can point at things and say, deux .”
Chloé laughed. “Okay. I’ll be ready when you return.”
The bell above the butcher’s door jingled as Monroe stepped inside. It was cooler in here, the scent of fresh meat and herbs grounding her. A man in a blood-spattered apron looked up from behind the counter, offering a polite nod.
She stepped forwards, rehearsing the words in her head. She remembered poulet from school, and with a deep breath, she tried.
“ Bonjour ,” she said, then smiled brightly. “ Je suis un poulet, s’il vous pla?t .”
There was a beat of silence before the butcher’s eyebrows lifted, and a smile cracked across his face. “ Vous êtes un poulet? ” he asked, amusement thick in his voice. “ Vraiment? ”
Monroe blinked, cheeks flushing. “Oh—wait, no, no. Je voudrais un poulet . Not…’I am a chicken.’”
The butcher laughed kindly, nodding as he reached for a whole bird, wrapped neatly behind the glass. “ Ah, oui . Much better.”
Monroe laughed too, her nerves easing. “It’s been a while since French classes at school.”
“In that case,” he replied in accented English, “you are doing very well, madame.”
She beamed, taking the wrapped chicken with a little more confidence. “ Merci ,” she said with more energy as she paid.
As she stepped back out into the early evening light, Monroe smiled to herself. Okay, so she wasn’t fluent, but she was trying. And sometimes, trying was enough to make the world smile back. But lessons with Patrice couldn’t come quickly enough.
The short walk gave her time to reflect. The streets were still lively, the golden haze of sunset brushing everything in warmth. She liked it here, more than she’d let herself admit at first. Maybe it wasn’t about fitting in perfectly. Maybe it was just about showing up and making the effort.
By the time she reached the office, the building had quietened. She tapped her code at the side entrance and made her way back up. Chloé was at the door already, coat over one arm and her laptop bag slung over her shoulder.
“Did you make friends with the butcher?” Chloé asked, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“I may have accidentally claimed to be a chicken,” Monroe replied, holding up the paper-wrapped parcel. “But hey, we got there.”
Chloé laughed and leant in to kiss her cheek. “Come on, mon poulet , let’s go home.”