Chapter 11 #2
“Freedom,” I answer before I can edit myself.
“You moved through that world like you belonged but weren’t bound by it.
Everyone else at those parties—including me—we were performing.
You were playing. Like you knew the rules but refused to be impressed by them.
” I lean forward. “And when you played piano, you stopped hiding. That’s when I knew—whatever name you gave me, whoever you were pretending to be, whatever you claim—that was real. ”
Her lips purse, faintly. “But I was playing a role.”
“Were you? When you listened to me share things I hadn’t told anyone? When you fell asleep with your head on my chest? Or when you left without saying goodbye because goodbye might’ve hurt?”
Color drains from her face.
Bull’s-eye, and I hate that it feels like one.
She looks down at her tea, and for three seconds—maybe five—she doesn’t move. When she speaks, her voice is quieter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I keep my tone gentle, not triumphant. “You left because staying would’ve meant something. And you couldn’t afford for it to mean something.”
Her jaw tightens. I’ve crossed a line, but I’m not backing down.
“I know you feel it too,” I say softly. “It didn’t die when you disappeared.”
She looks out the window. “Feeling something and acting on it are different things.”
“Are they? You could’ve ignored my text. You didn’t.”
“I came because you’re a client.”
“Bullshit.”
I regret the volume the second it leaves my mouth. Not the truth—just the force.
Heads turn at nearby tables. An older woman in pearls raises an eyebrow. I lean closer, dropping my voice. This isn’t a scene I want to make with her. “You came because this isn’t finished. And you know it.”
Her gaze flicks up—unguarded, vulnerable, real—for just a breath.
“What do you want from me?” she whispers.
“Everything,” I say. “Starting with the truth. You. Whatever that looks like now.”
“You want a fantasy.” She straightens, composure snapping back. “You want the woman who never existed.”
“I want the woman sitting in front of me. The one who can pick a lock in thirty seconds and still drink mint tea like it’s an art form. I want her not as an escape, as an answer.”
Silence stretches, heavy with risky possibility.
Finally, she stands, leaving bills on the table.
“I live six blocks from here,” she says quietly. “If you want to walk me home, that’s your choice. But you’re not coming in.”
The boundary should cool me off. It doesn’t. It makes everything sharper. “I’ll walk you.”
Outside, the October air smells of rain and rusted leaves.
A few streetlights blink on early, amber halos cutting through the late-afternoon haze.
We fall into step too easily—close enough that I catch her warmth through the wool of her sweater, close enough that one wrong swing of my hand would be contact.
“You really searched for me for six months?” she asks.
“Six months actively. Three years mentally.”
“That’s…” she exhales. “Romantic.”
“Foolish,” I counter.
“Foolish,” she agrees softly. “But romantic.”
“I don’t do things halfway.”
“I’ve noticed.”
We pass a park where an old man feeds pigeons, the birds trusting his consistency.
“What happened to Sophie Dubois?” I ask.
“She was retired. Exposed.”
“But the art knowledge—the piano—that was real.”
“The best covers are built on truth.”
“And the worst lies,” I murmur, “on omission.”
Her glance holds reluctant respect. “You’re more perceptive than I expected.”
“Why? Because I’m wealthy?”
“Because you’re a man.”
Fair. “Tell me about your real life.”
“There’s not much to tell. I work. I train. I read. Sometimes I play piano.”
“Lonely?”
“Productive.”
“You ever miss it?” I ask. “The life you had as Sophie Dubois?”
“Sometimes.” She’s quiet for half a block. “Not the lying. But the...fluidity. Being able to slip into a room and become whoever was needed. In truth, I still have that from time to time, depending on the assignment.”
“That’s not so different from what I do,” I say. “Every investor meeting, every club opening—I’m performing too.”
She glances at me, something like recognition in her eyes. “The difference is you believe your performance. I never do.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re better at it.”
We reach her building—prewar brick, elegant in its restraint. No doorman here. Just quiet authenticity.
“This is me,” she says simply.
She’s one step above me—just enough height that I have to tilt my head to meet her eyes. Just enough distance to keep me civilized. “Thank you. For trusting me with that.”
“Don’t read too much into it.”
But I do.
Every choice she’s made today means something.
“Brie,” I say, her name tasting different in the city bustle. “Whatever happens with the investigation—finding you again feels like the first good thing in years.”
Her expression softens; conflict etched in the glow of the afternoon sun.
“I have to go,” she says, not moving.
“Breakfast?”
“Office,” she counters. “You’re buying time.”
“I’m the client.”
She exhales, gaze dropping. “This can’t happen again.”
“Why?”
“Because it can’t. Tomorrow, we’re back to being professional.”
“I can be professional when required.”
“You’re at my residence—that’s not professional.”
I nod, though I’m not convinced.
She starts up the steps, then pauses. “For what it’s worth,” she says softly, “that weekend was real. But that’s all it was, and all it can be.”
“Why? Are you married?”
She lifts her head, startled. “No. If I were, we wouldn’t have happened. I’m not what you want, Adrien. And you’re not what I want.”
It’s astonishing, the precision with which she can unmake me—one sentence, scalpel-sharp.
“We’re not good for each other.”
Then she’s gone, the door closing with a soft, final click.
I stand on the sidewalk longer than is reasonable, scanning windows. Third floor, maybe fourth—I don’t even know which apartment is hers. But I watch anyway, like some Victorian suitor waiting for a candle in the window.
The building keeps its secrets. So does she.
But she told me the truth about Monaco. And she let me walk her home. And those two things—small as they are—feel like hope.
When I finally hail a cab, the city glows around me—gold reflected off wet pavement, the last sunlight mirrored in glass. I carry the image of her face in that afternoon light, the one true thing in a world built on shine.
It’s not much.
But it’s a beginning.