Chapter 10 Le Comptoir
Le Comptoir
Sofie
Me:
Claudia:
That sounds like heaven. Savannah’s nap should line up if we start late morning.
Deacon:
I can handle wheels. I like it when people don’t expect anything from me.
Me:
Perfect. I’ll meet you at the south entrance, then disappear once you’re settled.
Claudia:
You don’t have to disappear.
Me:
I do. But I’ll be close.
Me:
Holiday markets tomorrow. Union Square or Columbus Circle, your call. One ornament each. Claudia chooses. No debate.
Claudia:
Union Square. I like the chaos.
Deacon:
Paul asked if he could come.
Me:
Yes! Absolutely. Early dinner in Little Italy after. Lights, cannoli, home before bedtime. Savannah asleep on your shoulder if we time it right.
Claudia:
You’re not coming again, are you?
Me:
I’ll be there. Just not where you can see me.
Deacon:
That sounds sad.
Me:
It’s strategic.
Which is true, but not in the way I hope they take it.
Me:
I can’t make the Montreal or Detroit game. End-of-year Fairfax Media obligations. I’ll have it covered. You good with Hildy and Priya, neither is on at Pembrooke either night?
Claudia:
Is there anything I can do to help?
Me:
I will reach out if I can think of anything. I promise. See you both at the park!
I flop back on my bed and groan. I know she’s worried about the bruise she saw a few weeks ago after a particularly bad episode where Dad thought I was someone else.
For the life of me, I didn’t catch the name, not when he was trying to remove me from the penthouse physically.
Thankfully, Matteo stepped in, and he hasn’t left since.
And I’m sure they are seeing this… whatever it is between Kilovac and me that just keeps getting louder.
Distancing myself will lessen whatever is pressing against the edges of things I can’t afford to let crack.
Fairfax doesn’t survive on impulse, and neither do I. So, I shut it down, tighten the walls, and do what I always do, work.
Which reminds me…
I’m over the giant spreadsheet; I printed it out in an attempt to figure out what feels off about the comm projections for the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day.
The numbers are fine. That’s what’s bothering me.
Engagement is steady. Spend is within tolerance. Nothing is spiking, nothing is crashing. On paper, it’s a week everyone expects to be quiet. Soft launches, light touchpoints, placeholder language until the calendar turns.
But the phrasing is wrong. Not incorrect. Not sloppy. Just… aligned in a way it shouldn’t be.
The exact words are appearing in places that don’t usually talk to each other. Internal decks. Draft talking points. A set of “if asked” responses that no one has officially asked for yet.
Continuity. Familiarity. Reassurance.
The door opens without a knock.
“Nothing ever changes.” Matteo, coat draped over his arm, coffee in hand.
“You used to sit right there,” he adds, nodding toward my side of the desk. “Same week every year. Between Christmas and New Year’s. Always working on something no one else thought mattered yet.”
I don’t look up. “I still need it in print.”
He smiles. “Of course you do.”
“I just use less glitter now.”
“That’s growth,” he says solemnly, then leans over my shoulder, eyes flicking across the spreadsheet. “You’re not looking at the numbers.”
“No,” I say. “I’m looking at the echo.”
He hums quietly. “Someone’s practicing a story.”
“That’s what it feels like.”
Matteo straightens, unbothered. “Stories don’t practice themselves.”
The buzz from my desk phone cuts through the moment.
My secretary’s voice comes through, careful in the way it only gets when she’s concerned.
“Hugo Vale on line one,” she says, worry evident. “He says it’s… time sensitive.”
I sit down in Dad’s chair and reach for the receiver, “Put him through.”
As the line clicks open, Matteo squeezes my shoulder. “Let me know if you need me. I’ll be up with Arthur.”
“Thank you,” I mouth and hit the button. “This is Sofie.”
“Hugo Vale,” he says.
“Is this about Claudia or Savannah?” I ask immediately.
“No,” Hugo says. “But you and I need to meet.”
“Okay, when is a good time?”
“I am not free until ten PM. I know you typically hit Icehouse after the games, but this is time-sensitive. There’s a place across the road. French. Meet then?”
“Alright.”
He ends the call without saying goodbye.
The man has zero manners, although I’ve yet to meet a good lawyer who isn’t too wrapped up in their work to forget basic manners.
At nine fifty, I’m stepping into Le Comptoir, all low light and dark wood, the kind of place where conversations stay put, and nobody blinks at late dinners. The windows fog just enough to blur the street outside, candlelight catching on polished brass and white linen.
Hugo is already here. Jacket draped over the chair like it was placed, not shrugged. Legal pad untouched. Expression grave but contained, which tells me everything I need to know.
We order without looking at the menus. Hugo doesn’t waste time.
“Your sisters contacted my office this morning,” he says.
My jaw tightens. “Why?”
“To retain us,” he replies. “Against Fairfax interests.”
“On what grounds?” I ask calmly.
He studies me. “Which is why we’re meeting here.
I’m advising you to retain me personally.
And because you and I had a conversation two months ago,” he pauses.
We absolutely didn’t, but no one can prove that.
I’ve been to his office at least twice with Claudia.
“I can act quickly if this escalates.” He slides a document across the linen, pen following. “Before I say another word.”
I read it once. Sign. Slide it back.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Now we can talk.” I nod. “This isn’t about money, it’s about control. And perception.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say. “I always do.”
“Filings are being drafted. Claims of exclusion. Governance pressure. They’re arguing access.”
I lean back slightly, the restaurant hum settling around us. “They’re not being excluded, they’ve never once asked to work for Dad, just for money.”
He studies me, no doubt sensing I’m not telling him everything.
“It’s about control,” I say at last. “Perception. And money.”
His mouth tightens. “So, the rumors are true.”
“Rumors?” I ask.
“That your sisters think you’re consolidating power faster than expected,” he says. “That proximity to your father has become leverage.”
The waiter arrives before I can respond, setting down our plates with quiet efficiency. Steak frites, simply done. A seared cut resting beside crisp fries, a small green salad dressed in sharp mustard vinaigrette. He pours a Burgundy Pinot Noir that’s already breathing, then disappears.
Hugo doesn’t touch his glass or speak until the waiter leaves the area.
“If we’re going to fight this,” he says evenly, “I need to know everything.”
I nod once.
Quietly, over the steam rising from the plates, I tell him.
About the missed details, I notice before anyone else does. About the way some days are clearer than others. About the adjustments we’ve made without announcing them. About how carefully we’ve contained it.
When I finish, Hugo doesn’t speak right away.
Instead, he glances toward the window, and I follow his line of sight to the glow from Icehouse flickering against the glass.
“I think there’s been a leak,” he says.
My spine goes rigid. “About what?”
“Your father’s health,” he replies. “Not specifics. But enough to start people asking the right questions.”
I keep my face neutral. “From where?”
“I don’t know yet,” he says. “That’s why I asked you to meet here. Not in your building. Not in mine. Anywhere with walls, staff, or security tied to Fairfax is compromised until we know more.”
“So, this isn’t precaution,” I say quietly.
“No,” Hugo answers. “It’s containment.”
He finally takes a sip of wine.
“They’re moving early because they think time is a factor,” he continues. “Whether they know the truth or not doesn’t matter. They believe it.”
I push my fries around the plate, appetite gone.
“They’ll frame it as concern,” he adds. “For him. For the company.”
“While positioning themselves,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I need this kept quiet,” I say.
“And it will be,” Hugo replies. “But until we identify the leak, assume anything said near your father travels.”
I meet his gaze. “Then we say less.”
A thin smile crosses his face. Approval, not comfort. “Exactly. Now we’re aligned.”
“There’s one person you can rule out,” I say. “Completely.”
Hugo looks at me, waiting.
“Matteo,” I continue. “My father’s chief of staff. His closest confidant since the beginning. Before the Fairfax PR became Fairfax Media. Before it had divisions and a building.”
Hugo’s expression doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens.
“He would never,” I say flatly. Not defensively. Factually. “He’s protected my father longer than anyone. Longer than me.”
“I’m glad you trust him,” Hugo replies. “Truly.”
“But” I say.
“But,” he agrees. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t look anyway.”
The words land clean, professional, unyielding.
I sit back, fingers curling around the stem of my glass. “That’s not acceptable.”
Hugo holds my gaze. “It’s necessary.”
“No,” I say quietly. “It’s invasive. And if you push there, you damage something I cannot afford to damage.”
He considers me for a moment longer than is polite.
“Your loyalty is admirable,” he says. “It’s also exactly how leaks survive.”
“That doesn’t apply here,” I snap, heat slipping through despite myself. “Matteo is not staff. He is family in every way that matters.”
“I hear you,” Hugo says calmly. “And I’m telling you that trust doesn’t exempt someone from process.”
“I won’t allow it.”
He exhales slowly, then nods once, “Then I’ll ask forgiveness, not permission.”
My jaw tightens. “Hugo.”
“If Matteo is clean, this ends quietly,” he continues. “If he isn’t, you’ll want to know before someone else proves it for you.”
“That’s not how this works,” I say.
“It is when the alternative is blind faith,” he replies.
The silence between us stretches, taut and dangerous. Finally, he softens just a fraction.
“I won’t touch him publicly,” Hugo says. “No interviews, no alerts, no ripples. But I won’t promise you he’s off the table.”
I look past him, out the window, and see Dash’s vehicle pull up and the players piling out. I look away from the distraction, the perfect escape, and back to him. “I’m warning you, if you’re wrong and it gets out and hurts him, you don’t just lose any future counsel I require, you lose my respect.”
Hugo nods. “Understood.”
He reaches for his wine, takes a measured sip.
“And Sofie,” he adds, not unkindly. “If you’re right, this will be over before anyone notices.”
I don’t answer.
Because some things shouldn’t ever have to be proven and because the worst part isn’t the possibility that Hugo is wrong, it’s the reality that if he’s right, something sacred is already broken, and after I lose Dad for good, I’ve lost everyone.
I leave Le Comptoir without finishing my wine.
The cold cuts fast, clean, and I welcome it. My hand goes to my phone automatically, thumb hovering over James, and I stop.
James knows everything about Dad. Could he be the leak?
Hugo’s words won’t leave me alone. Assume anything said near your father travels.
I tuck the phone back into my coat and walk instead, heels striking the pavement too loudly, like noise might keep my thoughts from closing in.
Matteo’s face flashes first. Matteo, who has stood at my father’s side since before there were floors to guard. The idea that his name could be spoken in the same breath as suspicion makes my chest seize.
If not him or James, then who is feeding them information?
I turn the corner and stop short when I hear laughter.
Low. Male. Familiar. Aleks.
I don’t see him at first, just hear him, speaking Russian to someone out of sight. The language sounds different on him, rougher, freer. He laughs again, and something in me finally fractures.
I retreat into the shadows, crouching behind a stack of delivery crates, coat pulled tight like it might hold me together. My breathing goes shallow immediately. Too fast. Too uneven.
Footsteps approach. Then stop. Then closer. Aleks rounds the corner, irritation already on his face.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps. “You spying now?”
I don’t answer.
He gestures sharply. “Stand up.”
I don’t move.
He steps closer, crouches in front of me, and his expression changes fast.
My eyes are red. My hands are shaking, I can’t stop them. I can’t slow my breathing.
“Sofie,” he says, quieter. “What happened?”
I shake my head. Words feel unsafe.
“Call your driver,” he says, defaulting to logistics. “You shouldn’t be out here like this.”
“No,” I whisper.
He frowns. “You’re scared to go home.”
I can’t freaking breathe.
He straightens and pulls out his phone. “Okay, I’ll call a car.”
“Aleks—”
“Stop,” he cuts in. “You’re not walking. And you’re not going with someone who could see you like this, hurt you.”
He turns away, speaks low and fast into the phone, and then holds out his hand, “Come on.”
I take it because my legs won’t hold me otherwise.
The car pulls up quietly. Aleks opens the door, shields me from the cold, then slides in beside me without asking.
We don’t talk, I can’t. He gives the driver an address, but I can’t focus enough to know if it’s mine or someone else’s.
The ride is short. Too short to be my place. When we pull up, I realize where we are before the door opens. The Puck Pad. His place. Where he lives with Faulker and Marshall, Paul.
“Can’t.” That’s all I can manage.
“You’re safe here,” he says, not looking at me. “Faulker and Marshall are out.”
He gets out first, helps me out, scans the street once, and shields me with his big body before guiding me inside like it’s instinct.
He closes the door behind us, the lock clicking into place, and finally turns.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he says. “But you’re staying until you’re steady.”
I sink onto the bench, hands twisting in my lap, chest still tight.
Aleks leans against the wall across from me, arms crossed, “Breathe. Just breathe.”
I hold my hand to my chest, “Can’t.”
“Then I’ll have to call Claudia.”
“No,” I gasp.
“Gospodi,” he grumbles.