Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
MADELINE
Sunlight hits my face and I groan.
I roll over and spend three full seconds not knowing where I am.
White ceiling. Gray linens. Air that smells like fresh flowers and dry-cleaned silk.
Paris. Right.
étienne Laurent's guest room. Where I'm supposed to be a professional. Where I definitely did not spend half the night thinking about the way he looked at me in that foyer, like I was a problem he hadn't solved yet.
I also touched his photograph like a creep and he caught me doing it.
Fantastic start, Madeline.
The bed is ridiculous. The kind of soft that makes you understand why rich people always look so rested. There's a writing desk by the window with peonies in a crystal vase, and the bathroom has one of those rain showers I've only seen in magazines.
I haven't met Sophie yet. étienne said I'd meet her this morning, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. Five au pairs in two years. That's a turnover rate that tells you either the child is impossible or the situation is. Probably both.
I'd read the file on the train, memorizing details the way Prestwick taught us: know your household before you enter it, understand the family before you serve them.
étienne took over the company at twenty-two after his parents died, and he's spent the last eighteen years turning Laurent Couture into something both classic and ruthlessly modern.
The fashion press calls him exacting. His former employees, according to a few carefully worded Glassdoor reviews, call him other things.
Sophie is eight. Only child. And given that her father runs Laurent Couture—three generations of Parisian fashion, the kind of house that doesn't advertise because it doesn't need to—I'm expecting opinions.
And not just her. That's the part that makes this placement unlike anything Prestwick typically assigns to someone fresh out of training.
Three families. Three children. Three fathers who, for reasons no one has fully explained, can't seem to be in the same room without incident.
The children are inseparable—Sophie and a boy named Luc and a girl named Emma—which means their fathers have to coordinate pickups and schedules and playdates, and apparently they're so bad at it that their school issued some kind of ultimatum.
My job is to rotate between all three households, one week at a time, and turn the chaos into something functional.
If I can pull this off, it changes everything.
Prestwick placements are currency—the right one opens doors that stay closed to everyone else.
A girl from my cohort, Camille, got a placement in Singapore and came back with connections that set her up for life.
Another graduate, Natasha, landed an English estate family and they're already talking permanent residency.
I got the impossible placement. The one that everyone else failed.
But I'm going to make it work or die trying.
That's why, this early morning, I've already reviewed the file a second time and quickly overviewed the binder étienne gave me last night, which covers everything from Sophie's snack preferences to the operation of the barista-grade dual-boiler espresso system.
My phone says 7:14. I shower in the absurd bathroom, dress in black trousers and a cream silk blouse that says I take myself seriously, and check my reflection with the critical eye Prestwick drilled into us. Professional. Competent. Not the kind of person who touches photographs inappropriately.
The hallway is quiet. I'm almost to the kitchen when a door opens behind me.
"Miss Blake."
I turn, and there's étienne standing in a doorway, already in a dark suit but not quite ready.
No tie yet, collar open, hair still damp at the temples.
A single drop of water trailing down the side of his neck that I have absolutely no business tracking.
The morning light catches him at an angle I wish it hadn't.
Down, girl. He's your employer.
"Before you see Sophie," he says, and it's not a question. He steps back into what I realize is his office, leaving the door open in a way that's clearly an invitation. Or a summons. With him, I'm not sure there's a difference.
I follow.
The room is exactly what I expected—dark wood, leather, books that look actually read—and also nothing like I expected at all.
A corkboard near the window is covered with what must be Sophie's drawings: fashion sketches, butterflies, what looks like a very detailed diagram of a croissant.
A ceramic mug rests on the shelf with "#1 PAPA" painted in wobbly letters.
He keeps his daughter's art in his office. Right where he can see it.
étienne moves to the window, his back to me, hands clasped behind him. The posture of a man preparing to say something he doesn't want to say.
"I should tell you," he says finally, "that I didn't want this arrangement."
"The rotation?"
"Any of it." He turns, and his face is controlled, careful, but there's tension in his jaw that tells me more than his words. "The other fathers—Bastien Moreau and Raphael Beaumont—we don't work well together. Not anymore."
Anymore. The word hangs there. I think about the photograph in the foyer—three men laughing on a boat, arms around each other, easy and happy in a way that seems impossible given what he's describing now.
"The children are best friends," he continues. "Sophie and Luc and Emma. They've been inseparable since they were toddlers. Which means their fathers have to cooperate whether we want to or not. And we..." He pauses. "We have not been cooperating."
"What happened?"
The question comes out before I can stop it. His expression flickers—something raw, quickly suppressed—and then the mask slides back into place.
"That's not relevant to your position."
I don't push.
"What is relevant," he says, "is that the school has concerns.
The pickup situation has become... complicated.
There have been incidents. Heated words in front of staff.
Scheduling conflicts that escalated beyond what they should have.
The headmistress has made it clear that if we can't demonstrate cooperative parenting, there will be consequences for the children's enrollment. "
I absorb this. Three powerful men who can't get along. Three children caught in the middle. One school ready to intervene.
"There's a meeting this afternoon," he says. "At the school. With all three families. You'll meet Bastien and Raphael there."
I nod. "And Sophie? What do I need to know before breakfast?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then, softer: "She'll test you. She tests everyone. It's not personal—it's protection. She learned early that people leave, so she pushes first." His eyes meet mine. "Don't let her push you away. She's worth the effort."
The way he says it—she's worth the effort—it's like he's had to convince people before.
"I'm not easy to push," I assure him.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Almost a smile. "We'll see."
Sophie is holding a piece of cereal like it's evidence in a criminal trial.
I find her in the kitchen—all white marble and copper and morning light—conducting what appears to be a forensic examination of her breakfast. She's wearing a navy dress with a Peter Pan collar, her dark hair in two perfect braids, and she looks like a miniature fashion editor about to deliver a scathing review.
"This is American," she announces, tilting the cereal piece left, then right. "The sugar content is unconscionable. The texture is aggressively cheerful. I can only assume someone purchased it as a joke."
"Bonjour to you too."
She looks up, those pale eyes sweeping over me with an assessing gaze that feels like an X-ray. I watch her catalog my outfit, registering approval or disapproval in micro-expressions I can barely track.
"The blouse is Equipment," she says. "Spring collection. Acceptable, though the color is slightly cool for your undertones. The trousers..." She tilts her head. "Zara?"
"Zara."
Her nose wrinkles delicately. Zara has apparently committed a crime against her sensibilities. "We'll work on that."
"Looking forward to it."
I pour myself coffee from the carafe on the counter—strong, dark, exactly what I need—and take the seat across from her. She's still holding the cereal piece like a prosecuting attorney holding up exhibit A.
"I hear you like to test people," I say.
The spoon pauses.
"Who told you that?"
"Lucky guess." I take a sip of coffee, hold her gaze. "I also hear you're worth getting to know. But I suspect you don't believe that."
Something flickers in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or the unease of being seen more clearly than she expected.
"Most people don't think so," she says, recovering quickly. "The last au pair cried. I told her the truth about her outfit and she cried. The blouse was ugly. The fabric was cheap. I was trying to help."
"I'm sure you were."
"She said I was cruel. But I wasn't being cruel. I was being honest. The outfit was terrible."
"Maybe it was. But there's a difference between honesty and cruelty."
"Is there?"
"Honesty is telling someone the truth because they need to hear it. Cruelty is telling them because you need to say it." I set down my coffee cup. "One is about them. The other is about you."
Sophie is quiet. I can almost see her turning the idea over, examining it the way she examined the cereal.
"Luc says you'll quit within the month," she says finally. "Emma says you might be kind. She hopes you'll stay."
"And what do you think?" I ask cooly, trying to give off a disinterested air.
She takes a small, deliberate bite of cereal. Chews. Swallows. Her expression suggests she's suffering nobly.
"I think you're the first one who hasn't tried to be my friend immediately," she says. "The others wanted me to like them. They smiled too much. It was pathetic."
"I'm not here to be your friend. I'm here to do a job."