Chapter 2 #2
"That's what I told Emma." Sophie pushes her bowl away, apparently finished with both the cereal and this line of questioning. "Papa says we're going to school today. There's a meeting with all three families."
"What happens at these meetings?"
"Madame Dubois sits our fathers down and judges them for not being able to behave." Sophie slides off her chair, smoothing her dress without thinking. "It's very embarrassing for them." She pauses at the doorway, looks back at me. "Our fathers used to be friends. Before."
"Before what?"
But she just shrugs—that particular shrug children have when they know there's a story but no one will tell them what it is.
"Before," she repeats. And then she's gone.
The école Sainte-Marguerite looks like it was built to intimidate children into excellence.
Stone walls, iron gates, a courtyard full of uniformed students moving with the quiet purpose of small adults who've been trained to take themselves seriously.
The building itself is old—centuries old, probably—all arched windows and classical proportions and the particular gravity of institutions that have existed long enough to feel eternal.
I arrive with Bernard, who deposits me at the entrance with a look that might be sympathy.
"Bonne chance, Miss Blake."
I'm going to need it.
The meeting room is on the second floor. Wood-paneled walls, tall windows, portraits of previous headmasters lining the walls with expressions that suggest they've never approved of anything in their lives.
Three men are already seated.
étienne I recognize. He's at the far end of the table, posture rigid, face carefully blank.
He doesn't look at me when I enter, which somehow feels more significant than if he had.
His tie is perfectly knotted now, every trace of this morning's unfinished state erased, and I'm annoyed at myself for noticing.
The man to his left is dark where étienne is pale.
He has wavy hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it all day, brown eyes so deep they're almost black, a face that belongs on a Renaissance painting of someone's beautiful, doomed lover.
He's wearing a cashmere sweater with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and when he looks at me, it's with the slow, thorough attention of someone who's spent his life studying things worth looking at.
Bastien Moreau. Luc's father. Gallery owner.
The third man is the biggest of the three—broad shoulders, solid build, the kind of presence that makes a room feel safer just by existing in it.
Light brown hair with threads of gold, warm brown eyes with smile lines that seem out of place on his currently serious face.
There's a prominent scar on his left palm, white and raised, that catches the light when he moves.
When he sees me enter, he stands. Old-fashioned courtesy.
The kind that's automatic, ingrained, not performed.
Raphael Beaumont. Emma's father. The widower.
All three of them are attractive in completely different ways, which is information I'm choosing to ignore.
"Miss Blake." This from a woman I hadn't noticed, seated at the head of the table. Silver hair, tailored suit, the kind of posture that suggests she's never slouched in her life. Headmistress Dubois. She gestures to an empty chair. "Please."
I sit.
"We're here," Dubois says, folding her hands on the table, "because the current situation has become untenable."
She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to. The word untenable lands like a gavel.
"Sophie, Luc, and Emma are exceptional students," she continues. "They are also, as you know, inseparable. Under normal circumstances, this would be a positive thing. Strong childhood friendships are valuable." She pauses. "However."
I watch the three men react to that however. étienne goes still. Bastien's jaw tightens. Raphael leans forward slightly, like he wants to fix something but doesn't know where to start.
"The pickup situation alone has required staff intervention on four separate occasions," Dubois says.
"The spring festival incident is still being discussed by other parents.
And I'm told that last month, school dismissal involved three cars blocking the entrance because no one could agree on whose driver would take the children. "
"That was a miscommunication," Bastien says.
"It was a failure of basic coordination." Dubois's voice is flat. "And it's affecting your children. They are aware of the tension. They feel responsible for it. Sophie asked one of her teachers last week if she was the reason her father was always angry."
No one says anything.
I glance at étienne. His expression hasn't changed, but his hands are no longer visible above the table, and I suspect they're clenched into fists.
"Miss Blake has been engaged to help," Dubois says, turning to me.
"One week in each household, rotating. She'll coordinate schedules, manage logistics, and provide consistency for the children across all three homes.
But let me be clear: this is not a solution.
This is a trial. If you cannot demonstrate improvement—real improvement, not performative civility—I will be forced to recommend alternative arrangements. "
"Alternative arrangements," Raphael repeats quietly. "You mean withdrawing their enrollment."
"I mean doing what is best for the children. Which may or may not align with what is convenient for their fathers." Dubois stands. "I'll leave you to discuss details. Miss Blake, I trust you understand the stakes."
"I do."
"Good." She moves toward the door, then pauses. "Those three children love each other. They don't understand why their fathers can't be in the same room. Frankly, neither do I."
Then she's gone, and I'm alone with three men who are very carefully not looking at each other.
The silence stretches.
I let it. Prestwick rule number twelve: sometimes the most powerful thing you can do in a room is wait.
It's Bastien who breaks first. "Well. That was humiliating."
"It was necessary," Raphael says quietly. "She's not wrong. We've been—"
"—I know what we've been." Bastien's voice is sharp. "I don't need a lecture from you."
"I wasn't lecturing, I was—"
"—Enough." étienne's voice cuts through, quiet but absolute. Both men fall silent. "We can continue demonstrating exactly what Dubois accused us of, or we can have a productive conversation. In front of Miss Blake."
Three sets of eyes turn to me.
I straighten in my chair. "Here's what I need.
Access to all three households this week—schedules, staff contacts, the children's routines.
I'll create a unified calendar system and present it before the first rotation begins.
Communication goes through me when direct communication isn't working.
And whatever history exists between you three"—I let my gaze move from one face to another, taking in étienne's rigid control, Bastien's simmering intensity, Raphael's tired patience—"you keep it away from the children. That's my only condition."
"Just one condition?" Bastien sounds almost amused.
"One is enough," I reply.
Raphael stands, extending his hand. "Welcome to the chaos, Miss Blake."
I shake it. His grip is warm, firm, the handshake of someone who means what he says.
Bastien offers a nod that manages to be both skeptical and intrigued. "I look forward to watching you try." His voice drops on the last word, and his eyes don't leave mine until I turn away.
étienne says nothing. But when I glance at him, he's watching me. I can't tell what he's thinking.
I leave them there, in that wood-paneled room full of disapproving portraits and years of history I don't yet understand. The walk back through the school corridors feels longer than it should, my footsteps echoing against marble floors.
Three men who used to be friends. Three men who can't be in the same room without the temperature dropping. Three men who, according to Sophie, were something else entirely before.
Before what?
I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out.