Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MADELINE
The chateau looks like something out of a fairy tale. The kind where everyone dies at the end.
Three buses of children, two dozen parents, six exhausted-looking teachers, and one headmistress who already seems to regret every decision that led to this retreat.
"Madeline!" Emma materializes at my elbow and grabs my hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I sat next to Marcus on the bus and he said the chateau is haunted and there's a ghost in the east wing who eats children who don't finish their vegetables and I told him that's STUPID because ghosts don't have digestive systems but now I'm a LITTLE worried—"
"Ghosts aren't real," I say, scanning the crowd for Luc, who has a tendency to disappear when there are too many people.
"That's what the ghost WANTS you to think."
I spot him near the fountain, sketchbook already out, completely oblivious to the chaos.
Good. One child accounted for.
The chateau itself is massive. Pale stone, slate roof, windows catching the afternoon light.
Raphael acquired it through his hotel group a few years ago, restored it, and turned part of it into a retreat venue.
The school uses it twice a year for these "family bonding experiences," which is administrator-speak for "we're going to trap you all together and see who cracks first."
"There you are." Sophie appears beside me, fuchsia jacket slightly askew. "Emma, stop terrorizing Madeline with ghost stories. Luc, stop drawing and pay attention. We need to establish our territory before the Rochford-Martin children claim the good rooms."
"There are assigned rooms," I point out.
"Assignments are for people who don't plan ahead." She says it the way she says everything—like the conversation is already over.
Of course.
Madame Dubois directs families to their assigned wings.
"The Laurent-Moreau-Beaumont coordination household," she reads from her clipboard, putting emphasis on "coordination," and I watch her expression flicker through several emotions before landing on resigned professionalism. "West wing. Suites seven through ten."
The west wing is quieter than the main building, tucked into a corner that feels almost private. Either thoughtful planning or a strategic decision to keep our particular brand of chaos contained.
"This one's ours." Sophie pushes open the first door. She claims the bed by the window without breaking stride. "This bed is mine. Papa, you get the other one. That's how it works."
étienne appears behind us, garment bag over one shoulder, expression suggesting he finds shared accommodations personally offensive. "Sophie, we discussed letting others choose first."
"We discussed it. I disagreed. Now I have the best view." Their door closes. I hear Sophie already issuing instructions about which drawer is hers.
Bastien and Luc claim the next suite with less fanfare. Luc drifts in like he's already elsewhere in his head. Bastien catches my eye in the hallway.
"Cozy," he says.
"That's one word for it."
"I can think of others."
He disappears into his room.
Which leaves Raphael, Emma, and me standing in the hallway between the remaining two doors.
"This one's yours," Emma announces, pointing to the door directly across from her father's suite. "I picked it. Well, Papa picked it, but I approved it. It's in the middle so you can hear everyone if we need you at night."
"That's very... central."
"Strategic." Emma beams. "Sophie taught me that word."
Raphael still hasn't said anything. He's just watching me with that steady warmth, the same way he watched me on the rooftop, right before he stopped being patient.
"Thank you," I say.
My room is beautiful. Soft gray walls, white linens, windows overlooking the rose garden. It's also positioned exactly between the three suites, which means with my door open, I can see all of their doors from my bed.
Wonderful.
The welcome gathering takes place in the grand salon. Madame Dubois distributes brochures titled "Famille et Connexion: Un Week-end de Croissance." The cover features a stock photo of a suspiciously photogenic family laughing around a picnic basket.
Saturday features a "trust walk," a "collaborative art project," and something called "Family Reflection Circles" that sounds like group therapy with better catering.
Sophie appears at my elbow. "The schedule is aggressive."
"It's ambitious."
"Same thing." She studies the brochure. "Trust walks are for people who don't already trust each other. We should be exempt."
"I don't think exemptions are available."
Through it all, I'm aware of them.
étienne, stationed near the fireplace, fielding questions about his latest collection with patience despite it being clear to me he'd rather be anywhere else. At one point, a woman touches his arm while laughing at something he said, and his eyes find mine across the room. Flat. Watchful.
I look away first.
Later, while I'm trapped in conversation, he passes behind me, close enough that I catch Vetiver.
His hand brushes mine as he reaches past me for a glass of water.
Unnecessary. Deliberate. His fingers are cold against my skin.
The touch is more prolonged than is strictly necessary.
Then he moves away without acknowledgment.
My hand tingles for minutes afterward.
Bastien circulates more freely, stopping to examine the artwork on the walls. He catches me watching him examine a mediocre landscape and raises one eyebrow, a silent commentary on the quality that makes my lips twitch.
He drifts over, positioning himself beside me while I pretend to be fascinated by a watercolor.
"The artist should be imprisoned for crimes against color theory," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. His hip presses into mine for just a moment, just long enough to feel intentional, before he steps back with that half-smile.
"You're being harsh," I manage.
"I'm being accurate." His eyes move over my face, scrutinizing, seeing too much. "Different things."
He moves away before I can respond.
And Raphael. He moves through the room like he belongs here, because he does. This is his property, his restoration. Parents gravitate toward him naturally.
But every few minutes, his attention drifts back to me. Not obvious. Not possessive. Just present.
Near the end of the evening, I'm heading toward the hallway, needing air. Raphael appears beside me at the doorway, his palm finding the small of my back as he guides me through. His thumb traces one small circle against my spine before he releases me.
"Breathe," he says quietly. "You look like you're drowning."
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar." But he says it gently, almost fondly, before someone calls his name and he turns away.
A woman I vaguely recognize from school pickup corners me near the refreshments. Tall, elegant, the kind of effortless French beauty that makes me feel like I'm wearing my clothes wrong.
"You're the au pair for the... arrangement, yes?"
"The coordination household," I correct.
"Mm." Her eyes drift to where étienne stands across the room. "How modern."
"It works well for the children," I say.
"I'm sure it does." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Three fathers, one young woman. Very progressive."
Emma crashes into my legs before I can respond. "Madeline, Sophie says we have to do trust falls tomorrow and I need you to know that I don't trust Marcus Lefèvre to catch me because he has weak arms and once he dropped his own backpack."
"I'm sure the teachers will pair you appropriately."
"You don't understand. He dropped his own backpack. It wasn't even heavy."
The elegant woman drifts away. I'm grateful for Emma's timing.
By nine, the children are drooping. Sophie declares the evening "adequate but not exceptional" and allows étienne to escort her to their suite. Emma falls asleep standing up, leaning against my hip, and Raphael scoops her into his arms.
"I've got her," he says quietly. "Go rest. Tomorrow's going to be long."
The west wing is quiet. My room is exactly as I left it. I should sleep.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed and press my palms to my face.
I change into sleep shorts and a thin camisole, the room warm, the radiator working overtime. I lie in the dark listening to the chateau settle. Old houses have their own language. Creaks. Groans. The wind. The pipes.
Footsteps.
Faint but unmistakable. Someone is moving past my door. They slow. Stop.
There is a pause long enough for me to count my own heartbeats.
Then a knock. Two taps, almost tentative.
I'm out of bed before I can think better of it.
Raphael stands in the hallway. Still dressed from the evening, though the jacket is gone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His eyes move over me, the sleep shorts, the thin camisole, and his jaw tightens.
"Hey," he says quietly. "I saw your light was still on."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Me neither." He runs a hand through his hair. Almost nervous. "Emma's out cold. I just wanted to check on you."
"Raphael." I lean against the doorframe. "It's midnight. You didn't come here to check on me."
The pretense drops.
"No," he admits. "I didn't."
"Do you want to come in?"
He looks down the hallway. Toward the other doors, the sleeping children, all the reasons to walk away.
Then back at me.
"Yes."
I step aside. He moves past me. I close the door behind us, my hand shaking on the handle.
He heads over to the window and stands with his back to me, looking out at the dark garden. I wait.
"The rooftop," he says finally. "I keep thinking about it."
"Raphael—"
"I know. I know all the reasons." He turns to face me. The lamplight catches the tension in his shoulders, the tight line of his mouth. "I just can't seem to care about any of them."
He crosses the room. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"We shouldn't be doing this," he says quietly.
"No," she says. "We really shouldn't."
He kisses me anyway.
Not carefully.
His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him, and when I gasp he uses it, his tongue sliding against mine. He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall, his thigh pressing between mine, and I stop thinking about reasons.
We make it to the bed. A tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing and the kind of desperation that comes from too long pretending.
His weight settles over me and I arch into him, pulling at his shirt, needing skin against skin.
He groans against my throat, his hand sliding up my thigh, pushing my shorts aside—
The door swings open.
Light from the hallway spills across the bed. Across us.
Raphael freezes above me. I can't see past his shoulder, can't see who's standing there, but I feel the exact moment of recognition. His whole body goes taut.
"Don't stop on my account."
Bastien's voice. Low. Amused.
I shove at Raphael's chest, trying to sit up, to cover myself, but he's still braced over me, one hand planted by my head, and so I twist to look toward the door.
Bastien leans against the frame, arms crossed, shirt unbuttoned. His eyes rove over the scene slowly. Raphael's hand on my bare thigh. My camisole pushed up around my collarbone, both breasts exposed in the lamplight. My underwear the only thing left between us.
He doesn't look surprised.
He looks like he's been waiting for this.
"Well," he says. "Isn't this interesting?"
Then he steps inside.
And closes the door behind him.