For the first time in my life, coming to a workplace where everyone was so happy, so relaxed, felt so awful.

The mood of the staff, in general, was so light and fluffy it made me gag. Everyone—everyone was relieved and pleased that Dean King, the lord of bullshit bosses, was fired, at last. He'd been escorted out, his office emptied, his memory erased.

And of course, word had gotten out that I had something to do with it. So all these bright and peppy people came to me, congratulating me, thanking me for my service to them all.

It took all my might not to shove them off or glare at them. I didn't want their thanks, their congratulations. I didn't want anything to do with Dean and his removal and all the crimes he'd committed.

I just wanted Giselle. And I couldn't have her.

The first few days after the announcement of Coop's win were torment. Not for Coop—they basked in their glory, going around making promises to change things and implementing things that would bring on an even better future for LeRouge. They shook hands, even hugged a few employees. All smiles, all laughter and cheerfulness.

The only thing that mattered to me, they couldn't do a thing about. Wouldn't do a thing about.

As Coop meandered, meeting and greeting their staff as if they were brand new, I kept bumping into them. When I slithered by to grab a coffee from the café, I saw them chatting with one of the waiters. For a second, or maybe a trick of the light, I thought I saw shiny strings coming out of their back, keeping their shoulders upright, tugging their lips into a forced smile.

Puppet. They'd mentioned the word before. They'd implied that they'd never wanted the presidential position; they'd never meant for it to go this far.

Puppet strings or not, I couldn't help the disappointment brewing in my heart. So whenever I noticed Coop nearby, I slunk away to hide until they were gone. Or returned to my office to sulk there.

Unfortunately, another person I kept bumping into was Giselle.

Seeing her was even harder. At least before, we were able to remain civil, to pretend like we were nothing but colleagues, maybe even friends. But after what Coop had told us, we knew it was risky to get close at all. If we passed one another in a tight hallway, we kept our chins lowered. Strangely enough, we hadn't even discussed this. On instinct, we both retreated and pretended we didn't know each other.

It stung. It was like the universe enjoyed my pain, because it kept putting her in my path, taunting me. From the way her jaw clenched and how she sucked her lips in, sucked her entire body in whenever we walked by one another, I could tell she suffered too.

We'd admitted the worst possible thing for our situation—we were falling in love. Fate had decided we weren't allowed to see that through.

Fate...or more like Coop. The new president of LeRouge who claimed to have no power at all and no craving to even hold this title.

It infuriated me to no end. If they didn't want it, why didn't they give it away? I'd take it from their hands in a heartbeat. I'd moved to Paris for that title, and lost it, and now Coop dangled it in front of me—not on purpose—and it was still out of reach for me.

Two seconds in that position and I'd promptly petition the board to allow interoffice relationships—to a degree, of course. The concerned parties would have to sign waivers and promise to keep the PDA to a minimum and swear they wouldn't let their love get in the way of their work.

It couldn't be that hard for the damn president of the French branch—of the entire company—to put this in place, could it?

Apparently, it was.

Two days later, an email came to me directly from Coop.

I wanted to inform you of a few things: Giselle will no longer be helping you with French lessons.

I gulped at the words. No matter how much they made sense, they started an ache in my gut that I couldn't blame my overdose of caffeine on.

Obviously, it's not a good idea for the two of you to be alone in a room together, for a time, at least. I'm happy to assign someone else, even from outside the company. However, you no longer need to be fluent to keep your job. We plan to hire you a secretary soon who could take care of such things.

A secretary? I blinked at the screen. As assistant director of sales, I didn't get a secretary. Unless this was one of the things Coop was planning on shaking up within the company.

Yes, you read that right—you'll be getting a secretary. I'm talking to the board about naming you the new director of sales. Dean's old position. There's no one else in this branch I would trust to take over his workload—and perform better than he ever did.

I gulped again, but this time, my saliva clogged up my throat. I tried to force the stuff down, but it wouldn't budge.

Director of Sales for LeRouge - Paris. Basically the director of all directors. As close as I could get to president—though VP might have been nice—without actually being president.

It was a huge honor, an incredible title. It should have been a boost to my morale, should have helped me perk up and move past my sorrow at losing Giselle, if only a tiny bit.

Yet I felt...nothing.

The bump in status, the new office—likely haunted by Dean's past—the pay raise...they didn't provoke anything in me whatsoever. Director of sales was what I used to be, what I'd fled from in L.A.

I'd come here for more, not to end up in the same spot.

It was like Coop had to give me something to keep me quiet and compliant. A consolation prize that wouldn't console me at all.

I'd accept the position—didn't have much of a choice—but I wouldn't be grateful for it.

The email wasn't finished. Coop had more information for me that they didn't want to speak to me about in person. That, or they were too busy to come find me, or summon me to their office.

This is an encrypted, private email, by the way. The IT department has assured me it will be permanently removed from our system within a few hours of reception. Still, you should delete it as soon as you've read and accepted it.

I reiterate that what has happened between you and Giselle will remain confidential. I won't share it with anyone, but it must end, effective immediately. I realize you were both very cautious, but in my current position, it's far too risky. Cutting her out of your life completely is the best thing to do. I understand the difficulties; breaking off an affair is never easy.

My nostrils flared. "An affair?" The word burned on my tongue. It was so simplified compared to what Giselle and I's relationship really was. It didn't have a name, couldn't be defined, and Coop had diminished it.

Giselle signed a binding contract to be my executive secretary. It was mandatory; Regina had to do the same thing for Monsieur Girard. On top of this, the board has permitted me to help Giselle fund her family's living situation. She needs this job, but she cares about you deeply. You must push her away, if you care about her too. For her benefit.

I smacked my fists on the desk, sending several papers and pens flying. It was so unfair, so shitty for Giselle and me to go through this. Coop winning the position should have made things better, should have helped us. Instead, it drew a deeper wedge between us that nothing would fix except one of us quitting.

Neither of us would. Or could. Giselle was tied into her job, and I wouldn't dare leave mine, not after everything I went through to get here.

Transferring back home was out of the question. I'd come to Paris with an intention: a better life, a better position, far from my ex-husband, somewhere to start fresh.

I'd have to continue without Giselle, for both our sakes. But it fucking hurt, and I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep my distance from her. But I'd try.

Because after all this, I'd do anything for her.

***

After a rough weekend of drinking to numb the pain then release it all over again in the form of drunken tears, I returned to work in my new status of director of sales.

Dean's office became mine—though I requested a super deep clean of every surface and wall and floor before I dared move into it.

Coop took their place in Monsieur Girard's old office, but I refused to go visit them. It would mean speaking to Giselle, whose office was attached to Coops. I'd been working hard to dodge her at any cost, so I wouldn't risk messing with my efforts.

One night, after a particularly strenuous day of work—picking up contracts that Dean had botched—I finally got to bed.

I was about to turn off my nightstand lamp when my phone buzzed.

It was the middle of the week. Pierre didn't text me this late—almost midnight—and I hadn't maintained contact with anyone in the States who'd be trying to reach me at this hour.

I should have ignored the buzz, but if I flipped off the lights and tried to sleep, I'd be too curious. Was it an email? A text? A notification from one of my apps?

"Fuck," I groaned, sitting up to grab my phone and unlock it.

It was a text from an unknown number. I flinched; the last time an unknown number had contacted me, it was Dean.

Would he dare message me again? Was he coming after me, like he'd threatened?

Taking a deep breath, I opened the text.

Unknown number: Lucy, it's me. Giselle. Burner phone.

I gawked at the words. "What?"

My phone vibrated again.

Unknown number: That's what they call them in the movies, right?

Buzz.

Unknown number: Sorry. Got excited. We need to meet.

I'd been wondering if I should trust this number; was it a trap? Was it actually Coop, testing me to ensure I pushed Giselle away as they'd asked?

Lucy Rhodes: Is this really you? I need to be sure.

Buzz.

Unknown number: I promise you. If you want, I can go over every single time we've had sex, in detail, to prove it to you. No one else would know, hm? Dancing with you at the club? Or when we fucked on Dean's desk?

I shuddered, reining in my dirty thoughts at those memories.

Lucy Rhodes: Ok, no need to say more. What's going on? Why the burner phone?

Unknown number: I can't take any risks. Coop is strict. But I need to meet with you, outside of the office, as soon as possible. Please. It has nothing to do with you or I, and I'm not trying to seduce you or get you back.

I hesitated. It sure felt like she was trying to lure me to her, and the problem was I didn't want to refuse. If anything, I wanted her to seduce me.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Lucy Rhodes: When?

Her response was immediate, like she'd already typed it up, anticipating me.

Unknown number: Tomorrow. After work? Brasserie Le Marquis - it's between my place and yours, very discreet, unlikely to be frequented by anyone we know. Too low quality for Coop.

Didn't that make it more suspicious?

I didn't know what to say, what to do. Why would she ask me to meet her like this? It was dangerous for us both, but she claimed it had nothing to do with us. Was it information? Had she found something out that might help us?

Lucy Rhodes: Fine. I'll be there.

I had to turn on a TV show to shut out the crazy thoughts racing through my brain, in order to sleep.

***

Brasserie Le Marquis was, as Giselle had described, not much to write home about. A standard bistro-style eatery, cloaked in smoke, its red awning worn and stained, the words faded on its front.

The menu was basic, the drinks cheap, and the clientele varied. I understood why she'd chosen this location after all. No one from LeRouge would be caught dead here. It wasn't a downtrodden or beaten-up place by any means, but it was too rustic for the prestige of those I worked with.

Giselle was inside, at a corner table away from the brightest lights. She already had a half-drunk glass of white wine and was nibbling on a charcuterie board. Of course she'd ordered that—she knew how obsessed I was with French cheese platters.

"Hi," I said, slipping onto the seat across from hers.

She kept her gaze low, and her chin, too. "Hello." She'd worn her black suit, and a hat that didn't do much to conceal her features—I'd recognized her the moment I entered the brasserie.

"So, what's this about?" I noticed she'd ordered me a glass of rosé, but my stomach was in too many knots to want alcohol. "Why the secrecy and the weirdness?"

"It's about Coop," she said, low-voiced, as if worried we'd be overheard. Aside from the staff, and a few patrons on the opposite side of the room, no one was there.

"What about them?" A slither of panic gushed into me. "Did they fire you? Threaten you?"

Giselle snorted. "No, nothing of the sort, don't worry. I'm locked into that contract. No," she sighed, then finally lifted her gaze to meet mine, "it's about how they were forced into the position you wanted."

My eyebrows rose. "Ah? You got some dirt, then?" I scoffed. "It's Dean's doing, isn't it? He manipulated everything and when he lost, he pulled some maneuver to make Coop miserable, to fuck up their life? Lock them into a twisted contract that he negotiated with some contact on the board?"

Giselle winced, waving at me—I hadn't realized I'd raised my voice. "Not Dean, no. This was something pre-arranged, Lucy. Though the idea of a contact on the board is probably legitimate. There's a third party involved in all this, someone who's not Coop or Dean. Someone who had a say in what happened, who has some kind of control over Coop, I think."

I plucked a piece of Brie from the platter. "A third party?"

"That's my assumption." She drew her glass of wine to her lips, and I looked away, unable to watch that perfect mouth of hers for too long.

"And do you know who this third party is?"

She grimaced as she swallowed a big gulp of wine, then set her glass down. "I don't know him, per se, but I was able to get his name."

I chortled. "A man, because why not?"

"Yes, an American, actually. That's why I wanted to meet with you." She reached for something on the platter but stopped, fingers splayed out. "I realize you don't know every American, but I have a hunch you know this one. I don't know why. Something about him..."

I stared at her, setting both palms on the table. "Did you see him? Know what he looks like?" There had to be a reason she had that hunch. While I did know many people in L.A., outside of it, not so much. "What makes you think I'd know him?"

"His name." She closed her fingers into a fist. "It sounded familiar when I heard it. For some reason I associated it with you, like you've said it before?"

I narrowed my gaze, and something told me I needed to have a sip or two of wine. That I'd need the alcohol when Giselle divulged this person's identity. "Who is it?"

I brought the rim of my glass to my lips, let the cool, soothing liquid in.

Her eyes were sharp and steady on mine. "Glenn Baltimore. Do you know him?"

I dropped the glass. It fell in slow motion, or so I thought, before shattering on the floor.

Several moments passed before my voice returned, before the fire licking at my extremities diminished.

"Oh, I know him all right. He's my ex-husband."

┴