Each message was a shot of adrenaline, leaving Luc buoyant for days. The library became a place of celebration again. He continued to write, ideas for a new novel beginning to percolate, but his main occupation was the quiet, shared joy of anticipation with Élise.
They developed a new ritual. Every Friday evening, they would climb the spiral staircase to the library’s mezzanine, a spot that had become their private aerie. They would bring a small bottle of wine and two glasses, and Luc would share any news from Sophie. More often than not, there was no news, but that didn’t matter. The ritual itself was a celebration of the hope they now held.
One such Friday, the city spread out in a tapestry of lights beyond the leaded glass windows, Luc was quieter than usual.
“What if it sells?” he asked, his voice thoughtful.“What happens then?”
“We celebrate with a better bottle of wine,” Élise said, smiling.
He smiled back, but it was a fleeting thing.“I mean… to us. To this.” He gestured around them.“This has been our world. What happens when my world becomes book tours and interviews? When I can’t be here at 2:07 every day?”
The question hung in the air, a rare note of uncertainty in their newfound confidence. Élise had wondered the same thing, the fear a tiny, hidden shard of ice in her heart.
She looked at him, at the man who had built a new life within these walls, and she knew her answer was the truest thing she possessed.
“This will always be your world, Luc,” she said softly.“Just as you will always be mine. The library isn’t a place you escape from. It’s the foundation you build on. You’ll write your next book here. You’ll come back to this silence when the noise of the world gets too loud.” She reached for his hand.“And I’ll be here. Not as your escape, but as your home.”
He let out a long, slow breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He turned her hand over in his, tracing the lines of her palm.“You’re right. You’re always right.” He looked up, his stormy eyes clear and certain.“No matter what happens out there, this is our center. This is our constant.”
He leaned in and kissed her, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of wine and a future they were no longer afraid of.
The next morning, a Saturday, Élise’s phone buzzed on her nightstand. It was Luc.
“Sophie just called,” he said, his voice strangely calm, as if he were in shock.
Élise sat bolt upright, her heart in her throat.“And?”
“There’s a pre-empt. From Éditions du Seuil. A significant offer.” He paused, and she could almost hear the dizzying smile spreading across his face through the phone. “Élise… they’re going to publish my book.”
The news was not a thunderclap, but a sunrise—a slow, glorious, inevitable dawning of a dream they had built together, word by careful word, in the beautiful, waiting silence.
Chapter 29:
The Contract
The pre-empt from Éditions du Seuil was not just an offer; it was a validation. It was a team of serious, respected editors saying, We believe in this. We believe in you. The abstract dream of being a published author suddenly had a weight, a timeline, and a contract.
The following week was a whirlwind of meetings—with Sophie, with the editors, with the legal department. Luc signed the contract in a sleek conference room, his pen moving smoothly across the line. There were no lightning bolts, no choir of angels. Just the quiet, solid thump of the pen being set down, and the firm handshakes that followed.
He walked out of the publishing house into the Parisian afternoon, the signed contract in his briefcase, and felt… steady. The ground beneath his feet, which had felt like shifting rubble for so long, was now firm concrete.
He didn’t go home. He went straight to the Bibliothèque Lafleur. It was a Tuesday, just past 4 PM. He found Élise helping an elderly woman locate a book on Provencal herbs. He waited patiently, his heart full to bursting.
When the patron left, Élise turned to him, her eyes immediately reading the calm triumph on his face.“It’s done?”
He nodded, a slow, sure smile gracing his lips.“It’s done.”
He didn’t elaborate, not there. He simply took his usual seat at the central table and opened his notebook to a fresh page. But hewasn’t writing a novel. He was drafting a new dedication, for the book that was now officially, wonderfully, real.
Later, at her apartment, he showed her the contract. She ran her fingers over the embossed logo of the publisher, her eyes shining.
“It’s really happening,” she whispered.
“It’s really happening,” he confirmed, pulling her onto the sofa beside him.“And the first thing I’m buying with the advance…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box.
Élise’s breath hitched.
He didn’t open it. He just held it, his expression serious and tender.“Not that,” he said with a soft chuckle, seeing the panic and hope in her eyes.“Not yet. But soon.” He opened the box. Inside was not a ring, but a key. A beautiful, old-fashioned, brass key.“It’s for the library. A copy of mine. So you never have to wait for me to open our door.”
