Luc read it on his phone in the library, his face turning to stone. The storm in his eyes was back, darker and more dangerous than ever.
"She did this," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "This is her style. If she can't win in court, she'll try to destroy my reputation before the book even hits the shelves."
Élise read it over his shoulder, her stomach churning. The distortion of the truth was breathtaking. It made their love story seem sordid, a seedy escape rather than a sacred rebuilding.
"The truth doesn't matter in these things," Luc said, throwing his phone onto the table. "The stain remains."
For the next two days, he retreated. He didn't come to the library. His texts to Élise were terse and distant. He was battling a ghost with a megaphone, and the fight was draining him of the creative energy he had so carefully rebuilt.
Élise felt helpless. Words of comfort felt inadequate against the toxicity of a public smear. So, she didn't use words.
On the third morning, she went to his apartment. She didn't call first. She simply showed up, carrying a bag of fresh croissants and two large coffees.
He opened the door, looking haggard and surprised. His apartment was a mess of papers and empty coffee cups.
"I'm not good company," he warned, his voice rough.
"I'm not here for company," she said, walking in. "I'm here for you."
She didn't ask him about the article. She didn't offer empty platitudes. She simply started tidying, clearing a space on his cluttered desk, placing the coffee and pastries before him. She opened the curtains, letting the grey morning light flood the room.
He watched her, his expression unreadable. "Élise, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do," she interrupted softly, meeting his gaze. "This is what we do. We face the storms. Together."
She sat beside him, and they ate in silence. After a while, he began to talk—not about the article, but about the early days of the firm, the excitement, the naive belief that they could conquer the world. He talked about the slow, sickening realization that it was all falling apart. He shared memories he had kept lockedaway, the painful, unvarnished truth that the gossip article could never touch.
As he spoke, purging the poison, the tension in his shoulders began to ease. When he finished, the apartment was quiet, but the oppressive weight had lifted.
He looked at her, his eyes clear for the first time in days. "You are my harbor," he whispered. "In every storm."
The gossip storm would blow over. The legal battle would continue. But as they sat in the quiet of his apartment, the simple act of her presence, her unwavering faith, was the one thing no headline could ever tarnish. They had faced the noise, and their silence had, once again, prevailed.
Chapter 35:
The Calm After
The gossip storm, as storms do, eventually blew itself out. A week later, it was relegated to the digital archives, replaced by a new scandal. But its passage had left a mark on Luc, a weariness that went deeper than the legal wrangling.
He returned to the library, but the easy rhythm was slow to restart. He would stare at his notebook, the pencil idle in his hand, the well of words seemingly dry once more. The public scrutiny, the distortion of his past, had shaken his confidence at its core.
Élise watched him struggle, her heart aching. She knew he needed to remember not the criticism, but the joy. The pure, unadulterated love for the work itself.
One afternoon, she didn’t bring him tea. Instead, she brought him a child.
Well, she brought a young boy, about eight years old, who was visiting the library with his school group. The boy had become separated from his class and was on the verge of tears, overwhelmed by the towering shelves.
“Luc,” Élise said gently, leading the boy to his table.“This is Alexandre. He’s lost. And he’s very interested in how books are made.”
Luc looked up, startled from his brooding. He saw the boy’s wide, frightened eyes and his expression softened. He pushed his manuscript aside.
“Well, Alexandre,” Luc said, his voice losing its gravelly edge and becoming gentle.“It’s a big place, isn’t it? But don’t worry, we’ll find your class. In the meantime…” He opened his notebook to a blank page.“Would you like to see how a story starts?”
For the next twenty minutes, Luc was transformed. He showed Alexandre how to sketch a character, a brave little mouse in a cap. He talked about building a world, describing the mouse’s tiny house hidden behind the library’s baseboards. He let the boy draw a wobbly piece of cheese. Alexandre was utterly captivated, his tears forgotten.
When Élise returned with the flustered teacher, the boy was beaming, clutching the drawing Luc had let him keep.
“Thank you, monsieur!” Alexandre said, before being led away.
