I moved through the space like a stranger, noticing details I rarely registered. The grand staircase I never used, preferring the service elevator installed during renovations. The formal dining room with its twelve-person table, crystal chandelier, and chairs that had never held guests. The professional decorator had insisted on "proper entertaining space," though I'd never hosted a dinner party.
My study, the only room that bore any sign of use, contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound business texts and historical biographies. A massive desk faced the windows overlooking manicured gardens I couldn't name a single plant within. Everything was arranged with mathematical precision, decorated to impress guests I never invited, cleaned by staff I didn't know.
I passed doors to guest bedrooms I'd never entered, the home theater, the wine cellar stocked with bottles selected by a consultant based on investment value rather than taste.
It looked like power, but lived like a mausoleum.
I placed my tablet on the glass coffee table, sinking into the leather chair in my study. My fingers tapped my password onto the screen.
"Authentication failed."
I frowned, trying again. Same result. I reached for my phone instead. Three emails from Mason. Two from Legal. A calendar notification for the Pentagon briefing I was missing.
I tried to open Mason's message. "Your credentials do not match our records."
My hands went cold. I tried the VPN, the secure server, even the emergency backup system. All blocked.
Algerone hadn't just removed me for the day. He'd cut every digital connection I had to Lucky Losers.
I stared at the dark screen, my reflection ghostly and unfamiliar. Without access to our systems, what was I? My pulse quickened, breath coming shorter. Thirty years of identity, locked behind screens I could no longer access.
Panic rose in my chest. What did I do when there was nothing to do? How did a blade know it was still a weapon when not in use?
I paced the length of the room, the movement aggravating my injured ribs. Without function, what was I? Without duty, who was Maxime St. Germain?
The doorbell interrupted my existential spiral. I crossed to the entryway, checked the security camera, and opened the front door. A young man in chef's whites stood on the steps, insulated containers stacked in his arms.
"Mr. St. Germain? I'm from Maison Marcel." He gestured to the containers. "I have your delivery."
"There must be a mistake. I didn't order anything."
"It's been taken care of, sir. Prepaid with specific instructions." He handed me a small card. Algerone's personal stationery. His distinctive handwriting:Eat. That's an order.
I admitted the chef, watching as he unpacked containers onto my rarely used dining table. The aroma hit me immediately—rich, savory, and painfully familiar.
Tourtière.
Steam rose from the pastry as the chef sliced it open, releasing memories I'd buried beneath spreadsheets and corporate acquisitions.
"There's also maple syrup pie for dessert," the chef explained, methodically arranging each dish. "And instructions to leave the extras in your refrigerator for later."
When he departed, I stood staring at the food like it was booby-trapped with sentiment. The rich scent of spiced meat and buttery pastry pulled at something long neglected, awakening hunger not just of the body but of the soul.
I sat at the table, the first forkful hesitant. The familiar taste unlocked a memory I'd filed away decades ago: my grandmother telling me to eat while the food was hot, her accent thicker when she was tired. Pork, cloves, and cinnamon in the exact spice combination from my childhood. How had Algerone known? When had I ever mentioned this dish?
The doorbell rang again as I finished eating. When I opened the door, I recognized the woman immediately as Dr. Elaine Vance, a physical therapist who occasionally consulted on executive wellness programs at Lucky Losers. She carried a portable massage table, her expression professionally neutral.
"Mr. St. Germain? I understand you have some injuries that need attention?"
"Dr. Vance." I blinked in surprise. "You're here for me?"
"Mr. Caisse-Etremont insisted." She held up a small card with Algerone's distinctive handwriting:Don't argue with her. She knows what she's doing.
For the next hour, I surrendered to hands trained in therapeutic techniques. She avoided my damaged ribs while working miracles on knotted shoulders and a neck that hadn't properly relaxed since 1992.
When she finished, I felt strangely weightless and untethered from both pain and purpose.
The deliveries continued throughout the afternoon. A black cashmere robe. Skincare products. A signed first edition of Anne Rice's "Interview with the Vampire" in pristine condition. A bottle of 1987 Château Margaux, the year my grandmother died.
