My assistant booked a suite for Aubert and me at the Ritz-Carlton in downtown Los Angeles. It’s close to Crypto.com Arena, where the Lakers play, though it still takes forever in traffic to reach Boyle Heights and Mi Tierra.
Still, the suite is ideal—two bedrooms, a large living room, and, most importantly, an office where I can juggle time zones and crises. My second-in-command is capable, running much of the show from France, but as CEO, there are things I simply cannot ignore even if I wanted to. Even if all I want is to drive east, walk into her father’s Mexican restaurant, and watch her face, even if she’s angry with me.
Aubert texted earlier:I’m in love with Tara’s family. Staying for dinner.
Me:You’re just making me jealous, aren’t you?
Aubert:I can do better.Juan, sir, called me mijo and said he likes me better than you.
Me:Doesn’t everyone?
Aubert:That’s what I said!
I smile at that, right before an alert buzzes, reminding me of my next meeting.
I’ve been summoned to a video call with Madame Lefèvre, the Minister of Culture, and Jean-Claude Renard, chair of the de Valois foundation.
We’re negotiating the acquisition of a rare collection of Renaissance bronzes from a private estate in Italy. The heirs are threatening to sell to a hedge fund that caters to private collectors—effectively removing the pieces from public view. The Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay, and even the Getty are circling, each hoping to prevent that cultural atrocity from happening.
“Gustave,” Madame Lefèvre says, crisp in her suit even through the screen, “the ministry is prepared to co-finance the purchase if the foundation underwrites transport and restoration. The Americans have already offered fifty million.”
“We’ll match it,” I reply. “This collection is of French origin; it belongs to France.”
Renard clears his throat. “We need influence with the Banque Nationale. Perhaps the de Valois name could open a few doors?”
The old pressure settles over me again—centuries of expectation, heavy and familiar. My family namehas always been a kind of currency, one I’ve spent my entire life trading on.
We discuss logistics: export permits, insurance valuations, and tax incentives for repatriation. I contribute where I must, but my mind drifts.
I picture Mi Tierra—the glow of string lights, a hint of corn and lime in the air.
Tara with her father.
Aubert, somewhere among them, learning to make tortillas.
“Comtede Valois?” the Minister’s voice cuts through.
“Pardon.” I straighten.
“We wanted to know if you could speak to your contacts at the Banque Nationale and get us an answer soon,” she clips. From her tone, I can tell she’s repeating herself. Clearly, I drifted off somewhere between Mi Tierra and my own thoughts, and she’s not pleased about it.
“Oui, Madame. You’ll have the commitment by morning.”
My calls drag on until nearly three a.m., Los Angeles time. By the end, the deal is all but secured. I send out emails to let everyone know. They’ll be pleased, as they should be.
France will keep her bronzes.
I feel nothing except exhaustion—and a hollow ache that no victory fills.
Aubert’s bedroom door is closed when I stepinto the suite’s living room. He came back hours ago. I’d waved goodnight because I was on a call.
Now the silence presses in.
My phone buzzes and I sigh, thinking of ignoring it, but I don’t. Thankfully, it’s Philippe.
Philippe:Well, how’s it going?
Me:The bronzes are ours.
