And the stares—God, the stares—slice into me like blades.
I can hear them, the whispers following me, overlapping like the rustle of taffeta:
That’s her. The American.
La maîtresse du Comte?*.
Did you see the photos?
How gauche to sell them to a tabloid?
What a gold digger!
I keep walking, my chin high. But my hands are trembling by the time I reach the conservation lab.
Giselle is by my canvas.
She’s holding a glossy magazine—Le Monde du Luxe. The pages gleam under the fluorescent lights and spread across the centerfold is a photo of me, laughing with Gustave and Aubert.
It’s the selfie I took.
“Well,” Giselle purrs, her voice dripping with satisfaction, “our little American has been busy. Quite the career strategy. Sleeping with Gustave de Valois?Très audacieux?*.”
Her laughter is the match that lights the room. The others join in, uneasy but eager not to be left out. A few avert their eyes. Most don’t.
My stomach knots. I open my mouth, but nothingcomes out.
Cece moves to my side. “Don’t you all have a canvas to stretch?” she snaps. “Or are you too busy reading gossip rags to actually work?”
The laughter falters.
Giselle’s smile turns brittle. “Right or not, the damage is done.Voilà—you’re famous, Tara. Unfortunately, fame isn’t the kind of credential we value here.” She flips the magazine shut and lets it drop onto the worktable with a slap. “Tara, you’re fired. Which means your apartment should be cleared immediately. The Count has been kind enough to give you twenty-four hours to get out of his property.”
His property?
The words barely register as I realize that I was staying at a place he owned. He never even said.
The room tilts. My throat burns. I can’t think, can’t breathe. My whole body feels like it’s gone hollow. I should pack up my things here, do something, but….
Cece grabs my arm. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
“Cece…,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“Maintenant.”She pulls me down the corridor, past the same people who whispered as I arrived.
Their eyes follow us. Some pitying, most curious. I feel shame crawl up my neck like heat.
By the time we reach the courtyard, my vision is blurring. The gray Parisian sky spins overhead. I press a hand to my mouth, but the sob escapes anyway.
“Don’t listen to them,” Cece ordersfiercely, her hands gripping my shoulders. “They’re jackals. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
“I…have to go home,” I whisper.I want my mama!
“Yes.” Cece’s voice softens. “You need to pack your things. I’ll help you.”
I don’t move because I can’t.
“I need a minute.”
