There would be transportation, additional care at home, modifications to the staircase, and expenses that accumulated in small, relentless amounts.
Odette watched her daughter’s face.
“Don’t start worrying.”
“I’m not.”
“You have that little line between your eyebrows.”
“I always have it.”
“No, you don’t. You inherited it from your father when you’re thinking too hard.”
Célestine smiled faintly.
Her father had passed away when she was sixteen. Since then, the Vauclair family had learned to make difficult circumstances appear manageable.
Sometimes they succeeded.
Sometimes they simply became better at hiding them.
That night, sitting in the hospital corridor, Célestine opened her laptop and began looking for work.
The advertisement appeared three days later.
MAISON VESPER – EUROPEAN HERITAGE HOSPITALITY GROUP
Family Experience Research Division.
Maison Vesper owned a collection of historic hotels, restored estates, and countryside retreats across France, Belgium, and northern Italy.
The company was preparing to launch a new family hospitality program, designed around parents travelling with young children.
They were recruiting people with personal caregiving experience to test services, interview families, and advise on the practical details hotels frequently overlooked.
The salary was unusually good.
The job also provided housing assistance and flexible leave for employees responsible for dependents.
There was only one problem.
The initial twelve-month pilot was reserved for applicants who were parents or permanent legal guardians of children under twelve.
Célestine was neither.
She read the advertisement twice.
Then closed her laptop.
An hour later, she opened it again.
She knew children. She had spent nearly two years working at a small museum where she organised family workshops, managed school visits, and helped develop accessible exhibitions.
She was good at it.
But experience was not the same as eligibility.
Her phone rang.
It was Théophile.
“Maman needs someone to come on Tuesday. The hospital wants to discuss the rehabilitation plan.”
“Can you go?”
“I have work.”
“So do I.”
There was a pause.
“Célestine, you haven’t had regular work in months.”
She closed her eyes.
“I know.”
He apologised immediately.
But after they hung up, she stared at the job advertisement for a long time.
Then she began filling out the application.
When she reached the section marked Dependent Children, she stopped.
She thought of Odette in her hospital bed.
Of the accumulating bills.
Of the museum that had closed the previous autumn.
Of the interviews where she’d been told she was talented but not quite what the company needed.
Her hand hovered over the keyboard.
Then she entered a name.
Léonie Leroux. Age seven.
The daughter of her oldest friend.
She selected Primary Parent or Guardian.
For several seconds, she stared at the screen.
Then she clicked Submit.
Célestine met Alaric von Eltz on the Côte d’Azur during a weekend she had never intended to take.
Her friend Bastien Leroux had invited her to accompany him and his daughter to a small coastal festival near Menton.
Bastien was thirty, divorced, and worked as a restoration architect.
He had known Célestine since university.
Léonie, his seven-year-old daughter, had loved Célestine since the first afternoon she’d arrived at their apartment carrying an enormous illustrated book about sea creatures.
Bastien had noticed that his friend was sleeping badly.
“You need a break,” he’d told her.
“I need a job.”
“You can look for one on Monday.”
“I can’t afford a holiday.”
“You’re not paying for anything.”
“Bastien.”
“I’ve already booked the apartment. Léonie has asked whether you’re coming eleven times.”
From the sofa, Léonie called, “Twelve!”
Célestine surrendered.
The trip was supposed to be simple.
Two nights by the sea.
A little sunshine.
Then back to Paris and the problems waiting there.
Instead, on the first evening, she lost a borrowed ring, spilt coffee on a very expensive jacket, and met the man who would change her life.
Alaric von Eltz disliked festivals.
He especially disliked the kind where wealthy strangers appeared in white linen and pretended that small coastal towns existed solely to provide attractive backgrounds for photographs.
At thirty-two, Alaric was managing director of Maison Vesper’s European development division.
He was tall, with dark ash-brown hair, sharp but elegant features, and cool blue-grey eyes.
His mother was Belgian, his father Austrian, and he’d grown up moving between Brussels, Vienna, and Paris.
He spoke four languages, disliked unnecessary conversation, and possessed an extraordinary talent for making people feel that he had noticed details they would rather keep hidden.
He had come to Menton to inspect a property Maison Vesper was considering purchasing.
The building was a neglected nineteenth-century villa overlooking the sea.
Its owner wanted an unreasonable price.
The local preservation committee distrusted the company.
Alaric had been having a difficult day.
Then Célestine walked into him.
More accurately, she collided with his shoulder while attempting to retrieve a small velvet box that had fallen from her bag.
The lid sprang open.
A silver ring rolled across the stone pavement.
Célestine gasped.
