Alaric attended the board meeting where the findings were presented.
His father sat at the head of the table.
For years, Konrad had believed that loyalty to family meant protecting the family name.
Now the company was facing the consequences of precisely that belief.
After the meeting, Konrad stopped his son near the door.
“You could have handled this privately.”
Alaric looked at him.
“I tried.”
“You’ve humiliated your cousin.”
“Matthias did that himself.”
Konrad’s face tightened.
“And what do you intend to do now?”
Alaric considered.
“Build a company that doesn’t require people to lie about who they are just to be heard.”
Then he walked away.
Célestine saw Alaric again in April.
The trees along the Seine were beginning to turn green.
She had come to Paris for an exhibition opening and was standing outside a small bookshop when she heard someone say her name.
“Célestine.”
She turned.
Alaric stood a few steps away.
He wore a dark coat over a pale blue shirt, his hair slightly longer than she remembered.
He looked tired.
But he smiled when he saw her.
“Hello.”
She smiled back.
“Hello.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Alaric glanced at the book in her hand.
“Historic gardens?”
She looked down.
“Yes.”
“Still criticising other people’s restoration work?”
“Only when they deserve it.”
He laughed.
It was a small sound.
But it made something in her chest loosen.
They walked to a nearby café.
This time, there were no lies about spouses or children.
No professional hierarchy.
No company retreat.
They were simply two people sitting across from each other with coffee.
Alaric told her about the investigation.
Célestine told him about her new work.
They spoke about Odette’s recovery, Bastien’s latest architectural project, and Léonie’s sudden ambition to become a marine biologist.
Eventually, silence settled between them.
Alaric looked at her.
“I owe you an apology.”
She shook her head.
“For what?”
“For letting you think I could only see the lie.”
Célestine considered his words.
“You had every reason to be angry.”
“I was angry.”
“I know.”
He looked down at his coffee.
“But I also missed you.”
She stared at him.
Then smiled faintly.
“You have an inconvenient way of saying things.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Célestine turned her cup slowly.
“I missed you too.”
Alaric looked up.
For a moment, he seemed almost surprised.
Then he smiled.
Not the polite smile he used in meetings.
The real one.
The one she’d first seen beside the harbour.
They did not become a couple that afternoon.
Célestine wasn’t ready.
Alaric understood.
For months, they met occasionally in Paris and Rouen.
They visited exhibitions.
Walked through old neighbourhoods.
Argued about architecture.
Discovered that they could enjoy each other’s company without turning every conversation into a question about the future.
Sometimes Alaric travelled for work.
Sometimes Célestine was too busy to see him.
Neither demanded explanations.
They learned the difference between closeness and possession.
In September, Alaric invited her to Menton.
“I thought we could visit the old villa,” he said.
“Did your company finally buy it?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because there’s something I’d like to show you.”
She hesitated.
Then agreed.
They travelled by train.
When they arrived, the town was warm with late-summer sunlight.
The harbour looked almost exactly as Célestine remembered.
The same cafés.
The same pale buildings.
The same sound of boats moving gently against their moorings.
Alaric took her to the terrace overlooking the water.
