Long sweet memories

Louis Trottier’s POV

The next morning, Paris wore its most deceptive calm weather. It was sunny yet there were droplets of rain. Today mattered to me, even though last night was chaotic. I had left the party immediately after Anne-Marrie left. Luckily my father had stepped in to clear the air about what had happened last night or this meeting or further business deals would have been cancelled.

Today I was meeting with some perfume investors, old money, sharp noses trained to detect weakness as easily as jasmine in alcohol. I rehearsed my opening lines under my breath, the cadence precise, confident. “Notes of bergamot, a restrained heart, an audacious dry-down.” 

Even though I had my way with words, I still needed to get this deal. My father was trusting me as he always did. I brought the connections and kept the deals while my step-brother enjoyed the fruit of my labour and the credit.

I wasn't bothered, because I held all the accounts and cash. Fame could wait.

I had just stepped into the reception hall and that was when the world tilted. Anne-Marie stood near the tall windows, her back to me, sunlight tracing the familiar line of her shoulders. For a heartbeat, I thought the years had folded in on themselves, that I’d walked into another life entirely. Her hair was pinned with careless precision; she wore a charcoal coat, I recognized it instantly . It was one of those gifts I have gifted her on her birthday, she had actually forced me to get it for her.

“Just for media attention.” She had claimed.

My throat tightened on seeing her, I got bitter sweet memories.

I crossed the room before reason could stop me. “Anne-Marie,” I said, my voice betraying me with its softness. “Can we talk? Just for a moment.”

She turned slowly, eyes cool and assessing, the way she used to look at a painting she wasn’t sure she admired anymore. “You should be meeting your new wife,” she replied, crisp as a snapped match. “Isla will be waiting.”

The name landed heavier than it should have. I searched her face for something, anger, hurt, anything but she’d armored herself in politeness. “Please,” I said, lowering my voice. “Just a minute.”

She shook her head. “You always did think minutes were important.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Bonne chance today.”

Was there jealousy there? Or only a ghost of what I wanted to see? The question buzzed louder than the room. I took a step closer, reckless. “Anne-Marie, I—”

A familiar laugh cut through my sentence like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Ah, there you are.”

I turned to see Èric, was my day going to get any worse?

He appeared at her side as if summoned by her. Before I could speak, he leaned in and kissed Anne-Marie on the cheek—light, unmistakably French, the kind that pretended to mean nothing and everything at once. She accepted it with a small smile that made me feel she was happy being with him.

My chest tightened. The room smelled suddenly too sweet yet toxic.

“Èric,” I said, managing a nod. My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.

“Louis,” he replied, eyes flicking between us with a curiosity I didn’t like. “The investors are asking for you. We should go now.”

Anne-Marie stepped back, reclaiming her space. “Go,” she said to me, gently now, which somehow hurt more. “Let’s see if there's still time.”

”As you wish,” I said. 

I walked toward the presentation room, 

For one sharp, ugly second, I saw myself punching Eric right there among marble colum. The image came uninvited, vivid, tempting. But I exhaled instead, slow and controlled, the way my father had taught us when we were boys and everything felt like a duel.Losing control in public was unforgivable. Especially today.

Still, the anger stayed. It lodged itself beneath my ribs, hot and restless.

The investors’ meeting began precisely on time.

I started speaking about inspiration, craftsmanship, legacy but my gaze betrayed me.

Anne-Marie sat near the back, half-turned toward the window, as if she might disappear into the light at any moment. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this room, not in my head. And yet every time I tried to describe the heart notes of the fragrance, I saw her fingers at the Sunday marché, lifting herbs to her nose, judging silently. Every pause stretched too long. Every sentence felt unfinished.

I shifted my weight, adjusted my tie, and took a sip of water I didn’t need. My foot tapped once, then stopped. I was restless, distracted and weak.

“This perfume,” I said, hearing the strain in my own voice, “is about restraint. About what is not said. It will surely make you stand out.”

The irony almost made me laugh.

One of the investors asked a question about market differentiation and I answered automatically, professionally, but my attention drifted again. Anne-Marie leaned forward now, listening despite herself. Her expression was unreadable, but there was focus there. That undid me more than indifference would have.

I missed her with a physical ache. Not just the woman she had been to me, but the way she used to ground me. With her, my thoughts had order. My ambition had purpose. Without her, everything felt louder, sharper, like a composition missing its base note and for the first time in so many years, I finally agreed that she was the reason I had come this far.

I caught Eric watching me from the side of the room, concerned or was it calculation? etched faintly on his face. My jaw tightened. I looked away.

The presentation ended with polite applause. Investors nodded, murmured approval. By all accounts, it had gone well.

I turned to see Anne-Marie staring at me, I didn't know if she was pleased by my presentation or she had something else in her mind. Whatever it was, I didn't have time to figure it out a

s she packed her things and left the room. I was left with Èric.