Chapter 51: The Frenchman

 

The applause had finally died down. The orchestra resumed playing, but the mood in the ballroom had shifted. The guests were no longer looking at Victoria Vance; they were whispering about the "Wheelchair Waltz."

Harper escaped to the terrace, desperate for fresh air. The night was cool. The city lights of New York glittered below like a blanket of diamonds. She leaned against the stone balustrade, closing her eyes. Her heart was still racing from the dance.

"You look like you're planning an escape," a deep voice rumbled behind her.

Harper turned. Sebastian. He rolled out of the shadows, holding two glasses of champagne. He looked tired—the physical exertion of the dance had taken a toll on his arms—but his eyes were triumphant.

"I'm not escaping," Harper took a glass. "I'm just... recovering. You were amazing in there."

"I was terrified," Sebastian admitted, clinking his glass against hers. "My hands were sweating so much I thought I'd drop you."

"You didn't drop me," Harper smiled, touching his cheek. "You held me up. Like always."

They shared a quiet moment, the noise of the party fading into the background. Then, Sebastian’s phone buzzed. He checked it and frowned. "It's Liam. He says Victoria is cornering the board members in the Red Room. She's trying to spin the narrative."

"Go," Harper nodded. "Don't let her win. I'll stay here and breathe for a minute."

Sebastian hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"I'm fine. I have my 'Vance Face' on," Harper tapped her cheek. "Go get her, Tiger."

Sebastian kissed her hand and rolled back inside. Harper watched him go, feeling a swell of pride.

---

[The Stranger]

She turned back to the view. She took a sip of champagne.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Vance." (Good evening, Miss Vance.)

The voice was smooth, cultured, and undeniably French. Harper spun around.

Leaning against a pillar, smoking a thin cigarette, was Count Louis. The man Victoria had tried to force her to dance with. Up close, he was strikingly handsome in a sharp, dangerous way. He had dark curly hair and eyes that seemed to see right through her dress.

"Count Louis," Harper said stiffly. "If you're looking for Victoria, she's inside."

"I am not looking for Victoria," Louis took a drag of his cigarette. "I detest that woman. She has the elegance of a bulldozer."

Harper blinked. "She hired you."

"She paid me to humiliate your cripple," Louis shrugged elegantly. "But he humiliated her instead. It was... magnifique. I applaud him."

He walked closer, stopping a respectful distance away. "But I did not come here for the money, Harper."

He said her name differently. Not 'Harper'. But 'Ar-per'. It sounded familiar. Like a lullaby she had forgotten.

"Why are you here?" Harper asked, her guard up.

Louis looked at her face. He studied her almond eyes, her jawline. "You have her eyes," he whispered, almost to himself. "But you have your father's stubborn chin."

"My father?" Harper frowned. "Richard?"

"No," Louis laughed softly. "Richard is a bank account with legs. I am talking about your spirit."

He reached into his jacket pocket. Harper tensed, ready to run or scream. But he didn't pull out a weapon. He pulled out a silver lighter. He flicked it open and closed. Click. Click.

"Paris. 1995," Louis said softly. "Montmartre. A small studio above a bakery. The smell of turpentine and lavender."

Harper froze. Lavender. Her mother’s favorite scent. The scent inside the rusty box.

"Who are you?" Harper whispered.

"My name is Louis de Valois," the Count said. "But your mother... Catherine... she called me 'Loup' (Wolf)."

He took a step closer. His expression turned serious. "She did not die in a car accident, Harper."

Harper dropped her champagne glass. Crash. It shattered on the stone floor.

"What?"

"Catherine was not just a painter," Louis’s voice was low, urgent. "She was the keeper of the 'Key'." "And when she fled Paris, she didn't just run from the Vances. She ran from The Syndicate."

He looked at the ballroom doors. "They found you, Harper. The moment you put on that ring... the moment you stepped into the light... they found you."

"Who?" Harper’s hands were shaking.

"The people who killed her," Louis said grimly.

Suddenly, the terrace doors opened. "Harper?" Sebastian’s voice called out.

Louis stepped back into the shadows instantly. "Ask Richard about 'Project Helios'," Louis whispered. "And trust no one. Not even your husband."

By the time Sebastian rolled onto the terrace, Louis was gone. Vanished like smoke.

"Harper?" Sebastian saw the broken glass. He saw her pale face. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Harper looked at the empty spot where Louis had stood. Project Helios. The Syndicate. The Key.

She looked at Sebastian. Trust no one.

"Nothing," Harper lied, her voice trembling. "Just... dropped my glass. I'm clumsy."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. He didn't believe her. But he didn't push. He reached out his hand. "Let's go home."

Harper took his hand. It was warm. Solid. But for the first time... she felt a chill that no warmth could chase away.