The train to Lyon was late. Elio stood at the edge of the platform, coat collar turned up against the wind, phone vibrating endlessly in his pocket with business notifications he ignored. But his mind wasn't in Lyon. It was in Paris. More specifically—back in the penthouse, with her.
---
Back in the city, Aurélie walked the quiet corridor of the penthouse, the note Elio left still tucked between pages of her sketchbook. She had stared at it for too long the night before, rereading the same line:
> "If you need to get away... No questions asked."
No questions asked. But questions flooded her mind.
Why had he written that?
Why did he always seem to offer exactly what she needed, without her ever saying a word?
And most of all—why did she feel disappointed every time he left?
---
On his train ride to Lyon, Elio sat by the window, watching trees blur into green and gray. Clara's words echoed in his mind:
> "Pretending not to feel doesn't mean you won't."
And now, that pretense was starting to crack.
The woman who had once been nothing more than a name on a legal agreement had become a living contradiction—someone who challenged him, disarmed him, unsettled his carefully curated detachment.
---
Two days passed.
Aurélie didn't go to Normandy.
Instead, she stayed in Paris, walking past her childhood haunts, sketching in cafes, quietly absorbing the rhythm of the city while trying to silence the storm building inside her.
By the third day, the silence in the penthouse was unbearable. She picked up her phone and typed a message.
> Aurélie: "When are you coming back?"
Elio replied almost instantly.
> Elio: "Tonight."
Just one word. No flourish. No questions. But her heart beat a little faster.
---
That evening, Elio returned, suitcase in hand, hair damp from the drizzle outside.
Aurélie met him in the hallway, arms crossed, trying to seem unaffected.
Aurélie: "Lyon treat you well?"
Elio: "The city was fine. The meetings were long. The hotel had cold coffee."
She raised an eyebrow.
Aurélie: "Is that your way of saying you missed Paris?"
Elio: "No. That's my way of saying I missed good coffee."
He walked past her toward the kitchen. She followed, quietly.
Aurélie: "Why do you always do that?"
Elio: "Do what?"
Aurélie: "Act like nothing matters. Even when it clearly does."
Elio turned around, leaning against the counter. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes, sharp and dark, didn't flinch.
Elio: "Because the moment I let it show... it becomes real. And real things break."
Her voice lowered.
Aurélie: "Maybe some things deserve to be broken, just so they can be rebuilt stronger."
Silence.
And then, slowly, Elio stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell the rain in his hair and the faint scent of his cologne.
Elio: "Are you trying to break me, Aurélie?"
She held his gaze.
Aurélie: "I don't know. Maybe I'm just trying to make you feel something."
A pause.
Then he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
Elio: "You already do."
Her breath caught. But before either of them could speak again, a soft knock came at the door.
They stepped back instantly, as if someone had walked in on a private confession.
---
At the door stood a delivery man, holding a bouquet of white tulips.
Aurélie blinked.
Delivery Man: "For Ms. Aurélie Lefèvre."
She took the flowers, confused.
Inside was a small card:
> "For the woman who sees beyond what I show. — E."
She turned toward Elio, who had returned to the kitchen.
Aurélie: "You don't like flowers."
Elio: "I don't like clichés. But you're not a cliché."
---
That night, they ate dinner together for the first time in days—no assistants, no lawyers, no tension. Just the soft clink of cutlery and the occasional glance they dared to steal from each other.
As dessert came—simple slices of tarte au citron—Aurélie finally broke the silence.
Aurélie: "What were you like before all this?"
Elio: "All this?"
Aurélie: "Before the business. Before the image. Before... us."
Elio leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the wine glass.
Elio: "I used to laugh more. Trust more. Sleep better."
Aurélie: "What changed?"
He hesitated.
Elio: "My father died. Suddenly. The day after I turned twenty-two. Everything I thought I had time for... vanished."
His voice was low, almost detached—but his eyes revealed the weight of old wounds.
Aurélie: "And since then?"
Elio: "I decided control was the only way to survive."
She nodded slowly.
Aurélie: "That sounds lonely."
Elio: "It is."
He looked up at her, the vulnerability in his voice raw and rare.
Elio: "But maybe not tonight."
---
After dinner, they stood by the windows, watching the city glitter in the distance.
Aurélie: "Do you ever wonder what this would be like... if it weren't fake?"
The air grew still.
Elio didn't look away.
Elio: "Every day."
Her heart thudded at his answer. She had expected deflection. A joke. Silence. Anything but the truth.
She stepped closer, their shoulders brushing.
Aurélie: "Then maybe we should stop pretending."
For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at her. As if she were a question he didn't know how to answer.
But his hand found hers. Quietly. Naturally. Without force.
And he didn't let go.