**Paris, November 13, 2020**
The reception had unfolded without a single flaw. A success, Claire Vidal murmured as she passed me while I helped clear the last crystal glasses. Fatigue weighed on my limbs, yet a strange, newfound satisfaction filled me. I had been part of it. I had contributed to that flawless perfection.
The next day, as I prepared to resume my usual task of checking the rooms, Claire intercepted me in the corridor leading to the kitchens.
—Maya, a moment.
Her expression was different, less rigid. A glint of amusement sparkled in her eyes.
—The President is hosting a private reception tonight. Fifty guests. Close associates, collaborators… A more relaxed atmosphere.
I nodded, unsure of her point.
—He specifically requested you be assigned to the welcome service, she continued. He appreciated your professionalism last night. And he seemed… intrigued by your profile.
My heart leapt violently against my ribs.
—Me? But… I'm just…
—The one who returned his bag in the metro and knows protocol inside out? she cut in with a hint of irony. Yes, you. Be at the private garden entrance at eight. Wear something sober yet elegant. No uniform will be required tonight.
She walked away, leaving me stunned in the corridor, the clatter of kitchen pots reaching me like a distant echo.
The day stretched into a nervous wait. I couldn't sit still. I had brought one "elegant" dress from Dakar—a wax creation in blue and orange with intricate patterns, crafted by my mother for my departure. I had yet to wear it in France.
At seven, I changed in the staff restroom. The dress fit perfectly, hugging my form without excess, its fabric glowing under the harsh neon light. I styled my hair as best I could, twisting it into a sophisticated bun as I'd seen Vinette do.
At eight sharp, I arrived at the garden entrance. A stoic security guard checked my name on a list, gave a slight nod, and let me pass.
The reception took place in private salons—smaller, warmer than the grand Salle des Fêtes. Deep sofas, modern paintings, a cozy, convivial ambiance. About forty people chatted, drinks in hand. I recognized a few ministers, familiar faces from television.
And at the center of a small group, him. Emmanuel Macron. He laughed, relaxed, dressed in a dark suit without a tie.
Claire Vidal signaled me to stand near the door, tasked with guiding late arrivals and ensuring smooth proceedings. My role was minor, almost symbolic. But I was there.
The evening progressed. I strove to remain discreet, efficient, responding with a professional smile. I was acutely aware of the President's every move in the room—discussing, listening, his keen gaze occasionally sweeping the crowd.
Then it happened. His eyes met mine. This time, they didn't glide away. They stopped. He looked at me, truly. A flicker of recognition shone, followed by clear curiosity.
He finished his conversation with a businessman and, to everyone's surprise, walked straight toward me.
A relative silence fell around us. Discreet yet insistent gazes turned our way.
—Maya, isn't it? he said, stopping before me. His voice was lower, more personal than the one I'd heard in public.
—Yes, Mr. President, I replied, hoping my voice didn't tremble.
—Claire told me you're Senegalese. Dakar, correct?
—Yes, Mr. President.
A genuine smile lit his face.
—I love your country. The vitality of its youth, the energy of its culture. France and Senegal share a long, complex history, but it's the future we must look to, don't you think?
I was stunned. He was talking to me. To me. About my country.
—Yes… absolutely, Mr. President. It's a nation moving forward, despite its challenges.
He nodded, his gaze appreciative.
—That's precisely it. Challenges are many, but so is hope. Your presence here proves it.
He held my gaze, and for a moment, the reception's noise seemed to fade.
—I hope you're enjoying Paris, Maya. The city can be harsh, but it rewards those who dare.
—I… I'm learning, Mr. President. Every day.
He smiled again, this time more intimately.
—That's all that matters. Keep it up.
He gave a small nod and returned to his circle, leaving me breathless, face flushed.
The rest of the evening blurred by. I operated on autopilot, his scent—a blend of sandalwood and freshness—and the intensity of his gaze etched into my memory.
When I left the palace late that night, the wax dress crumpled against my skin, I looked up at the starless Parisian sky.
He had looked at me. He had spoken to me. Not as an employee, but as a person. An equal.
In that gaze, I saw more than mere political curiosity. I glimpsed a spark of genuine interest.
The Parisian idyll, shattered by Jacques-Cartier's disdain, was reborn that night beneath the Republic's golden glow—more fragile, more secret, yet infinitely more powerful.
Paris, that evening, was no longer cold. It burned.