Paris, November 14, 2020
The days following the private reception were a whirlwind. I returned to my usual duties at the Élysée, but nothing felt the same. The silent corridors seemed to carry the echo of his voice. The once-indifferent gazes of my colleagues now brimmed with curiosity, even suspicion. Whispers followed me. The "Senegalese under Mme Vidal" had become "the girl the President spoke to."
Even Claire Vidal treated me with a subtle shift. Still professional, yet a flicker of interest—almost scrutiny—lit her eyes. She assigned me varied tasks, often closer to the presidential offices. I became the one carrying "non-urgent" files, checking supplies in the Oval Office's antechamber. Pretexts, I sensed.
And him? He was everywhere. In the air I breathed within these walls. I crossed paths with him occasionally, flanked by advisors, always in a rush. His gaze no longer brushed past me. It lingered. A fraction of a second longer each time. A faint, almost imperceptible nod one day as I held open the heavy door to his office for him and his chief of staff—a gesture beyond protocol, personal.
One afternoon, while tidying a bookshelf in a small salon adjacent to his official office, the door opened. I froze, a book in hand. It was him, alone, holding an e-reader. He seemed surprised to see me.
—Am I disturbing you? he asked, his courtesy catching me off guard.
—No, Mr. President. I was finishing.
He stepped in and set his e-reader on a chair.
—Please, continue. I just need to retrieve a book.
He approached the shelf where I stood. The space was tight. I pressed against the bookshelf to make room, catching the scent of his aftershave, hearing the rustle of his jacket. His shoulder grazed mine. A jolt of electricity coursed through me.
He took a book, unhurried.
—"Murderous Identities" by Maalouf, he murmured. An essential read. Have you read it?
—No, Mr. President, I replied, my voice slightly hoarse.
—You should. I think it would speak to you. The complexity of being many things at once. French and Arab, for him. Senegalese and Parisian, for you.
He looked at me, and this time, no protocol barrier stood between us. Just two people in a library, talking about books.
—It's… hard, sometimes, to know where one belongs, I ventured.
—Belonging isn't found, Maya. It's created, he replied with sudden intensity. No one gives it to you. You take it.
He held the book to his chest, his gaze locked with mine. I saw more than political curiosity there. I saw genuine fascination, an alert intelligence eager to understand, to connect.
—France needs new faces, new voices, he continued, his voice lower. Bridges, not walls.
I was speechless, mesmerized by his words, by the conviction behind them.
—I… I'm trying, Mr. President.
A near-tender smile graced his lips.
—I know.
He paused, as if weighing his words.
—Claire Vidal will give you my personal email. Not professional. If you ever need advice on… creating your place. Or if you face difficulties. Paris can be a cruel city.
The offer was so direct, so astonishing, I thought I'd misheard.
—I… Thank you, Mr. President. But I wouldn't want to impose…
—It wouldn't be an imposition, he interrupted gently. It would be a pleasure.
With that, he left the salon, leaving me alone, the Maalouf book still in hand, heart pounding wildly.
That evening, Claire Vidal, her face perfectly neutral, slipped me a folded sheet as I tidied my locker.
—From the President. He insisted you have it. Don't lose it. And don't speak of it. Ever.
The paper bore a simple email address—no signature, no header—just a string of letters and numbers.
I looked at Claire. For the first time, I glimpsed a flicker of concern in her eyes. Not for herself. For me.
—Maya, be careful, she said before leaving. Appearances can sometimes… deceive.
But the warning came too late. Curiosity had already given way to a deeper, far more dangerous attraction.
The interest was no longer one-sided. It was mutual.
And deep down, I knew I had crossed a point of no return.