**Paris, November 21, 2020**
The tabloid's front page lingered on the Vilepin living room table like an indelible stain. The apartment air grew suffocating, thick with unspoken reproaches and fears. Every sound—the sizzle of a pan, the slam of a door—made me jump.
Jacques-Cartier no longer looked at me. He looked through me, his face sealed shut like a condemned door. His silences were worse than his shouts. They signaled a decision made, unchangeable.
That evening's dinner was torture. Aunt Fatou had prepared chicken yassa, a dish redolent of Senegal, with its lemon and caramelized onions—a desperate bid for normalcy. The aroma, usually a comfort, turned my stomach.
—So, Maya, Jacques suddenly barked, slamming his fork down with a sharp clink. Care to explain this circus?
He nudged the newspaper toward the table's center with his fingertips, as if it were contaminated.
—Jacques, not at the table, Aunt Fatou pleaded weakly.
—Yes, at the table! Because that's where we'll pay for it—your circus! With our peace! With my salary, maybe!
—It's just lies, Uncle, Vinette interjected nervously. They make up anything to sell…
—Lies? Lies?! he roared, pounding the table, rattling the glasses. There's a photo! She's right there, in that African dress, smiling like a fool while he flirts with her!
—He wasn't flirting! I cried, my voice trembling with anger and humiliation. He spoke to me, that's all! Out of politeness!
—At the Élysée, the President doesn't talk 'out of politeness' to cleaners! he growled, rising, his chair scraping the floor with a shrill screech. Has he already done his little act with you? Given you his personal email too?
Blood froze in my veins. How did he know?
I shot a panicked glance at Aunt Fatou, who lowered her eyes, ashamed. She must have spoken—under pressure in the privacy of their room.
—Ah, you see! he crowed, reading the answer on my face. Clearly, you don't mind risking our necks for your little Cinderella fantasy! Well, I do! I have a family to protect! A job I could lose if they label me the 'brother-in-law of the President's mistress'!
His raw, violent words struck me hard. I began to tremble.
—That's not what it is… I stammered.
—Yes, it is exactly that! he barked. So here's what's happening. Tomorrow morning, you call this… this Claire Vidal and tell her you're quitting your job. Then you pack your bags and find somewhere else to go. I don't want to see you here. Ever again.
The silence that followed was absolute. Aunt Fatou wept quietly. My cousins stared at their plates, faces pale.
—Jacques, she has nowhere to go… Aunt Fatou murmured at last.
—That's not my problem! I shouldn't have to pay for your niece's antics! She wanted to play with the big shots, let her deal with it!
I stood, legs shaky. I met his eyes—bloodshot with anger and fear.
—You won't have to say it again, I said, my voice a fragile whisper. I'll leave.
I left the table and retreated to the bedroom. Behind the closed door, I heard Jacques's voice thunder on, then the slam of another door.
A soft knock came minutes later. It was Jeanne, eyes red.
—Maya… he doesn't really mean it… it's the pressure, the fine, the job…
—Yes, he does, I cut in softly. And he's right. I'm putting you all at risk.
I sank onto the bed, drained of energy. My Parisian idyll, born beneath the Élysée's golden glow, shattered against the crumbling walls of this suburban HLM. The reality was stark, cruel, and merciless: I was an intruder, an undocumented immigrant with no resources, whose naive dreams threatened the fragile stability of those who had taken me in.
Jeanne sat beside me and took my hand.
—What will you do?
I closed my eyes. An image flashed in my mind: the President's intense gaze, his calm voice. "It would be a pleasure."
I took a deep breath.
—I'm going to write an email, I said.