**Paris, November 22, 2020**
The night stretched long and restless. I hadn't slept, listening to Jacques-Cartier's furious snores seeping through the wall, each sound a reminder of my intrusion, my burden. At dawn, eyes stinging and head heavy, I connected to my email with a shaky internet signal on my phone. I typed the address with trembling, clumsy fingers, as if the characters might scorch my skin.
The email was brief. Too brief. I recounted the article, my uncle's reaction, my impending eviction. I chose my words with extreme care, avoiding pathos or blame. I ended with a simple, harrowing question: "Should I leave the Élysée?"
I sent it at 5:17. At 5:42, as I began to drift into troubled sleep, a reply arrived. The subject line was blank. The body contained a single line, penned by a hand with no time to waste.
"Stay where you are. Claire will contact you within the hour. Do nothing."
No signature. None was needed.
At 6:30 sharp, as the Vilepin family stirred in the apartment, my phone buzzed. An unknown number.
—Maya? It's Claire. The President has briefed me.
Her voice was calm, professional, but an unusual tension hummed beneath her polished surface.
—It's been decided you can't remain in your current environment. A temporary solution has been arranged. A car will pick you up at 8:00 sharp at the corner of Rue de la Pyramide and Boulevard de Reuilly. The driver's name is Marc. He'll have a sign with your name.
I was speechless, phone pressed to my ear.
—Madame Vidal… I… I can't accept…
—This isn't an offer, Maya, she cut in, her tone brooking no argument. It's a protective measure. For you, and by extension, for the Presidency's image. Pack your bags. Be discreet. Don't discuss it with your family. Tell them you're leaving for work early.
The call ended.
I rose, my body numb from sleeplessness and shock. I dressed mechanically, avoiding my reflection. I packed my few belongings into my backpack, heart aching. I left the wax dress behind. It belonged to a different dream, already faded.
At 7:45, I slipped out of the apartment. No one was in the living room. Only Aunt Fatou was up, brewing coffee in the kitchen. Our eyes met. Hers held sadness, shame, and immense relief. She opened her mouth to speak, but I gave a small shake of my head and passed through the door without a word.
November's cold slapped my face. I walked quickly, backpack slung over my shoulder, not looking back.
At the designated corner, a discreet black Renault Talisman idled, engine humming. A man in a dark suit, face impassive, stood beside it, holding a small foldable sign with my name in capitals: MAYA.
—Miss Maya? I'm Marc.
He opened the rear door without ceremony. I slid inside. The interior was silent, warm, smelling of new leather and cleanliness.
The journey passed in total silence. Marc made no attempt at conversation. I watched the gray suburbs give way to Paris's elegant Haussmannian buildings. We stopped before a stately, old building on Rue de Grenelle, near the National Assembly.
Marc led me to a massive carriage entrance. He produced an electronic key, swiped it, and the heavy wooden and iron door swung open soundlessly.
—Apartment 42, fourth floor. The elevator's to the right. You're expected.
He handed me the key and a small white envelope.
—Your instructions. Have a good day, Miss.
He left, abandoning me in the marble-and-mirror hall, vast and silent as a cathedral.
The apartment was larger than the Vilepins'. A studio, furnished with modern, impersonal taste: a gray sofa, a glass table, a pristine equipped kitchen. A large bay window offered a sweeping view of Paris's rooftops. On the living room table, a bouquet of fresh white lilies stood in a crystal vase. A card accompanied them, in a handwriting I was beginning to recognize:
"You are safe here. Rest. We will talk soon. E.M."
I set my backpack on the gleaming parquet. I walked to the bay window and gazed at the city. Paris sprawled below, immense, cold, magnificent.
I no longer heard Jacques-Cartier. I no longer felt the chill. I no longer feared my papers.
But a deeper, quieter fear took root.
I had become the President's charge. Protected, yet possessed. Isolated in a gilded cage.
I closed my eyes, clutching the small card to my heart.
I was safe. And I had never felt so alone.