**Paris, December 3, 2020**
Three days. Three days huddled in the studio's dimness, jolting at every footstep in the stairwell, at the incessant buzz of my phone I no longer dared answer. Fear had carved its mark on me, etching dark circles under my eyes, fraying my nerves.
The outside world, reduced to my computer screen, was a battlefield where my name was trampled, my image tarnished, my story twisted. I was no longer Maya. I was "the affair," "the mistress," "the undocumented." Words were stones, and they rained down hard.
Then, that morning, the special phone vibrated. Not a text, but a call. The number was unknown but "pre-approved" by the security system. The voice that answered my hesitant "Hello?" was a complete shock.
—Maya? This is Brigitte Macron.
The world stopped turning. My breath caught. I sank heavily onto the couch.
—M… Madame First Lady… I stammered.
—Call me Brigitte, please, she said in a calm, unexpectedly gentle voice, devoid of reproach or anger. I know the circumstances are… unusual. But I'd like to talk to you. In person.
Panic seized me.
—I… I can't go out. They're out there…
—I know, she interrupted with a firm gentleness. That's why I suggest coming up. I'm downstairs.
My heart leapt. Downstairs? The President's wife at my door? It had to be a trap. It could only be.
—Please, Maya, she insisted, likely sensing my horrified silence. I come as a friend. Or at least, as an ally.
Minutes later, a discreet doorbell chime sounded. I opened the door, body rigid as a board.
There she was. Alone. Dressed in a simple anthracite coat, no scarf or visible jewelry. Her face, seen only in photos, bore more fatigue and wrinkles, but her blue eyes sparkled with immediate intelligence and curiosity.
—May I come in? she asked with a small smile that couldn't quite hide a certain tension.
I stepped aside, unable to speak.
She entered, casting a quick, professional glance around the studio without comment.
—Shall we sit?
We settled across from each other at the glass table. She placed her bag at her feet and met my eyes directly.
—I won't beat around the bush, Maya. The situation is untenable. For you. For him. For the office.
I lowered my gaze, ashamed, bracing for a reprimand, an order to vanish.
—What's happening between Emmanuel and you… that's not my concern, she continued, defying my expectations. Our story is… unique. We have arrangements of our own.
I looked up, stunned.
—What matters to me is the media storm. It's destroying you. And through you, it could harm my husband's work, whatever his true feelings.
She spoke with disarming frankness, no hostility, as if we were jointly analyzing a strategic problem.
—I'm not your enemy, Maya. I might be the only one who truly understands the pressure you're under right now.
—Why… why are you doing this? I managed to whisper.
—Because I love him, she said simply. And because I can recognize when something… or someone… truly matters to him. And besides, she added with a glint of mischief, I hate seeing a woman torn apart in public. That's an outdated relic.
She leaned forward, her discreet, elegant perfume reaching me.
—Here's my advice, if you'll hear it. Stop hiding. But don't explain yourself. Dignity is your only weapon. Stand tall. Keep going out, living. Ignore the cameras. Don't respond to provocations. Show them you're not ashamed. That you have nothing to hide.
—But… they'll say anything…
—Let them! A dog's bark never stops a caravan. If you flee, you've lost. If you face their gaze—without aggression, without fear—you disarm them.
She rose, signaling the meeting's end.
—I'll talk to Emmanuel. This unhealthy secrecy must end. It's eating you both alive. Transparency, however difficult, is the only way out.
She moved toward the door, then turned back.
—And Maya… take care of yourself. This story… whatever its end… will change you. Ensure it's for the better.
With that, she left, as quietly as she'd arrived.
I sat for a long time in the sudden stillness of the apartment. Her perfume lingered—pale rose and cedarwood.
The shame and fear that had paralyzed me began to fade, replaced by a strange, new sensation: respect. And hope.
Brigitte Macron wasn't here as a rival. She came as a strategist. A woman who knew the cost of power and refused to see another sacrificed on its altar.
For the first time in days, I rose and walked to the window. With a decisive gesture, I parted the curtain and faced the photographers below.
They wouldn't have me. Never again.
I would show them what Maya Diop was made of—the same fabric as the women of her lineage: strong, dignified, and unyielding.
The price of this unwanted fame was heavy. But I was no longer alone to bear it.