The lobby of St. Yves Studios was designed to intimidate.
The floors were polished obsidian, the ceilings were vaulted like a cathedral, and the security guards looked like they were bred in a lab to crush dreams.
But they had never faced a mother who thought her child was in danger.
Anaïs—disguised in a beige trench coat, a black face mask, oversized sunglasses, and a Yankees baseball cap—burst through the revolving doors like a hurricane.
"Ma'am, you can't be in here!" a security guard shouted, stepping in her path. "ID?"
Anaïs didn't stop. She didn't even slow down.
"Move," she hissed. Her voice was muffled by the mask, but the command was lethal.
"Ma'am, stop or I will tase—"
Anaïs whipped out her phone and flashed a digital badge. It wasn't a visitor pass. It was her V.I.P. Agent License (under the name Eve).
"I am here to collect my client," she lied smoothly, shoving past him. "If you touch me, my lawyers will own your house by lunchtime."
The guard hesitated. In that split second of confusion, Anaïs was already halfway to the elevators.
She jammed the button for the 4th floor. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Please be okay. Please don't let Bastian see his face. Please don't let him ask about his father.
Ding.
The doors opened on the 4th floor.
The chaos of the waiting room had died down. Most of the crying children had left.
And there, sitting on a bench swinging his legs, was Sacha.
He was holding a juice box in one hand and a contract in the other. He looked perfectly happy. In fact, he was currently lecturing a weeping mother next to him.
"You shouldn't give him that milk," Sacha was saying seriously, pointing at the other kid's bottle. "Mommy says it makes tummies feel funny. And if your tummy feels funny, you can't act right."
"SACHA!"
Sacha froze. He recognized that tone. That was the You are in big trouble tone.
He looked up and saw the trench-coated figure storming toward him. Even with the sunglasses and mask, he knew it was Mommy.
"Uh-oh," Sacha whispered to his juice box. "I think I'm cooked."
Anaïs reached him in three strides. She fell to her knees, grabbing his shoulders. Her hands were shaking.
"Are you okay?" she demanded, scanning his face for injuries. "Did he hurt you? Did he say anything to you?"
Sacha blinked. "Who? The tall grumpy man? No. He didn't yell."
He brightened suddenly and shoved the paper forward.
"He gave me this! I did good, right? I listened and stood still. He said I was good."
"I got the job!" he added quickly. "So we can get the chocolate thing. The big one with lots of chocolate."
Anaïs snatched the contract from his hand. She didn't even read it. She crumpled it into a ball.
"We are leaving," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "Now."
"But Mommy!" Sacha protested, feet skidding as she pulled him. "I didn't do anything bad! I waited my turn! I was brave!"
"I said NOW!"
She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the elevators. She needed to get out before he came out. She could feel Bastian's presence in the building like a magnetic field, pulling at her skin.
But luck was not on her side.
"Wait!"
The deep, commanding voice echoed down the hallway.
Anaïs froze. Her blood turned to ice.
She didn't turn around. She gripped Sacha's hand so tight her knuckles turned white.
Footsteps approached. Heavy, confident footsteps.
"You must be the mother," Bastian said.
He walked around them, stepping into her line of sight.
Anaïs kept her head down, tilting the brim of her baseball cap to hide her eyes. She stared at his shoes. They were polished Italian leather. The same brand he wore five years ago.
"I am," Anaïs said. She pitched her voice lower, making it sound cold and rough. "And we are leaving."
Bastian frowned. He looked at this strange woman wrapped in layers of fabric like a spy.
He couldn't see her face, but something about her posture—the way she held herself, rigid and defensive—felt strangely familiar.
"Leaving?" Bastian asked. "Your son just gave a brilliant performance. I hired him on the spot."
"He declines," Anaïs snapped. "Come on, Sacha."
She tried to step around him, but Bastian moved to block her.
"Excuse me," Bastian said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low register that used to make shivers run down her spine. "You don't get to just walk away. Your son wants this role. You are making a mistake."
"The only mistake," Anaïs hissed, "was letting him come near this building."
She looked up. For a split second, her sunglasses slipped slightly.
Bastian stared at her.
He couldn't see her eyes. But he smelled her perfume.
It wasn't a specific brand. It was the scent of Rain and Vanilla.
Anaïs.
The memory hit him so hard he almost stumbled. His wife used to smell exactly like that.
Bastian reached out, his hand closing around her wrist.
"Who are you?" he whispered, his intensity spiking.
The contact burned her skin. Anaïs gasped, pulling her arm back, but his grip was iron.
"Let go of me!" she cried out.
"Take off the glasses," Bastian commanded. He wasn't asking. He was hunting. "Let me see your face."
"No!"
Sacha, seeing his mother in distress, dropped his juice box.
"Hey!" Sacha shouted. His voice cracked as he stomped on Bastian's shoe. "Stop it! You're not allowed to grab my mommy!"
Bastian flinched, loosening his grip just enough.
Anaïs ripped her arm free.
"You are fired, Mr. St. Yves!" Anaïs yelled, her chest heaving. "My son will never work for you! Stay away from us!"
She grabbed Sacha and practically ran to the elevator. The doors opened immediately—a miracle.
She shoved Sacha inside and hit the Close button.
As the metal doors began to slide shut, she looked out.
Bastian was standing there, frozen. He wasn't chasing them. He was staring at his hand—the hand that had touched her wrist.
He looked like he had seen a ghost.
The doors slammed shut.
Anaïs collapsed against the metal wall, sliding down to the floor. Her legs gave out. She ripped off the mask, gasping for air.
"Mommy?" Sacha asked quietly. His shoulders were tight. "Did I mess up?"
He hesitated, then added in a small voice,
"I stomped him. Was I… bad?"
Anaïs pulled him into her arms, burying her face in his neck. She was shaking uncontrollably.
"No, baby," she sobbed dryly. "You were brave. You were so brave. But we have to go. We have to pack."
"Pack?" Sacha asked. "Like… all our stuff?"
"We're leaving the country," Anaïs said. "Today."
Bastian stood alone in the hallway.
Ken ran up to him, out of breath. "Sir! Did you sign the kid? The mother... she looked crazy! Was that a celebrity?"
Bastian didn't answer. He brought his hand to his face. He inhaled deeply.
Rain and vanilla.
It was impossible. She was dead. He had seen the car. He had seen the report.
But his heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Ken," Bastian said, his voice sounding like it came from underwater.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Get me the security footage from the lobby," Bastian ordered, his eyes narrowing into slits. "And find out who that taxi picked up."
"Sir? You want to stalk the kid's mom?"
Bastian turned to look at Ken. His grey eyes were burning with a terrifying, obsessive light.
"That wasn't just a mom," Bastian whispered. "That woman... she trembled exactly the way my wife used to."
He looked at the elevator doors.
"Find her. Now."