Lila Rousseau
The storm began just as Lila locked her apartment door for the last time. A place she'd called home for months.
Rain smeared the city lights into a haze of dull gold and silver, puddles reflecting her shadow as she dragged the suitcase behind her. The wheels clattered against the cracked pavement, each sound sharp as if trying to drown out the weight in her chest.
Matthieu waited by the car - black, understated and low profile. His coat was open, rain slicking over the fabric, but he didn't move to get in until she reached him.
Of course he didn't. Matthieu Laurent never moved first.
He took the suitcase from her without a word, loading it into the trunk. His movements were smooth, not even a glance her way until she slid into the passenger seat.
Only then did he speak, eyes on the road as the engine growled to life.
"You didn't need to pack everything yourself" he said, voice low, clipped. "I could've sent someone to do that later."
"I didn't want anyone here" she replied, staring out the rain-fogged window. "Besides, it's not like I have much to pack in the first place."
He didn't answer. The silence that followed wasn't awkward - it was familiar, carved out of years of quiet understanding and unspoken arguments.
The city blurred behind them as they drove. Streetlights gave way to winding forest roads, the rain thickening until it sounded like static against the windshield. Somewhere between the last gas station and the first curve of the hill, Matthieu broke the silence.
"I told you this wasn't the place you were meant to be," he said, a hint of smugness curling around the edges of his voice. "But you were just being stubborn."
Lila turned her head toward him, arching a brow. "You're really patting yourself on the back right now?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. "I'm simply stating facts."
"Facts are supposed to be backed by evidence, not ego."
He chuckled under his breath- a small, rare sound that made her look at him longer than she meant to.
Even in the dim light, she could see the tension in his jaw, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Matthieu never let himself look tired. But tonight, he did. The exhaustion suited him. Made him human. Made him almost... reachable.
She looked away before he noticed her staring.
---
By the time they reached the chateau, the storm had quieted to a drizzle.
The gates loomed open, the ironwork glinting faintly in the car's headlights. The Rousseau estate rose ahead of them - sprawling, dark, and timeless. The gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled up the long drive.
It felt both foreign and inevitable, standing there again.
Home.
And yet, not.
Lila stepped out, clutching her coat tighter. The rain soaked her fiery hair instantly, strands clinging to her face. She stared at the grand front door, the faint outline of her reflection in the glass.
Her father's house.
Her house now.
Matthieu moved beside her, just close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.
"Welcome home, petite tigresse," he murmured, voice softer than she'd ever heard it.
Her lips twitched. "Don't start."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
But his smile said otherwise.
He unlocked the door and held it open. The smell of dust, oak, and memory greeted her. Everything looked untouched - the chandelier draped in shadows, the long staircase still wearing the same red carpet she'd hated as a teenager.
She walked in slowly, scanning the portraits on the wall - her father in his prime, her mother's distant face beside him, her own childhood grin tucked away in the corner of one frame. She brushed her fingers over the table by the stairs. The dust clung to her palm like history refusing to let go.
Matthieu set her bag down by the couch. "Electricity should still be running. I had the place cleaned last month."
"You always assume too much. How'd you know I'd come back ." she muttered, unbuttoning her coat.
"And yet, I'm rarely wrong when it comes to you."
She shot him a dry look. "You keep saying that like you're proud of it."
"I am."
The faintest smile flickered at her mouth. "You're insufferable."
He inclined his head, like it was a compliment.
It almost was.
---
Lila walked up the stairs and pushed open the door to her room. The slight dusty air welcomed her as she opened the door. Lila sighed and placed her suitcase by the bed.
Her phone buzzed.
Camille.
Lila sighed and swiped the call open.
"Are you alive?" Camille's voice was bright, teasing - exactly the kind of energy Lila didn't have but appreciated.
"Barely." Lila said, kicking off her boots.
"Barely? Girl, what did you do, fight a bear again?"
"Worse," Lila murmured, collapsing into the couch. "I moved."
There was a pause. "Wait-moved? As in moved moved? To where?"
"The chateau."
"Oh." Camille's tone shifted, softer. "The Rousseau chateau?"
"Mm."
"That's... wow." Camille hesitated. "That's a big step."
"Not really. Just going back to where it all started."
Camille exhaled through the phone. "You want me to come over tomorrow? I can bring croissants and emotional support."
Lila smiled faintly. "You think croissants fix trauma?"
"They fix everything" Camille said firmly. "And you need human company, even if you pretend you don't."
"I'll think about it."
"I'll take that as a yes. Sleep, okay?"
"I'll try to."
"Love you, ma belle psychopathe."
My beautiful psychopath
Lila laughed - genuinely, for the first time since the day before. "Love you too."
She ended the call, the sound of the rain filling the silence that followed as she stared blankly at her room's ceiling.
---
It was past midnight when she found herself in her father's old study.
The whiskey bottle sat on the desk, half full. She poured a glass without hesitation.
The chateau creaked with wind and memory. Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
She took another sip.
"You're going to regret that." came a familiar voice from the doorway.
Lila turned. Matthieu stood there, jacket off now, sleeves rolled up, leaning casually against the doorframe. His hair was slightly damp, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light.
"I regret many things" she said, swirling the glass. "This won't make the list."
"You should be resting."
"You should mind your damn business."
"This is my business," he said simply, stepping inside. "Your father trusted me to look after you."
"My father's dead" she said flatly, then immediately regretted the edge in her tone. "Could you just stop with the " he trusted you with me" speech?"
But Matthieu didn't flinch.
"I'm aware," he said quietly. "That doesn't change my orders."
She scoffed, raising her glass in mock salute. "Still the loyal soldier."
"Someone has to be."
Their eyes met across the room - a brief, heavy silence that said everything words couldn't.
She looked away first, throwing back the rest of her drink.
"You know," she said, pouring another, "you're really sentimental in secret."
He arched a brow. "Is that what you think?"
"It's what I know." Her smirk was lazy, half-drunk. "Under all that coldness, you care too much."
He walked toward her, slow steps echoing against the wooden floor. When he reached her, he plucked the glass from her hand.
"You've had enough."
"Control issues much?"
"Survival instinct," he countered. "Someone in this family has to stay sober."
She stared up at him, lips curving faintly. "You're not my family."
His jaw tensed - but his voice softened. "No. But I should've been."
She blinked at him, something sharp flickering behind her eyes, then fading.
"You don't get to say things like that." she whispered.
He didn't answer. Just looked at her - really looked at her. And for once, she didn't look away. The space between them tightened, humming with the kind of tension neither of them would ever name.
She laughed softly, breaking the moment. "You care too much for someone who claims not to."
He exhaled through his nose, faintly amused, faintly pained. "And you're impossible when you drink."
"Maybe that's the only time I make sense."
She swayed slightly, and he caught her instinctively, one arm around her waist, the other steadying her shoulder. She blinked up at him, close enough to see the flecks of gray in his eyes.
"Don't look at me like that, Matthieu," she murmured, her voice slurred but sharp. "It'll ruin your reputation."
He almost smiled. "Too late."
Her head tilted, her lips parted like she wanted to say something else, but the words didn't come. Her lashes fluttered once, twice - then she went limp against him, asleep.
Matthieu stood there for a long moment, holding her. Her breath was soft against his neck, her weight light but grounding. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering for half a heartbeat too long.
Then, quietly, almost reverently he whispered:
"Ti amo troppo per dirtelo."
I love you too much to tell you
The storm outside groaned low, thunder rolling like an echo to his words.
The fire snapped, one ember leaping like a tiny red star before fading into the ash. Matthieu sat on the edge of the couch, his jaw tight as he watched her breathe-slow, uneven, the kind of breathing that came after a battle of wills. Her head rested against his shoulder, the empty glass tilted on its side beside them.
He sighed, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. "Toujours si têtue..." he muttered.
Always so stubborn
His hand lingered for half a second longer than it should've. Then, with a small grunt, he stood, careful not to wake her. He picked her up, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. She stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent but didn't open her eyes.
Up the grand staircase, the house seemed to hum. The chandeliers swayed faintly, glass teardrops chiming in the quiet. The portraits on the walls-paintings of men with sharp suits and cruel eyes watched him pass as though they disapproved.
When he pushed open the door to her old bedroom, dust motes danced through the soft golden light. The air smelled faintly of lavender and gun oil-a strange mix that was unmistakably Lila. He laid her on the bed, hesitated, then tugged the covers over her.
"Bonne nuit, petite tigresse," he said softly.
Good night, little tigress
He turned to leave. But halfway to the door, her voice-sleepy, quiet-broke the silence.
"Matthieu..."
He froze.
"...Did you ever... regret staying?"
He didn't answer. His shoulders stiffened. Then, finally:
"Every day," he said. "And never, at the same time."
When she drifted back to sleep, he left without another word.
---
Downstairs, the fire had died out. Matthieu poured himself another drink and sat in the armchair facing the window. The night outside was black as ink, the gardens shrouded in fog. He thought about her father-the man he'd sworn loyalty to, and the promise that had never stopped haunting him.
Protect her. Always.
Even from herself.
He stared into the amber liquid in his glass. "You'd hate what she's become," he whispered. "Or maybe you'd be proud. Hard to tell with you, old man."
The silence pressed in, heavy and old. A floorboard creaked overhead-Lila shifting in her sleep, perhaps. Then, a faint hum reached his ears.
It was coming from the study.
Matthieu set down his glass and rose, his hand instinctively brushing the pistol at his side. The chateau had been empty for months. No staff, no guards. Just ghosts and echoes. But the sound-low, mechanical-was unmistakable.
He pushed the study door open. The room was dark except for a faint blue glow from the old computer terminal. The screen flickered to life, a line of text scrolling across it.
"You're too late, Laurent."
His pulse kicked up. The machine wasn't even connected to the network-it shouldn't have been able to receive anything.
"Shit," he muttered, stepping closer. A second line appeared, as if in response.
"He died because of her. Because of you."
Matthieu's jaw clenched. "Joel..." he breathed. "This isn't possible."
He unplugged the power cord, plunging the room into darkness. But for a long moment, he stood there, listening-to the ticking clock, the hiss of wind through cracked windows, the distant sound of Lila shifting upstairs.
---
Morning came slow.
Lila woke to pale sunlight slicing through the curtains. Her head throbbed like she had her head bashed in, her tongue felt like sandpaper. For a brief, disoriented moment, she forgot where she was-then she saw the room's old wallpaper, the ornate mirror, the velvet drapes, and it hit her: she was home.
"Shit" she muttered, sitting up.
Her phone was dead. Her mind, not much better. But beneath the headache and the haze, something gnawed at her-the way Matthieu had looked at her last night. Like he knew something she didn't.
When she stepped out into the hall, barefoot and half-awake, the scent of coffee hit her. She followed it downstairs to the kitchen, where Matthieu stood at the counter, crisp and controlled as always, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
"You're up" he said without turning.
"I could say the same. Don't you ever sleep?"
"Not when someone leaves her doors unlocked."
She smirked, sliding readily onto one of the bar stools. "You really need to stop making everything sound like a metaphor."
He handed her a mug. "And you need to stop underestimating people who want you dead."
"Good morning to you too," she said, taking a long sip. "Any updates?"
Matthieu's gaze flicked toward the study door. "Nothing you need to worry about."
"That means it's exactly something I need to worry about."
He met her eyes then-steady, unreadable. "Leave it, Lila. For now."
She set the mug down, irritation sparking. "You can't keep shielding me. You think I don't notice when you lie?"
Matthieu's jaw tightened. "You think I enjoy lying to you?"
"Then stop."
The silence stretched between them, thick and buzzing. He looked away first.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere deep in the house, a door slammed on its own.
---
Later that afternoon, Lila stood alone in her father's study, staring at the dormant computer. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before she forced them back down. No. She wasn't going to give in to paranoia. Not yet.
She turned instead to the bookshelves. Behind them, she knew, was a hidden compartment-one her father had shown her when she was sixteen. She pressed her hand to the carved emblem near the top corner. With a soft click, the wood shifted.
Inside, the small safe gleamed in the dim light. She spun the dial, the numbers clicking in rhythm with her heartbeat. When it opened, her breath caught.
Stacks of old files. An envelope. And beneath them-something else.
A small flash drive. Black. Unmarked.
Her father's handwriting on the envelope read:
For Lila. If you're reading this, it's already too late.
Her stomach dropped.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She spun around-hand instinctively going to her side-but it was just Matthieu, leaning in the doorway.
"Going through his things again?" he said quietly.
"Just trying to remember what he left behind."
His eyes softened. "Maybe some things are better forgotten."
"Maybe," she said, sliding the flash drive into her pocket. "But not this."
---
That night, while the chateau dozed in moonlight, Lila sat at her father's old desk. The glow of her laptop painted her face pale blue as she inserted the drive.
A single folder blinked open. Inside: dozens of encrypted files. And one video.
She clicked.
Static. Then, her father's voice-rough, older, more tired than she remembered.
"If you've found this, ma fille then I've failed to keep the peace I promised you. Someone closed to us.....betrayed me."
Her heart stopped.
" You must be careful whom you trust. Even those who love you can be most dangerous"
The screen went black.
Lila sat frozen, her pulse hammering. Then she heard it again-soft, unmistakable-the creak of a floorboard behind her.
She turned.
But the doorway was empty.
-----