"Elsa Moreau!"
The voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Yes?" She didn't look up right away—until Madame Geneviéve's sharp cough made her.
"Oh—Madame!" Elsa's smile appeared out of nowhere, polite but brittle.
"To the conference room. Now."
Geneviéve didn't wait for her. Elsa followed at a reluctant pace, curiosity curling in her stomach like smoke. Nine days at Le Lumière, and she was already being called to the conference room? This was either trouble… or triumph.
The glass table stretched the length of the room, gleaming under the overhead lights. Papers sat in precise stacks, the air so tight with tension it almost hummed.
Elsa slipped into a seat, flipping her pen between her fingers—until a shadow fell over her. Lucien Valeur slid into the chair beside her. His suit was immaculate, his cologne subtle but dangerous, the kind that lingered too long. He didn't just work at Le Lumière—he was the name on the masthead. The Valeurs didn't chase approval. They decided who deserved it.
He smirked, as if her very presence amused him.
"Of course," she muttered under her breath, "because the universe hates me."
Before he could answer, Madame Geneviéve swept in.
"Good. You're both here." No smile. No warmth. All business.
"This Arceneaux corruption story could blow the roof off. We've had whispers for months, but no one's dared to dig. That's why I'm giving it to you." She glanced at Elsa. Elsa nodded once, sharp.
"And Lucien will be your partner."
Elsa's head snapped toward her. "I'm sorry—partners?"
"Problem, Moreau?" Lucien's smirk deepened, like he'd been waiting to see her bristle.
"Several."
Geneviéve's tone cut the air. "Lucien has access to sources you don't, and he's handled high-stakes cases before. More importantly, he's the executive director of editorial strategy…" She paused. "…which means he decides what makes the front page."
Elsa's jaw clenched so tightly she could feel it in her temples.
Lucien leaned in, close enough for his voice to skim the shell of her ear. "I don't bite, Elsa. Unless provoked."
Her eyes slid to his, unblinking. "And I don't entertain egos. Even expensive ones."
"This isn't about your history," Geneviéve said. "It's about results. Try not to kill each other. But if you do—make sure the story's done first."
The door shut behind her.
Lucien tilted his head. "You're stuck with me now, sweetheart."
"I've survived worse."
"Not with this much chemistry."
She scoffed. "Shut up."
"Looks like you're working under me."
"I'd rather burn the whole place down."
He gave a low chuckle. "Then we'll light the match together. See you tomorrow, partner."
He left her there, pulse unsteady, teeth grinding.
"Brat," she muttered, shoving her things into her bag.
The next morning…
The archive room smelled faintly of dust and ink, its walls lined with cabinets that looked ready to burst. The faint hum of the light filled the quiet.
Elsa sat at the table, flipping through a folder. Lucien leaned against the cabinet across from her, arms folded, eyes locked on her. Always watching.
"Stop staring," she said, not looking up.
"I'm not."
She snorted. "Liar."
She shoved a file aside with a little too much force. "No one wants to talk. It's all smoke and no fire."
"You expect corruption to hand you a confession? You'll need more than wide eyes and righteous anger."
"I know what I'm doing."
"Good." He straightened, stepping closer. "Then you won't mind getting your hands a little dirty."
"I already did—by agreeing to work with you."
Lucien's smile was slow, almost wolfish. "You wound me."
"Not yet."
The corner of his mouth twitched, his gaze lingering on her longer than necessary there was fire in her eyes. The one he had gotten unnecessarily attached to.And despite herself, Elsa felt that dangerous heat between them—sharp, unwanted, but impossible to ignore.