chapter 57
Vivienne's POV:
The next morning arrived too quickly, bringing with it a familiar knot of anxiety that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach.
I sat at my vanity, methodically applying foundation to hide the shadows under my eyes, when Mother's voice carried up the stairs.
"Vivienne! Lucas is here. Don't keep him waiting!"
My hand stilled mid-stroke. He was early—a full thirty minutes before our agreed time.
The Lucas I'd known for years was obsessively punctual, never a minute early or late. He'd always been particular about these details, believing that arriving too early was as inconsiderate as being late—it might rush a lady's preparations, disturb her peace.
Yet here he was, disrupting my carefully planned schedule. Something had shifted between us since those photos surfaced, subtle changes in his behavior that set my nerves on edge.
"Tell him I'll be down shortly," I called back, forcing brightness into my voice while my mind raced. Had he discovered something?
I selected my outfit with surgical precision—a cream silk blouse and tailored trousers that Lucas had complimented before, paired with the pearl earrings he'd given me. Every detail mattered now, every gesture calculated to remind him of what we'd built together.
When I finally descended, I found him in the sitting room with Mother, their voices low and intimate in a way that made my chest tighten. Lucas rose immediately when he saw me, ever the gentleman.
"You look lovely," he said, the words automatic.
"Thank you," I replied, letting my fingers brush his as I reached for my purse. He didn't pull away, but he didn't lean into the touch either.
Mother was watching us with that calculating expression I knew too well, already plotting how to leverage this meeting for the family's benefit. As if we needed Henri Beaumont's connections when Lucas's family controlled half the luxury market in Europe.
"You were telling me about the charity gala," Mother prompted Lucas, clearly trying to extend the conversation. "The blind children's hospital fundraiser?"
"Yes, my mother's organizing committee is finalizing the details." Lucas's tone was polite but distant.
Then, unexpectedly, his expression softened, a gentle warmth entering his eyes. "During my recovery, having Vivienne there made all the difference. Every morning, we'd start the day together over warm croissants from that bakery on Fifth. The smell of fresh pastry, her voice reading the morning news..." He paused, lost in the memory. "It made those dark months bearable, knowing each new day would begin that way."
"Oh?" Mother's laugh tinkled like breaking glass. "How thoughtful! Though I have to say, I'm surprised—Vivienne never cared for croissants before. She always said they were too heavy for breakfast. She must have developed quite a taste for them!"
My blood froze.
The silence that followed was deafening.
I watched Lucas's expression shift minutely, a slight furrowing of his brow that meant his analytical mind was processing this discrepancy.
"People's tastes change," I interjected quickly, looping my arm through his with practiced ease. "We should go—you know how temperamental these artistic types can be. Master Beaumont won't appreciate us being late."
Lucas allowed himself to be led, but I felt the tension in his arm. As we walked to his car, I babbled about the weather, about the upcoming gala, about anything except the doubt I'd seen flicker across his face.
The drive to Beaumont's workshop felt interminable.
Lucas drove in silence while I filled the space with empty chatter. By the time we pulled up to the converted warehouse that housed the master perfumer's studio, my nerves were frayed to breaking.
Henri Beaumont himself answered the door—a man in his seventies with silver hair and piercing gray eyes. His workspace was a blend of old-world craftsmanship and modern technology, with hundreds of bottles lining the walls and the air thick with competing scents.
"Miss Sterling," he said, his accent still thick despite decades in the country. "I know your work. The Madame Flower collection was... notable."
I forced my smile wider.
"Master Beaumont, thank you so much for seeing us. I have a proposition that I think you'll find very interesting—a collaboration that could redefine the luxury fragrance market."
He listened politely as I outlined my vision, occasionally nodding but offering no enthusiasm. When I finished, he spread his hands in an elegant shrug that managed to convey regret.
"I'm afraid I must decline. My schedule is quite committed at present. I've recently agreed to work with a talented young perfumer. We begin formulation next week."
My stomach dropped. "May I ask who? Perhaps we could arrange a three-way collaboration. I'm prepared to offer very generous terms—"
"Double your usual fee," I pressed, desperation creeping into my voice. "Triple, if necessary."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Beaumont's expression hardened, and I realized my mistake immediately.
"Miss Sterling," his voice was winter itself, "I do not discuss my collaborators' identities without their permission. And I certainly do not auction my perfume to the highest bidder. "
"Of course," I backpedaled frantically. "I didn't mean to imply—I have such deep respect for your work, Master Beaumont. That's why I'm so eager to collaborate. Please, forgive my enthusiasm."
He studied me for a long moment, and finally, he sighed.
"My collaborator will be arriving shortly to review our workspace. Perhaps if she agree, we might discuss some future possibility. "
"Then I'll wait," I said quickly. "We'll wait. I'm sure once we meet, we can work something out—"
Beaumont's expression didn't change, but something in his posture stiffened. He glanced at Lucas—a brief, meaningful look that acknowledged his standing while simultaneously communicating his displeasure.
Professional courtesy prevented him from ordering us out, but the message was clear.
Lucas caught it immediately. His hand found my elbow again, gentle but insistent.
"That's very generous, Master Beaumont, but we've already taken enough of your time." His voice was smooth, diplomatic. "Vivienne, we should go."
"But—" I tried to dig in my heels, frustration burning in my chest. This was my chance, possibly my only chance to salvage my reputation before Elena completely eclipsed me.
"Vivienne." Just my name, spoken quietly, but with a finality that brooked no argument.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I forced my lips into a gracious smile, thanked Beaumont again, and let Lucas guide me toward the exit.
My mind was already spinning, calculating how long I could wait before reaching out again, whether I could find another connection, another angle—
We had just stepped outside, Lucas's hand reaching for his keys, when a familiar black Bentley pulled into the parking area.