Gavin Sterling's Peugeot Canyon Express vanished down Rue des Fantasques, its matte-black frame swallowing the twilight. Clémence Bernard whistled low, leaning against the tabac shop's bead curtain. "Sainte Nitouche! That bike costs more than Mémé's pension!"
Lydia Shaw traced the tire marks on the cobblestones. "Combien?"
"Douze cents francs!" Clémence's eyes gleamed. "Full RockShox suspension, Shimano Deore gears…" She mimed riding. "Comme un rêve sur roues!"
Lydia's stomach clenched. Twelve hundred francs. Two months of her mother's teaching salary in Marseille. Three months of Mémé's seamstress pension. The gulf between Gavin's world and theirs yawned like the Rhône at flood tide.
"Il t'a parlé d'un documentaire?" Clémence prodded.
"Rien d'important," Lydia deflected, ushering her cousin toward 9 Rue des Canuts. But Sophie's pearl burned in her pocket—a cold counterweight to Gavin's warning: «Regarde France 3 à dix-huit heures trente.»
Inside the south wing's cramped salon, the air hung thick with browned butter and simmering tensions. Tante Joséphine slammed down two porcelain platters:
Large Platter: Pumpkin-and-Comté ravioles (for eight)
Small Bowl: Truffle-and-Duck ravioles (thirty precious pieces)
Mémé Louise presided at the head of the scarred oak table, her knuckles white on her cane. "Asseyez-vous!" she ordered, eyeing the vintage Saba TV humming in the corner. Its screen flickered like a dying firefly.
Lydia took her place between peeling wallpaper and Bastien's motorcycle jacket slung over the Louis XIII bed—a carved monstrosity that dominated the room. Clémence slid her five truffle ravioles onto Lydia's plate. "Pour notre héroïne," she whispered.
"Héroïne?" Bastien snorted, reaching for the duck. "Elle a sauvé qui? Un chat?"
Joséphine slapped his hand. "Attends ton tour, goinfre!"
At 18:28, the Saba's static resolved into France 3's evening logo. A stern anchor appeared: "Ce soir: un acte de courage lyonnais qui a interrompu le baccalauréat…"
Lydia froze mid-bite.
The screen cut to shaky footage: the Rhône's polluted currents, a Renault sedan sinking nose-first, then—Lydia herself, braids whipping as she tore off her blazer and dove. The camera zoomed cruelly on her algae-streaked face as she hauled Sophie Lacroix toward the quay.
"Mon Dieu!" Mémé dropped her fork.
Slow-motion replay: Lydia's hand gripping Sophie's pearl necklace, Gavin Sterling wading in waist-deep, his expression unreadable as he hauled both women onto concrete.
Voiceover boomed: "Lydia Shaw, 17 ans, a sacrifié son examen pour sauver une inconnue. Un acte qui rappelle les valeurs oubliées de notre cité…"
Silence. Then chaos:
Joséphine spilled her vin ordinaire across the ravioles
Bastien leaped up, roaring "Ma cousine! À la télé!"
Tonton Marcel gaped at Lydia's algae-caked TV likeness
Clémence seized Lydia's shoulders. "Tu as fait ça AVANT ton bac?"
Mémé's cane thumped the floorboards. "Et le garçon? Ce Sterling?"
Lydia stared at her trembling hands on screen. The footage omitted crucial truths: Sophie's whispered "Philippe m'a jetée" before losing consciousness; Gavin's hissed "Tais-toi!" to the cameraman.
"C'était rien," she mumbled. "Juste…"
"Juste?" Joséphine stabbed a finger at the Saba. "Ils t'ont filmée comme une sainte!"
Bastien muted the TV. "Alors? Raconte!"
Under eight pairs of eyes, Lydia confessed: Élodie Marchand's proposal, the silk-weavers documentary, the promise of "rôles pour toute la famille".
Bastien's chair screeched back. "Des rôles? Pour nous?" He struck a muscleman pose. "Je serai le forgeron rebelle! Comme Jean Reno!"
"Moi, la sage-femme!" Clémence twirled, knocking over a candlestick.
Mémé's voice cut through the euphoria: "Et les Dubois? Ils accepteront?"
The room stilled. Danielle Dubois' hatred festered like rot in the west wing.
"On s'en fout des Dubois!" Bastien crowed. "Si Sterling est avec nous, ils n'oseront rien!"
Later, washing dishes at the limestone sink, Lydia fingered Sophie's pearl. The France 3 segment replayed in her mind—edited to erase Gavin's calculated rescue, her own desperation. «They made me a hero,» she realized. «But heroes don't hide stolen pearls.»
Clémence nudged her. "Ton Sterling… il planifie tout, hein? Même les nouvelles."
Lydia recalled Gavin's parting glare: «Make them watch.» This wasn't fame—it was a chess move. France 3 had shown Lyon her courage; now the documentary would expose Danielle's cruelty.
"Il sait ce qu'il fait," Lydia murmured.
"Bien sûr!" Clémence winked. "Les riches naissent avec un manuel de manipulation."
At 21:00, Lydia climbed to the attic. Moonlight bled through the dormer window, illuminating Captain Arnaud Shaw's photo. She placed the pearl beside his Mali service medal.
"Papa," she whispered. "Dubois a payé pour ta mort. Et maintenant…"
Footsteps creaked on the stairs. Mémé appeared, clutching a velvet box. "Pour toi," she said, opening it to reveal a matching pearl earring. "Ta mère l'a laissée en partant."
Lydia's breath hitched. The earring was identical to Sophie's pearls.
"Où…?"
"Philippe Dubois l'a offerte pour son mariage," Mémé spat. "Sang et perles—voilà leur héritage."
Outside, a Peugeot's tires hissed on wet cobblestones. Lydia rushed to the window. Gavin stood in the shadows, gaze locked on hers. He raised three fingers: «Three days until filming.» Then vanished like smoke.
Lydia pressed the pearl and earring together. They clicked—a perfect match. Below, Danielle Dubois' shutters slammed shut. The courtyard held its breath, balanced on the edge of revelation.
«Heroes or pawns?» no longer mattered. They were both now—and the game was accelerating.