Élodie Marchand leaned forward, the studio lights catching the dew of nervousness on Lydia's collarbones. "'Suivre son cœur'…" The host's voice softened like brushed velvet. "Notre héroïne prouve que la bonté triomphe du calcul."
Lydia's fingers pleated the Provençal sash at her waist—a nervous tic inherited from Mémé Louise. "Oui…" The admission escaped in a breathless flutter. Murmurs of "trop adorable" rippled through the crew like wind through silk looms. Even Director Dubois' flinty features cracked—a seismic shift unnoticed until Gavin Sterling materialized at stage left, a shadow with glacial eyes that scanned the set like a hawk surveying prey.
"Vos talents de nageuse doivent être extraordinaires," Élodie pivoted, her silk blouse whispering secrets against the microphone. "Où avez-vous appris? Les secrets du Vieux Lyon?"
Lydia thawed into the rhythm of home, the scent of quenelles and river mud suddenly vivid. "Tous les enfants de Croix-Rousse nagent. On grandit dans le bassin des Tisserands—les pierres glissantes, l'eau verte comme du jade…"
"La Fontaine des Canuts!" Élodie's gaze ignited with the fervor of a documentary maker scenting ratings. "Soyez notre guide! Montrez-nous votre royaume d'eau!"
"Bien sûr—"
"Non." Gavin's veto cut the humidity like a guillotine blade.
Dubois surged from his throne-like chair, volcanic rage mottling his neck crimson. "Qui ose interrompre—"
Assistant Director Claude seized his elbow, lips pressed to his ear in a frantic whisper: "Son oncle est juge d'instruction… il a étouffé l'enquête Dubois Textiles en mars… votre cousin est toujours en liberté conditionnelle grâce à lui…"
The director's fury imploded. He scanned Gavin—the Sterling jawline honed by generations of magistrates, the eyes like frosted cognac—and deflated like a punctured bellow. Silence descended, thick as the woolen fog that haunted Lyon's traboules.
Lydia peeked through lowered lashes. Gavin trapped her gaze, his smirk a live wire that scorched her cheeks. She stared at her scuffed Mary Janes, the left sole flapping slightly—a detail magnified tenfold under the studio lights.
"Pourquoi cette obstruction?" Élodie's knuckles whitened on her clipboard, manicured nails digging crescent moons into the foam. "Elle a sauvé un enfant par sa bravoure! Le public mérite de voir cette grâce!"
"Pas en maillot de bain," Gavin stated, stepping into the light. His shadow enveloped Lydia—a human shield against the klieg lights.
"Pardon?" Élodie's penciled brows arched toward her hairline. "Vous nagez en quoi alors? Des sacs de jute?"
"Nos vêtements," Lydia confessed, fingers twisting the linen of her skirt. "Tout sauf les robes—les robes flottent, vous comprenez?"
Gavin's chuckle rumbled low—a sound felt more than heard. "Ils nouent les jambes de pantalon pour créer des flotteurs. Comme des outres en cuir… mais avec du velours côtelé."
"Ingénieux!" Élodie seized the exoticism like a terrier with a rat. "Dubois! Nous devons immortaliser cela! Des enfants sauvages de Lyon, transformant leurs hardes en bouées!"
"Elle ne nagera pas." Gavin's tone brooked no appeal, his eyes locking with Dubois'. "Pas aujourd'hui. Pas jamais pour vos caméras."
Élodie whirled, silk hissing like an angry garter snake. "Le contrat stipule clairement—"
"Le contrat exige 'coopération raisonnable', pas 'exhibition pour voyeurs'." Gavin's gaze pinned Dubois to his director's chair. "Voulez-vous que Libération publie la Clause 7 ce soir? Avec les photos de Lydia dans cette robe de damnation que vous lui avez fourrée?"
The director blanched. The leaked tabloid photos had already cost them Guichard Perrachon's sponsorship—three million francs evaporated like morning mist over the Saône.
"Monsieur Sterling a une vision," Dubois rasped, sweat beading on his temples like condensation on a pastis glass. "Ce projet manque d'âme. L'histoire des canuts… les métiers à tisser qui ont saigné pour cette ville…"
Claude pounced like a terrier scenting opportunity: "Collaborons avec le Musée Gadagne! Créons 'Lyon: Sang et Soie'! Avec des séquences aux Halles Bocuse, à la basilique, dans les bouchons…"
Dubois' eyes glinted with the cold calculus of commercial survival. "Avec intégrations publicitaires pour Paul Bocuse et les soieries Prelle… triplez le budget."
As technicians reset lights, Lydia studied Gavin. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light between them—tiny galaxies swirling in silence. "Pourquoi ce combat contre la natation?"
He handed her chilled Badoit, their fingers brushing—a spark that made her flinch. "Regarde-les." Nodding toward Élodie reviewing footage with the hunger of a butcher eyeing a lamb. "Ils voulaient te réduire à un corps dans l'eau. Une sirène de pacotille pour vendre de la publicité."
"Mais la fontaine…"
"Est sacrée," Gavin finished, his voice dropping to a vibration felt in her bones. "Pas un décor pour leur cirque. Tu leur offres l'âme de Lyon—les canuts qui se sont pendus à leurs métiers en 1831, les résistants qui ont tissé des messages dans la soie pendant l'Occupation. C'est ça, ta vraie valeur."
The Renault 4L rattled across Pont de la Guillotière, the Rhône flowing beneath them like molten lead. Lydia glared at Gavin, the city's skyline—Fourvière's basilica and Tour Part-Dieu's steel monolith—framing his obstinacy. "Pourquoi décidez-vous de tout? Vous n'êtes pas mon tuteur!"
The driver's eyes darted to the rearview mirror, hungry for the drama unfolding in his backseat.
Gavin's laugh was velvet over steel. "Sans moi, petite taupe, ils t'auraient parquée dans un bikini devant vingt caméras. Ta 'sainteté' vendue aux enchères pour des cotes d'écoute."
"Je ne suis pas idiote!" The words exploded from her, fueled by weeks of being maneuvered like a pawn.
"Non?" He leaned close, pine soap and danger enveloping her. "Alors explique-moi… pourquoi Danielle Dubois a-t-elle versé 3000 francs au mécanicien pour 'réparer' les freins du vélo de Bastien hier?"
Lydia froze. The defective vest documents… Danielle's mounting desperation… The world tilted.
At 9 Rue des Canuts, Mémé Louise greeted them wringing her apron into a rope of despair. "Des corbeaux en costume sont venus." She jerked her chin toward the west wing where shadows pooled thickest. "Avec des valises noires… comme des cercueils portatifs."
Danielle Dubois emerged, her Chanel suit a stark white slash against the courtyard's crumbling ochre walls. "Ma chère Lydia…" Her smile chilled the July air. "J'ai une solution élégante à notre… malentendu."
She extended a leather portfolio thicker than a Bible. Inside:
Title deed to the courtyard in Lydia's name
Sciences Po Lyon admission papers stamped with urgency
A check for 250,000 francs—enough to buy ten years of warmth
"Tout cela…" Danielle's whisper slithered through the traboule, "…si ces documents disparaissent." Her eyes flicked to Lydia's canvas bag where the bulletproof vest report lay like a grenade.
Gavin stepped forward, blocking Danielle's view of Lydia. "Elle ne touchera pas votre argent sale."
"Je parlais à la fille du capitaine," Danielle's voice sharpened, "pas au bâtard Sterling. Choisis, Lydia: la ruine… ou le destin que ton père t'a volé."
Lydia stared at the check. She imagined Mémé's tuberculosis cured, coal heaped high for winter, real leather shoes replacing her broken Mary Janes. Her fingers brushed the crisp paper…
…then recoiled as if electrocuted. The ghost of her father's hand seemed to grip her wrist—a phantom warmth from beyond the grave.
"Mon père est mort pour ces mensonges," she said, voice trembling but clear as cathedral bells. "Je ne souillerai pas sa mémoire avec votre soie pourrie."
Danielle's mask shattered. "Crève donc dans ta crasse, bâtarde!"
As Danielle's Louboutins stabbed the cobblestones, Gavin gripped Lydia's wrist—not to restrain, but to anchor. "Tu comprends maintenant pourquoi je dis non? Pourquoi je dis toujours non pour toi?"
Mémé Louise pressed an iron key into her palm—cold, heavy, smelling of blood and rust. "Le coffre de ton père… sous le métier à tisser. Il a dit de l'ouvrir quand les corbeaux viendraient."
Inside the rusted strongbox, veiled in decades of dust:
Captain Shaw's deployment journals, pages stained with Saharan sand and something darker
Photos of Thibault shaking hands with Danielle's father at Dubois Textiles—champagne flutes raised to a deal signed in blood
A single 7.62mm bullet—identical to Mali insurgent rounds, its copper jacket gleaming like a poisoned jewel
Gavin lifted the slug to the dying light filtering through the traboule. "La balle qui a traversé le gilet défectueux… celle qui a tué ton père. Thibault l'a gardée comme trophée."
Thunder cannoned over Fourvière. The velvet guillotine's blade hovered above them all.
Lydia traced the bullet's grooves—a topography of betrayal. "Pourquoi me montres-tu ça maintenant?"
"Parce que demain," Gavin's thumb brushed the base of her throat where her pulse hammered, "Libération publiera tout. Et Lyon saura que les Dubois ont vendu des cercueils en soie à nos soldats."
From her window, Danielle watched them, a phone pressed to her ear. "Oui, Élodie… diffusez la version 'spéciale' de l'interview ce soir. Qu'elle pleure à la télé… qu'elle pleure pour toute la ville."
The first raindrops fell—cold, fat, smelling of the river and reckoning.