But Claire also knew what Élise didn’t yet: some men learn to pronounce the word “love” the way others learn to sign a forged document.
“Does Adrien know who your father is?”
Élise lowered her eyes.
“Not exactly. He knows you run a clinic and that Dad works in real estate. But I haven’t told him about the holding company, or the buildings, or anything else. I wanted him to love me for who I am.”
That same evening, Claire told Marc everything. He listened in silence, sitting in the library, his hands folded in front of him.
“If we forbid it, she’ll cling to him,” he finally said.
So they waited. They hired a private investigator. The file came back clean: no debts, no criminal record, no scandalous ex, a mother who was a schoolteacher in Tours, a brilliant career.
Claire stared at the report.
“No one is that clean.” “
Marc sighed. “What do you want to do? Interrogate him in a basement?”
Claire replied without flinching: “No. I’m going to work in his office.”
Three days later, Dr. Claire Delmas disappeared. In her place appeared “Martine”: gray blouse, cheap glasses, hair untied, no jewelry, no perfume.
As a cleaning lady, no one even glanced at her.
She emptied trash cans, scrubbed sinks, cleaned up coffee stains, and listened to interns talking to her without looking up. Adrien, on the other hand, remained polite. He said thank you. He smiled. He never openly looked down on her.
