Monday morning dawned with a soft gray light filtering through the curtains of Elara Moreau's suite at Lucian Duval's estate. She jolted awake, heart racing, the weight of her first day at work pressing down on her.
Her body still ached a bit from the accident, but she pushed herself out of bed, determined to get her strength back fully.
After a quick shower, she dressed in a cream blouse and navy skirt, from the wardrobe Lucian had provided, her hands trembling as she pinned her long brown hair into a neat bun. Her hazel eyes stared back from the mirror, uncertain. "You can do this, Elara," she muttered, her voice shaky.
Downstairs, Lucian sat at the dining table, a coffee mug in one hand, a financial report in the other. His charcoal suit hugged his tall frame, dark brown eyes sharp. Elara approached cautiously. "Good morning, Mr. Duval," she said.
His gaze fixed on Elara as she walks down the stairs. "Good morning, Miss Moreau. Sit. We leave in twenty."
She slid into a chair as the chef set down croissants and fruit. Nibbling a pastry, she glanced at him. "So… what do I do today?"
"You're my secretary and personal assistant, as before," he replied, voice crisp. "But for your safety, you'll use a pseudonym—Elara Everly. Your family has enemies, as do I, and we can't risk exposure"
"Enemies?" she asked, the weight of his words sinking in.
He sighed. "Not your concern yet. Focus on your work."
"Yeah, yeah! I know that already, nothing new." She thought as she nodded.
An hour later, they arrived at Duval Enterprises, a glass tower building in central Paris that served as the headquarters of Lucian's business empire. As Lucian stepped out of the car, the lobby buzzed—employees straightened, some whispered, others averted their eyes, a few nodded with respect. Fear and admiration trailed him like a shadow.
The employees were busy with activity as usual—typing furiously, phones ringing, and the hum of ambition filling the air. Elara followed Lucian to his corner office as they took the elevator to the top floor, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower. She felt overwhelmed, her hands fidgeting as employees cast curious glances her way.
His corner office gleamed with modern lines and a view of the Eiffel Tower. Right outside his door sat a smaller desk. The moment Lucian opened his door to show her the space, their gazes met, his dark brown eyes steady, hers wide with uncertainty. Something unreadable passed through his expression before he looked away.
"This is yours," he said, nodding at the desk. "Schedule my week, organize these files, research Beaumont Industries and find any leverage we can use against them."
"Beaumont?" The name sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it.
He handed her a folder. "Your old application form. Might jog your memory."
She flipped it open. Her handwriting listed: Elara Marguerite Moreau, 25, born April 5, 2000 (Aries), native French, fluent in Spanish and English, 5'7", degree in International Business from HEC Paris. "This is me?" she murmured.
"Whoa! I speak Spanish?! Or perhaps I spoke?" she scoffed at her own profile. The details felt so foreign, like they belonged to someone else, but the sight of her own handwriting sent a shiver down her spine.
"I… I don't remember any of this," she whispered. Lucian's gaze softened for about 0.02 seconds. "Give it time, Miss Moreau," he said, his tone still sharp but less harsh. "Now, get to work."
By noon, she knocked on his door, a coffee mug in hand. "Your coffee, Mr. Duval."
"Thanks," he said, taking it without looking up.
She hesitated. "How long was I your assistant before… you know?"
"Two years," he replied, pausing. "You were good at it."
"Good?" she pressed, a faint smile on her lips.
His eyes met hers, a flash of amusement breaking his stern look. "Efficient. Don't fish for compliments."
A knock interrupted.
Mathieu Rousseau, Lucian's right-hand man, poked his head in. "Luce…. Sir, board's hounding me for the quarterly report."
Lucian's lips thinned, but he nodded. "It's done. I'll send it."
Mathieu grinned at Elara. "Hey, good to see you back Miss. Elara. Don't let him scare you off."
She smiled politely. "I'll try."
"Unless this as*h*le plans on killing me before my time is up" she gazed at him keeping her absurd thoughts within her empty head.
As Mathieu left, she raised an eyebrow at Lucian. "Luce?"
"Only he gets away with it," Lucian muttered, a trace of wry humor in his tone. "Don't try it."
*****
Mid-afternoon, Elara's stomach growled as she sat at her desk outside Lucian's office. She'd been craving a croque-monsieur—the cheesy, ham-filled sandwich her taste buds suddenly demanded—but a quick check with the staff kitchen revealed the day's menu was limited to salads and cold sandwiches. "Not today," she muttered, her craving too strong to ignore.
With a glance at Lucian's closed door, she grabbed her purse and headed out for her break, deciding to visit a small bistro a block away from Duval Enterprises that she'd noticed on the way in.
The Paris streets was filled with life as Elara stepped outside, the cool air brushing her cheeks. She'd only made it a few steps after crossing to the opposite side of the road when a familiar voice called out. "Elara?"
She turned to see Adrian Beaumont, a small bouquet of lilies in hand, his green eyes lighting up with warmth. He was dressed in a sharp navy suit, clearly coming from a meeting. "Mr. Bou…ahh…Mr. Beaumont?" she said, surprised.
"Oh, no need for formalities, Elara. Call me Adrian, like you used to," he said, his tone relaxed yet his gaze piercing. "I had a meeting with a potential partner nearby and decided to stretch my legs—didn't expect to bump into you."
He handed her the lilies, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air. "I got lucky with these. They caught my eye because they reminded me of your smile—delicate and radiant. They're for you. How are you holding up?"
"I'm okay," she said softly, clutching the bouquet. "Thanks, Adrian. This is… really thoughtful."
He smiled, then pulled out his phone. "I realized I don't have your number—not since the accident. Can I get it? Just in case you need me." He glanced at the new phone in her hand, a new model Lucian had given her after the accident to replace her damaged one. "Looks like you got a new one."
"Oh, um, Mr. Duval got it for me," she said, a bit flustered as she unlocked it.
Lucian's voice echoed in her mind, sharp and bossy:
"THIS PHONE IS FOR BUSINESS ONLY—DO NOT MESS AROUND WITH IT! DO NOT GIVE YOUR NUMBER TO ANYONE, AND ONLY I AM ALLOWED TO CALL OR TEXT YOU!"
She rolled her eyes hard. "Hmph! Like I give a crap about that control freak," she muttered. "Just 'cause my bank cards are frozen doesn't mean he gets to boss me around. Ugh, that damn stepmother of mine—whatever!" She shook her head, brushing off the thoughts like they were annoying flies.
They exchanged numbers, his fingers brushing hers as he handed her phone back. "I'm always here for you, Elara. Anytime you need me, just call me and if you don't, I'll call you just to be sure you're okay. Just wait a little bit and you'll be in your rightful place soon," he said, his voice warm. "I've got to go now; my secretary is probably looking for me now. Take care, Elara."
She nodded, watching him walk away before heading to the bistro. The croque-monsieur was worth the trip, but her mind on Adrian's kindness—and the faint unease his presence stirred.
Back at Duval Enterprises, Elara returned to her desk, the lilies in hand. As she set them down, Lucian's door opened, and their eyes locked—his dark brown gaze narrowing at the sight of the flowers. "Where were you?" he asked, his voice low, a sharp edge to it.
"I went to get food" she said. "The staff menu didn't have what I wanted—a croque-monsieur. I was craving it."
He sighed loudly, his gaze moving to the lilies. "And those? Who gave them to you?"
"Adrian," she admitted, her cheeks flushing. "He was passing by after a meeting nearby. He just… wanted to check on me."
Lucian's expression darkened, "Beaumont?!," he muttered, his tone filled with disdain. "Why would you meet with him then instead of going straight to the bistro to get your croque-monsieur?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"I—I didn't mean to," Elara suddenly found herself stammering, clutching the flowers tighter. "He just—"
"That's enough," Lucian cuts her off, his voice taut with restrained emotion. He turned away, fighting to keep his composure. "Get back to work, Miss Moreau."
"Yes sir." Elara said as she quietly sat down, unable to find the right words to respond.