His knees touched the cold ground.
She gathered the pieces of the torn paper with infinite delicacy, as if each fragment carried a remnant of dignity that she refused to give up.
His hands were shaking.
She brought two pieces together, trying to piece the seal together.
A third fragment had slipped near the foot of a golden column.
She bent more to reach him.
No one helped him.
The director had already turned to another employee, her smile becoming warm, almost bright.
“Yes, bring me the VIP guest list.”
Emilie finally stood up, the pieces tightened in the palm of her hand.
She kept her eyes downcast, but still found the strength to whisper:
“I was told that this document proved that I was authorized…”
That I could work here today…
The director glanced quickly, without touching the paper.
“Allowed?”
She gave a polite smile.
This is a prestigious establishment, not a place of charity.
Émilie remains motionless.
The silence lasted a second too long.
It was then that a sharp noise resounded in the hall.
A simple movement.
A watch placed on a marble table.
Alexandre Rochefort had just risen.
He walked forward calmly, his measured steps, his gaze resting on the fragments in Emilie’s hand.
Then he spoke in a low voice, but perfectly audible:
“I think this hotel has just made a mistake.”
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
The headmistress turned pale imperceptibly.
And for the first time since she had been working here,
Emilie Laurent looked up.
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