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The evening shift for Marielle Leroux, a young but strikingly attractive intern, had dragged on again today and was already on the verge of turning into a night shift, perhaps even a morning one, considering how many tasks had once again been kindly passed along to her so that she could “gain experience.”
Strange, really, how washing the floor and scrubbing heavy baking trays had suddenly become “part of developing pastry skills,” but Marielle did not argue.
She only brushed a strand of her light hair behind her ear and kept working. Calmly, methodically, skillfully, as if it did not bother her in the slightest that the time had long since passed midnight.
The kitchen of Le Coq de Minuit seemed empty, though the echoes of the evening still lingered within it: the quiet clicks of refrigerators, the low hum of the ventilation hood, the faint clink of glass that no one had yet put back in its place. The restaurant truly was magnificent, even here, in a place that people usually do not bother making impressive enough for society lions to admire the interior. Yet even here there was a certain grandeur in the air, something that, it seemed, the kitchen inherited from these walls, which had once served one of the Louis as a secret dining room for his favorites.
She was scrubbing a baking tray when a dry voice sounded behind her.
“Why are you still here?”
To the speaker’s surprise, Marielle did not even flinch. She only slowed for a second, stopping the movement of the cloth across the tray, then calmly set it down by the sink and slowly turned around. The light from beneath the hood illuminated her profile, radiating an excessive calm that nevertheless could not hide the exhaustion of this long day.
But one thing that profile did not contain was submission.
As if it were not Paul Marché himself addressing her, the owner of Le Coq de Minuit and a man whose name one simply did not say out loud if one worked for him. A bad omen.
He stood as he always did. Tall, lean, in a dark jacket and a shirt that, unlike his usual appearance, was unbuttoned by one button. Yet the expression on his face, which quite literally read “everything here belongs to me,” was the same as ever.
“Monsieur Marché,” Marielle began calmly, looking straight into his eyes, “I think you came here for a different reason, did you not?”
Paul Marché.
His eyebrows slowly rose, though it was not surprise. No. It was that particular irritation caused by prey that suddenly stopped running.
Paul took a couple of unhurried steps forward, as if testing whether she might retreat now, at least. But no. She remained just as calm, looking at him with her head slightly inclined the way one does before someone older, even though her gaze screamed the opposite.
“You behave too boldly for an intern,” he said coldly, tilting his head a little. “Especially such a… temporary one.”
Marielle tilted her head slightly to the side, as if analyzing his mood, and the heavy blond strands slid faintly across her cheek.
“Boldness, monsieur?” she repeated calmly. “I merely pointed out the obvious. I am a smart girl. And yes. I need this job.”
Paul was about to answer, to make some cutting remark, but…
“Ah, to hell with it, smart girl,” Paul exhaled, taking another step forward.
Now only a couple of palm widths remained between them. He was not touching her, yet any other girl would have felt otherwise, so physical was his gaze now. And another girl would already be trembling, looking away, apologizing. But Marielle…
She looked straight at him. Calmly. From below upward, yet for the first time with a light, almost weightless, hint of mockery at the corner of her lips.
“Monsieur Marché, let us drop the pretense,” she said quietly, as if discussing the price of truffles rather than her own fate. “What would you like me to do for you?”...Full story (15 500 characters - 4 parts including some minor explicit content) is open to subscribers here or on Patreon