Velvet Shadows

Morning in Paris hums like a secret.

The streets glisten from the dawn rain, and the air smells faintly of coffee, perfume, and something unspoken.

Inside Maison Devereux, the rhythm is colder , polished floors, measured footsteps, smiles that cost more than sincerity.

I sit behind a glass desk, my reflection folded into the marble beneath me.

To everyone here, I am Amélie Durand: punctual, composed, perfectly unremarkable.

My world runs on schedules, silence, and the soft click of heels echoing down the hall.

Lucien Devereux appears without warning , the kind of man who doesn’t need an introduction, only a presence.

He moves like command itself: crisp suit, quiet authority, eyes that could sign or sever futures.

“Miss Durand,” he says, not looking up from the file in his hand.