Gavin Sterling watched Lydia Shaw vanish into the Lyon crowds, her bicycle weaving through Place des Terreaux like a silverfish through dark water. The warmth of her hand still lingered on his palm—a startling contrast to the cold pearl burning in his pocket. «She trusts me,» he realized, the thought both exhilarating and terrifying. «This girl would follow a stranger into the catacombs if he promised starlight.»
Élodie Marchand's voice shattered his reverie: "Alors? On signe les contrats demain?"
Gavin turned, his politician's smile snapping into place. "Tout à fait, madame. Mais d'abord—" He nodded toward her France 3 van. "—puis-je voir les images du sauvetage?"
Inside the van's editing suite, screens glowed like illicit altars. Élodie replayed the morning's footage: Lydia plunging into the Rhône, algae streaking her face like war paint; Sophie Lacroix's pearl necklace catching sunlight as she choked on river sludge; Gavin's own hand reaching to haul them both onto the quay—a gesture he'd thought unnoticed.
"C'est du cinéma pur!" Élodie breathed. "Et cette perle! Un symbole parfait pour notre documentaire sur—"
"—sur l'exploitation?" Gavin finished coldly. He froze the frame on Sophie's throat, the pearl gleaming like a diseased eye. "Vous avez filmé une femme en train de mourir sans consentement. Savez-vous ce que le tribunal de commerce appelle ça?"
Élodie's smile faltered. "Mais… c'est l'actualité!"
"Non." Gavin tapped the screen. "C'est la preuve." He slid a business card across the console—Me Sterling, Avocat Pénaliste. "Dix mille euros pour Mademoiselle Shaw. Et les droits exclusifs de ces images lui reviennent. Sinon…" He let the threat hang, sweet as cyanide.
Meanwhile, Lydia pedaled through Croix-Rousse's labyrinthine traboules, the scent of baking bread and wet stone wrapping around her. 9 Rue des Canuts emerged like a time capsule—a crumbling silk-weaver's courtyard where geraniums blazed against soot-blackened walls. But today, harmony had shattered.
"—espèce de vipère!" Tante Joséphine's scream ricocheted off the cobblestones. "Tu crois que ton titre à la banque te donne le droit de voler notre lumière?"
Danielle Dubois stood framed in her second-floor window, silk robe shimmering like oil on water. "Votre lumière?" She laughed, dangling a brass key. "Cette fenêtre donne sur mon mur, madame la déclassée. Fermez vos rideaux ou je les brûle!"
Lydia skidded to a halt. The courtyard's residents had gathered:
Old Monsieur Thibault clutching his cane in the arched doorway
The Bernard family huddled by their noodle workshop's steam vents
Mémé Louise, Lydia's grandmother, attempting to pry Joséphine away
"Tante!" Lydia rushed forward, but Joséphine shook free, jabbing a finger at Danielle.
"Elle a fait déplacer notre antenne satellite!" Joséphine raged. "À cause de ça, j'ai raté Plus belle la vie hier soir!"
As Danielle slammed her shutters, Lydia guided her trembling aunt into their ground-floor apartment. The space smelled of simmering pot-au-feu and regret. Through the lace curtains, Lydia traced the courtyard's fractured geography:
Mémé Louise pressed a tisane into Joséphine's hands. "Calme-toi, ma fille. Cette femme… elle souffre."
"Elle souffre?" Joséphine scoffed. "Son mari est Philippe Dubois! Le banquier qui a détruit notre usine!"
Lydia froze. Dubois. The name from the river. The name attached to Sophie Lacroix—the woman she'd saved.
Later, in the attic bedroom she shared with Mémé, Lydia studied her father's photograph. Captain Arnaud Shaw in Mali peacekeeping uniform, his smile forever frozen at thirty-two. The IED that killed him had also detonated their family—her mother fleeing to Marseille with a wine merchant, leaving Lydia in this crumbling silk-weaver's nest.
"Tu ressembles à ton père," Mémé murmured, tracing Lydia's jawline. "Même entêtement. Même…" She hesitated, touching the pearl Lydia had shown her earlier. "…même don pour trouver les tempêtes."
Downstairs, the argument reignited. Danielle's voice sliced through floorboards: "—et cette téléphone publique! Des voyous sonnent à toute heure!"
Joséphine's retort shook the walls: "Au moins je ne vends pas mon corps pour des perles!"
Lydia descended to find Joséphine defending her tabac shop's corner—a blue cabine téléphonique plastered with concert flyers and peeling Marianne stamps.
"Voilà!" Joséphine thrust a notepad at Lydia. "Donne ça à ton beau garçon. Notre numéro."
Lydia blinked at the digits. "Pourquoi pas notre ligne?"
"Parce que France Télécom veut mille euros pour l'installer!" Joséphine snapped. "On n'est pas tous des Dubois!"
Danielle leaned from her window, smirking. "Le siècle dernier appelle, Joséphine. Ils veulent leur cabine."
It was then that Gavin appeared at the courtyard gate, sunlight gilding his hair like a Renaissance saint. Every resident fell silent—even Danielle's sneer faltered.
"Mademoiselle Shaw," Gavin called, his voice echoing in the sudden hush. "J'ai quelque chose pour vous."
He crossed the courtyard, oblivious to the hanging laundry dripping on his Brioni coat, and handed Lydia a France 3 envelope. Inside:
A 10,000€ check labeled Récompense pour Acte de Courage
A contract granting her full editorial control over the documentary
A sticky note: Les images sont à vous. Les requins sont apprivoisés. —G.S.
Danielle gasped. "Dix mille euros? Pour avoir joué la martyre?"
Joséphine snatched the check. "Sainte Vierge! C'est trois ans de loyer!"
Élodie Marchand materialized behind Gavin, camera crew in tow. "Alors? Votre cour est parfaite pour notre première scène!" She gestured at the washing lines and cracked fountain. "Authentique!"
Lydia stiffened. "Ici? Mais—"
"—nous demanderons à Monsieur Thibault," Gavin interjected smoothly, nodding toward the north wing. "En attendant…" He turned to Danielle, his voice dropping to a blade's edge. "Madame Dubois, votre mari cherche une certaine Sophie Lacroix. Il dit qu'elle lui a volé des bijoux."
Danielle turned chalk-white. "Je ne connais pas cette femme."
"Vraiment?" Gavin held up his phone, displaying a screenshot from the rescue footage—Sophie's hand clutching Danielle's skirt as she drowned. "Elle portait votre broche. Curieux, non?"
Chaos erupted:
Joséphine whooped, waving the check like a victory flag
Monsieur Thibault emerged, demanding silence
Élodie's camera zoomed on Danielle's crumbling façade
But Lydia saw only Gavin—the calculated cruelty in his eyes as he destroyed Danielle. «He used me,» she realized. «The documentary, the reward… all just tools to corner her.»
"Arrêtez!" Lydia grabbed Élodie's camera. "Pas de tournage ici!"
Gavin's hand closed over hers. "Vous avez signé pour la vérité, Shaw. La voici." He nodded at Danielle, now sobbing on the stairs. "Demandez-lui pourquoi cette femme portait les perles de ma mère."
Danielle's head snapped up. "Les perles de Céline Sterling?" A hysterical laugh escaped her. "Philippe les lui a offertes pour qu'elle se taise! Comme il a payé le silence du père de Lydia!"
The courtyard froze. Mémé Louise made the sign of the cross.
"Qu'avez-vous dit?" Gavin's voice could've iced the Rhône.
Danielle rose, eyes blazing. "Demandez à votre père pourquoi le régiment du Capitaine Shaw avait des gilets pare-balles défectueux au Mali! Demandez-lui combien Philippe a payé pour enterrer l'enquête!"
Time fractured. Lydia saw her father's smile in the photo—now a death rictus. Saw Gavin's hand tighten on the pearl until his knuckles bleached. Saw Mémé crumple against the doorway, whispering prayers.
Gavin stepped toward Danielle. "Sortez."
"De ma propre maison?" she spat.
"Ce n'est pas votre maison," Monsieur Thibault thundered, emerging with a leather-bound ledger. "Votre bail est au nom de Philippe Dubois. Qui est actuellement en garde à vue." He tore out a page. "Départ immédiat."
As Danielle screamed obscenities, Gavin turned to Lydia. The mask had shattered; raw anguish contorted his features. "Lydia… je ne savais pas."
She backed away, the 10,000€ check fluttering to the cobblestones. «Heroes or pawns?» she'd wondered earlier. Now she knew: they were both children dancing on graves.
Joséphine scooped up the check. "On paie le loyer!"
But Lydia was already running—up the traboule stairs, past Élodie's sputtering camera, into the attic where her father's photo watched with dead eyes. Outside, rain began to fall, washing algae from the courtyard stones, revealing stains no water could cleanse.