Lydia's fingers pleated her worn skirt as the Renault 4L rattled toward France 3. "Mais à l'école… c'est différent," she mumbled, avoiding Gavin's gaze. "On est pressés."
Gavin's helmet tapped rhythmically against the window. "D'accord, petite têtue." He flagged a taxi—yellow paint peeling like sunburnt skin. "On prend ça."
Lydia blanched at the meter's red digits. "C'est trop cher!"
"Et les dix mille francs?" Gavin's eyebrow arched. "Tu les veux ou non?"
She surrendered, sliding across cracked vinyl. "Mais on partage! Je te rembourserai—"
"La promesse la plus creuse de Lyon," Gavin cut in, laughter vibrating through the seats.
"Pourquoi?!" Lydia's spine straightened. "J'aurai l'argent!"
"Si…" Gavin's eyes darkened, "…je ne suis pas un menteur."
Lydia froze. "Tu mens?"
He leaned close, pine and exhaust fumes mingling. "Qu'est-ce que tu as à voler? Tes rêves ou ton sourire?"
France 3's lobby swallowed them in fluorescent sterility. Élodie Marchand materialized, scarlet nails clamping Lydia's shoulder. "Notre sainte impure!" Her gardenia perfume choked the air.
Lydia signed the contract—10,000 francs—more than Maman earned in two years at Dubois Textiles. Her feet floated above industrial carpet.
"Les figurants ne touchent rien," Élodie hissed, breath scalding Lydia's ear. "Cette prime… Gavin l'a arrachée au conseil. Il les a réduits en cendres."
Lydia's gaze snapped to Gavin. He leaned against a monitor, feigning indifference as technicians adjusted his collar.
"Ce garçon…" Élodie's chuckle curdled. "Un jour, il enterrera des empires."
The dressing room reeked of hairspray and ambition. A stylist thrust ivory silk at Lydia—a bias-cut trap with neckline plunging toward damnation.
"Non!" Lydia recoiled, arms crossed over her chest. The dress slithered to the floor like a shed skin.
Élodie swept in with cameramen. "Allons, ma chère! Le public adore—"
"Changez-la." Gavin stood framed in the doorway, backlit like a wrathful saint.
"Pourquoi?" Élodie's smile turned surgical. "C'est du Saint Laurent!"
"Elle n'est pas votre poupée." Gavin stepped between them, shoulders eclipsing Lydia.
"Mais—"
Lydia peeked out. "C'est trop étroit… j'étouffe."
Silence.
Gavin's gaze dropped to her waist—where silk clung to the curve of her hip—then jerked away. Cardinal-red flooded his neck.
The replacement dress breathed when Lydia moved:
Linen blouse embroidered with fleurs-de-lis
Sky-blue sash knotted below collarbones
Skirt floating like Rhône mist
"Voilà," Gavin exhaled. The word hung between them—a bridge built on trembling timbers.
Lydia spun before the mirror. For a heartbeat, she wasn't the courtyard ghost but a girl tasting sunlight. Gavin's reflection watched her, knuckles whitening on the doorframe.
Studio lights bleached Lydia's freckles to dust. Élodie perched on a chrome stool, microphone poised like a dagger. "Avant de sauter dans le Rhône… avez-vous pensé au bac?"
Lydia blinked against the glare. "Non. J'ai entendu les cris…" Her fingers worried the sash. "Mon corps a choisi avant mon cerveau."
A technician snorted. The camera zoomed—capturing:
Sun cracks on her lips
Frayed braid escaping its tie
The tremor in her hands
Gavin stood in the shadows. On the monitor, Lydia's face filled the screen—no foundation, no lies, just sweat and terror. His throat closed.
During a sound check, Gavin pressed chilled Evian into Lydia's hands. "Tu vois?" He nodded at Élodie scribbling notes. "Elle voulait te vendre en morceaux."
Lydia traced a fleur-de-lis. "Pourquoi cette robe alors?"
"Parce que…" Gavin's thumb brushed her wrist. "…les vrais héros sont des miroirs. Et les miroirs brisent les illusions."
Outside, thunder cannoned over Fourvière. The lights flickered—once, twice.
In the editing booth, a technician slid Le Progrès to Élodie. The headline screamed:
LA VIERGE DU RHÔNE PERD SA COURONNE
Exclusif: L'héroïne en tenue de nuit avec son producteur
Grainy photos showed:
Gavin's hand on Lydia's waist in the taxiLydia in the low-cut dress (stolen from costume rack)Gavin shielding her—eyes blazing possession
Élodie smiled. "Imprimez notre titre: 'Innocence: 10,000 Francs la Livre'. Et…" She dropped Clause 7 on the console. "…fuyez ça à Libération avant midi."
As Lydia exited France 3, flashbulbs detonated. Paparazzi swarmed:
"Mademoiselle! Combien pour une heure?"
"Sterling! Vous couchez avec vos proies?"
Gavin shoved a reporter. "Dégage!" His arm locked around Lydia—not protection now, but branding.
Danielle watched from a Citroën CX, camcorder whirring. "Souffre," she whispered, zooming on Lydia's tear-streaked face. "Souffre comme mon père a souffert."
At 9 Rue des Canuts, the television blared:
"…l'héroïne controversée Lydia Shaw, dont la relation avec le producteur Gavin Sterling soulève des questions éthiques…"
Mémé Louise silenced it with a broom handle. "Canaille!" She spat at Danielle's window.
Bastien emerged from the garage, grease-stained hands clutching yellowed papers. "Regardez ce que j'ai trouvé dans la Renault de Thibault."
The documents bore Dubois Textiles' letterhead:
RAPPORT DE TEST: GILET PARABALLES MODÈLE 1979
Défectuosité confirmée: 100% échec sous balles 7.62mm
Captain Shaw's signature bled from the bottom—signed three days before his deployment to Mali.
Lydia stood frozen in the traboule. Gavin's grip tightened. "On part. Maintenant."
"Non." She pulled free, walking toward Bastien. "Montre-moi."
As she read the report, Danielle threw open her window. "Votre père est mort parce qu'il était stupide!"
Lydia didn't flinch. "Mon père est mort parce que votre famille vend du poison." She raised the documents. "Et tout Lyon le saura."
Gavin's phone rang—Élodie's number flashing. The velvet guillotine had sliced their world open.