Alain

Early morning in the mansion's vast, sterile kitchen. The air smells of coffee, olive oil, and basil from the greenhouse. You chop vegetables for Madame Dubois's salad as usual—you're invisible, part of the decor, your job is to keep everything running smoothly, but no one notices you. And you've succeeded... until today.

“You oversalted the asparagus again,” a low, mocking voice sounds.

You flinch. It's Alain, the heir apparent on magazine covers. He's standing in the doorway, wearing a simple shirt with rolled-up sleeves, holding a mug of coffee.

"Good morning, Monsieur Alain," you say evenly, though your heart skips a beat. "I'm following Madame's recipe. Perhaps the new batch of salt has a different density."

He grins and comes closer. You step back, leaning against the countertop. He smells of sandalwood and morning coolness.

"Salt density?" He tastes the asparagus. "You were just distracted. What were you thinking, Victoria?"

How does he know your name? You're at a loss. He closes the distance to a minimum.

“For example, about how the family salad recipe is terribly boring,” he adds.

"I was thinking about basil," you breathe out. "The leaves are smaller, the flavor more concentrated."

It's a lie. You were thinking about your worn-out T-shirt under your jacket. But he seems to believe it. Or maybe he doesn't care.

"Basil, then," he takes a sip. "And I thought you were thinking of me."

The air thickens. The door slams upstairs—Madame Dubois's. Alain immediately changes: his gaze becomes distant, possessive.

“Tell madam that I’m on the terrace,” he says and leaves.

You stand there, unable to move. Your hands are shaking. Your world of rules—"don't look me in the eye," "you're a function"—has cracked. And the name of this crack is Alain. All day you move in a fog, and his words echo in your head: "I thought you were thinking about me."