Chapter 4: Embracing the Second Chance
1365words
My first attempt at drawing Jean Valjean carrying Marius through the sewers felt technically sound but emotionally empty. "Not good enough," I murmured, crumpling the paper.
I closed my eyes, remembering Alexandre's words: "I don't want to see what happened. I want to feel it."
The locket warmed against my skin as I picked up fresh charcoal. This time, I didn't think about technique. I thought about desperation, about carrying someone through darkness with nothing but determination keeping you moving forward.
The charcoal moved with urgent strokes. I drew Valjean not as a hero but as a man at the edge of his strength, his face contorted with effort. I drew the darkness pressing in, but with a faint light ahead—hope as fragile as it was essential.
When I finished, my hands were black with charcoal, and tears had left tracks down my cheeks. The drawing pulsed with raw emotion.
Marie found me surrounded by sketches. "Have you been up all night? You look possessed."
"I feel possessed. In the best way."
She examined my Valjean sketch with amazement. "This is different from your usual work. It's... raw."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good. Definitely good. But also scary—like looking into someone's soul."
"Alexandre challenged me," I explained. "And for once, I'm not running from the challenge."
Marie's eyebrows shot up. "The Ice Prince of Publishing actually inspired you? The man who made Sophia Leblanc quit art altogether?"
"He's demanding," I admitted, "but he sees something in my work that I'd forgotten was there."
"Just be careful," Marie warned. "Alexandre Durand has a reputation for pushing artists until they break."
"I've already broken once," I said quietly, thinking of the crash, of fifteen years of slow compromise. "I'm not afraid of breaking again if it means finding my true voice."
---
At Durand Publishing, Claudine led me to a studio with windows overlooking the Seine.
"He prefers to review art in natural light," she explained.
Alexandre arrived impeccably dressed, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. "Mademoiselle Bennett. You're prompt. Good."
"Lily," I corrected gently. "If we're working together for six months, perhaps we could use first names."
His eyebrows lifted slightly, but approval flickered in his gray eyes. "Lily, then. Show me what you've done."
I stepped back as he examined each sketch. When he reached the Valjean piece, he paused. The silence stretched until I could barely breathe.
"This," he finally said, tapping the sketch, "is what I was looking for."
Relief flooded through me. "Really?"
"Don't sound so surprised. You knew it was good when you drew it."
He moved to the next sketch, Fantine gazing at her sleeping daughter. "This one, however, is still too safe. You're thinking too much about making it pretty."
"It's meant to be a tender moment," I defended.
"Tender doesn't mean sanitized." Alexandre's voice sharpened. "Fantine is dying. She's prostituted herself for this child. There should be desperation in her love, fear mingled with the tenderness."
I bristled slightly. "Not every emotion needs to be dark to be authentic."
"No, but every emotion needs to be honest. This is a greeting card, not the truth of a desperate mother's love."
The criticism stung, but differently than it would have in my first life. Then, I would have retreated, doubted myself. Now, I recognized the challenge beneath his words.
"You're right," I admitted. "I'll redo it."
Alexandre looked momentarily surprised by my lack of defensiveness. "Good. Bring that same emotional honesty to every illustration."
---
A memory surfaced as I worked on revisions that night:
*"It's a bit dark for the living room, don't you think?" Tom said, studying my storm-tossed sea painting.*
*"It's not meant to be decorative," I replied, trying to hide my hurt. "It's about the power of nature, about feeling small against something vast."*
*Tom smiled indulgently. "I understand that, Lil. But we have to live with it. Wouldn't something brighter work better with our décor? Maybe one of those Paris street scenes you used to do?"*
*"Those were student work," I said, pulling away. "This is... different. More what I want to say now."*
*"Of course," Tom nodded, checking his watch. "Listen, Richardson's wife is redecorating their summer house. Maybe you could do something for them? Something coastal, but cheerful. They pay well."*
*I stared at him, the gulf between us suddenly vast. "You want me to paint decorative art for your boss's summer house?"*
*"Why not? It's a foot in the door with the right people. Better than these gallery submissions that keep getting rejected." He gestured to my rejection letters. "Be practical, Lily."*
*The suggestion seemed so reasonable, his concern so genuine. And yet, something essential was being lost.*
*"I'll think about it," I said finally, covering the storm painting.*
*I took the commission. Then another. And another. Each one more "suitable," more "appropriate." Each one further from the truth I'd once been brave enough to paint.*
---
By Monday morning, I had twelve finished sketches—each one more emotionally honest than anything I'd created in my first life. My hands were stained with charcoal and ink, my eyes red-rimmed from concentration.
The locket remained warm against my skin, a constant reminder of the path I was choosing.
Alexandre was waiting by the window with a cup of coffee. "You look exhausted," he observed.
"I am," I admitted. "But it was worth it."
I laid out the sketches one by one. Alexandre studied them in silence. The quiet stretched until I could hear my own heartbeat.
Finally, he looked up, and I was startled to see genuine emotion in his usually guarded eyes.
"This," he said quietly, "is what I've been waiting for."
He picked up the revised Fantine sketch—now showing a mother's love twisted with desperation, her gaunt face both tender and terrified.
"You've captured it perfectly," he continued. "The beauty and the terror of love."
Something in his words made me wonder what experiences had shaped his understanding of such complex emotions. There was a depth to Alexandre Durand that I'd never glimpsed in my first life.
"Thank you," I said simply.
"Don't thank me." His voice regained its professional edge. "This is only the beginning. The final illustrations will require even more from you."
But there was something new in his eyes when he looked at me—respect, and perhaps curiosity.
"I'm ready," I said with conviction.
As he organized the sketches, his sleeve pulled back slightly, revealing a tattoo on his inner wrist—a small, geometric symbol. What other secrets did Alexandre Durand keep beneath his controlled exterior?
"What changed, Lily?" he asked suddenly. "Between our first meeting months ago and now?"
I paused, considering how much truth I could offer. "Let's just say I got a glimpse of where playing it safe leads. I didn't like what I saw."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not afraid to break open if that's what it takes to create something real."
Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. "That's a dangerous philosophy."
"More dangerous than a life half-lived?" I countered.
For a moment, Alexandre seemed to see beyond my twenty-year-old appearance to the soul that had lived fifteen years more. "Indeed," he said softly. "Much less dangerous than that."
As I walked back through the streets of Paris, the locket pulsed warmly against my skin. The path ahead wouldn't be easy—Alexandre would demand everything I had to give and more. But for the first time in fifteen years, I was walking toward something rather than away from myself.
This second chance wasn't just about avoiding Tom or changing my career trajectory. It was about becoming the woman I was always meant to be—brave enough to create without compromise, to love without fear, to live without regret.
I touched the locket, silently thanking whatever power had given me this impossible chance to choose again.
This time, I would not break. This time, I would become unbreakable.
