Chapter 7: Unexpected Recognition
1979words
I looked up from my sketchbook, hardly believing what I was hearing. The first volume of the Hugo collection wouldn't be released for another month, but Durand Publishing had strategically leaked several illustrations to key critics. I'd been too nervous to read the reviews myself.
"There's more," Marie continued, eyes wide. "'Most remarkable is her portrayal of Javert's suicide—shown from behind as he faces the abyss, forcing the viewer to confront not just a man's death but the collapse of an entire moral framework. It is a masterclass in visual storytelling.'" She lowered the paper, staring at me. "They're comparing you to Delacroix!"
The locket warmed pleasantly against my skin as I absorbed the news. In my first life, I'd never received this kind of recognition. By this point in my timeline, I'd already begun compromising my artistic vision, creating work that was more palatable, more marketable—and ultimately forgettable.
"Don't you have anything to say?" Marie demanded, waving the newspaper.
"I'm... processing," I admitted. "It doesn't feel real."
My phone chimed with a message from Alexandre: *Have you seen the reviews? Meet me at Café Saint-Germain at 2. We have reason to celebrate.*
The prospect of seeing Alexandre sent a flutter through my stomach that had nothing to do with professional pride. Since the gallery event two weeks ago, something had shifted between us—a new warmth in his typically reserved demeanor, lingering glances that suggested he was as confused by his feelings as I was by mine.
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Café Saint-Germain sat on a corner that had been a favorite haunt of artists and writers for generations. I arrived to find Alexandre already waiting at an outdoor table, sunlight catching the silver at his temples. He stood as I approached, his usually stern expression softened by a genuine smile.
"The woman of the hour," he said, pulling out my chair.
"Hardly," I replied, though I couldn't suppress my own smile. "But the reviews are certainly better than I expected."
"Better than you expected?" Alexandre raised an eyebrow as he signaled the waiter. "Your lack of confidence continues to baffle me."
The waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne already chilling in an ice bucket. "Monsieur Durand's special order," he explained with a flourish as he poured two glasses.
"You were that certain the reviews would be good?" I asked, amused by Alexandre's presumption.
"I was certain your work deserved recognition," he corrected, raising his glass. "To artistic integrity rewarded—a rare enough occurrence to merit celebration."
We clinked glasses, and I studied him over the rim of mine. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
Something flickered in his gray eyes—a vulnerability I'd never seen before. "Perhaps I am."
"You were an artist once," I said, the realization dawning. It wasn't a question.
Alexandre set down his glass, his fingers tracing the condensation on its surface. "Before I took over the family business, yes. I studied painting at École des Beaux-Arts."
I tried to imagine Alexandre as a young art student, his rigid self-control not yet fully formed. "What happened?"
"My father died unexpectedly. I was twenty-four, just beginning to find my voice as a painter." His expression grew distant. "The publishing house had been in our family for generations. There was never any question about what I would do."
"You gave up your art," I said softly.
"I chose responsibility," he corrected, though I detected a hint of old pain beneath his measured tone. "The business supports hundreds of artists. I tell myself that's worth more than whatever I might have created myself."
"But you still wonder," I pressed gently.
Alexandre's eyes met mine, surprisingly vulnerable. "Sometimes. Especially when I see work like yours—work with both technical skill and emotional honesty." He smiled slightly. "I was good, but I don't think I had your courage."
The confession stunned me. Alexandre Durand—the demanding perfectionist, the intimidating publisher—harbored his own artistic regrets. It explained so much about his passionate defense of artistic integrity, his impatience with mediocrity.
"It's never too late," I said, thinking of my own second chance.
"Some paths, once abandoned, can't be reclaimed," he replied. "But I can recognize and nurture talent in others. Speaking of which—" He reached into his leather portfolio and withdrew a thick envelope. "The board has approved an advance on the second volume. They want to accelerate the publication schedule based on the early response."
As he slid the envelope across the table, our fingers brushed. The brief contact sent a current of awareness through me, and I saw from the slight widening of his eyes that he'd felt it too.
The moment was interrupted by a familiar voice. "Lily Bennett! I thought that was you."
I looked up to see Tom approaching our table, his smile confident, his designer suit impeccable. My stomach tightened with instinctive dread.
"Mr. Harrington," I acknowledged coolly.
"Please, it's Tom." He turned to Alexandre with practiced cordiality. "Durand. Congratulations on the reviews. The bank's cultural committee is quite impressed."
Alexandre's expression had reverted to professional detachment. "Harrington. What brings you to this side of the city?"
"Meeting with a client nearby." Tom's attention returned to me, his smile warming. "I've been hoping to run into you again. You never called about the bank's patronage program."
"I've been focused on completing the first volume," I replied, deliberately placing my hand near Alexandre's on the table—not quite touching, but close enough to signal allegiance.
Tom noticed the gesture, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Well, the offer stands. In fact, we're hosting a reception next week for emerging artists. I'd love to add you to the guest list."
In my first life, I'd attended that reception. Tom had charmed me with his knowledge of the art market, his promises of connections and opportunities. It was the beginning of my slow compromise, my gradual surrender to a safer path.
"That's kind of you," I said carefully, "but I'm afraid I'm fully committed to the Hugo project."
"Surely you can spare one evening," Tom persisted. "The networking alone would be invaluable. We have collectors who spend millions annually on emerging talent."
I felt Alexandre tense beside me, though his expression remained neutral. This was the moment—the fork in the road where my two lives diverged. In one timeline, I'd accepted Tom's invitation, flattered by his interest in my career. In this one...
"Actually," I said, inspiration striking, "you should invite Sophie Moreau. Her work would challenge your collectors' perspectives."
Tom's smile faltered. "Moreau? Her pieces are rather... controversial for our clientele."
"Precisely why they should see it," I replied. "True patronage isn't just about safe investments—it's about advancing artistic dialogue."
Alexandre's lips curved into the barest hint of a smile as he watched our exchange.
Tom recovered quickly, his expression calculating. "An interesting suggestion. Perhaps both of you could attend? I'd value your insights on which artists might be suitable for our program."
"I appreciate the thought," I said firmly, "but my focus needs to remain on my current commitments. Sophie, however, would be a fascinating addition to your event."
Tom recognized the dismissal for what it was. His smile remained in place, but his eyes cooled. "Of course. Another time, perhaps." He nodded to Alexandre. "Durand."
As Tom walked away, I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Alexandre studied me with curious intensity.
"That was... unexpected," he said. "Most artists would jump at Harrington's invitation. His bank's patronage can open many doors."
"And close others," I replied, thinking of the artistic compromises I'd made in my first life. "I've seen what happens when art becomes primarily investment. The soul gets stripped away until only the marketable shell remains."
Alexandre's expression softened with something like admiration. "You continue to surprise me, Lily Bennett."
"In good ways, I hope."
"In the best ways." His hand moved across the table, his fingers lightly touching mine in a gesture that seemed both deliberate and tentative. "You chose your artistic integrity over an easy path to commercial success. That's rarer than you might think."
The locket warmed against my skin, pulsing gently as if in approval. This was the moment—the conscious choice to walk away from the future I'd lived once before. The path with Tom had offered security, social acceptance, material comfort. But it had slowly suffocated my artistic voice until I barely recognized my own work.
"It wasn't really a choice," I said softly, allowing my fingers to remain under Alexandre's. "Not when I know what matters to me now."
Something shifted in Alexandre's expression—a softening, a vulnerability that transformed his handsome features. "And what matters to you, Lily?"
"Truth," I said simply. "In my art and in my life."
The connection between us intensified, the air charged with unspoken possibilities. Alexandre's thumb traced a small circle on the back of my hand, the gesture intimate despite its subtlety.
"Truth is rarely comfortable," he said quietly.
"Neither is regret," I countered, thinking of fifteen years of compromise.
Alexandre's phone chimed, breaking the moment. He checked it with a frown. "Lefèvre. I need to take this." He stood reluctantly. "Wait for me? This shouldn't take long."
As he stepped away to take the call, I watched Tom through the café window, already charming another potential contact at the bar. In another life, I'd been drawn to that smooth confidence, that promise of a secure future. I'd mistaken his interest in my career for support, not recognizing how subtly he'd reshape my artistic vision to fit his world.
The locket grew warmer against my skin, almost glowing with heat. I touched it gently, silently acknowledging the gift it had given me—not just a second chance at life, but the wisdom to recognize the true path my heart had always known.
When Alexandre returned, his expression was troubled. "I'm sorry, but I need to return to the office. Lefèvre has called an emergency meeting about the production schedule."
"Is something wrong with the project?" I asked, suddenly anxious.
"No, quite the opposite. The advance orders are exceeding expectations. They want to move up the release date." He hesitated, then added, "Would you join me for dinner tonight? There's something I'd like to discuss with you. Something personal."
My heart quickened. "Yes, I'd like that."
As we parted outside the café, Alexandre surprised me by taking my hand and bringing it briefly to his lips—a gesture both old-fashioned and intensely intimate. "Until tonight, then."
I watched him walk away, the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin. The locket pulsed warmly against my chest, as if to say: *This is the path. This is where you were always meant to be.*
Across the street, I caught sight of Tom watching us, his expression calculating as he assessed the connection between Alexandre and me. In that moment, I felt nothing but gratitude for the second chance that had allowed me to see him clearly before making the same mistake twice.
The path ahead with Alexandre wouldn't be easy—I sensed complexities in him that Tom's straightforward ambition had never contained. The mystery surrounding our grandparents, the artistic passion he'd sacrificed for duty, the intensity that both attracted and intimidated me—all suggested a relationship that would challenge rather than simply comfort.
But as the locket warmed against my skin, I embraced that uncertainty. In my first life, I'd chosen safety and lost myself. In this one, I was choosing truth—in my art, in my heart, and in whatever lay ahead with the complex, passionate man who saw me not as I appeared, but as I truly was.
