Chapter 9: The Confession
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"The shadow here needs to be deeper," Alexandre said, leaning over my shoulder to point at Cosette's face as she gazed up at Jean Valjean. "Her wonder should be tinged with fear—she's never known kindness from an adult before."
I nodded, already reaching for my charcoal to deepen the shadows beneath her eyes. His closeness sent a current of awareness through me, but I remained focused on the work. This dynamic between us—the creative push and pull, the shared understanding of what the illustrations needed to convey—had become something I treasured.
"Better?" I asked after making the adjustment.
Alexandre studied the drawing, his expression intent. "Yes. Now she looks both hopeful and wary—exactly as Hugo described her."
Thunder rumbled outside as he moved to the window, gazing out at the darkened Paris skyline. "The storm's getting worse. We should finish for today."
I glanced at my watch, surprised to find it was already past nine. "I didn't realize it was so late."
"Time disappears when the work is going well," he said, a rare smile softening his features. "Are you hungry? I could have something brought up."
"Starving, actually," I admitted, suddenly aware I hadn't eaten since a hasty lunch.
Alexandre picked up the phone and spoke rapidly in French, ordering food from a nearby restaurant that apparently delivered to the publishing house regularly. When he hung up, he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves—small gestures that transformed him from the intimidating publisher to something more approachable, more human.
"Twenty minutes," he said, moving to a cabinet and withdrawing a bottle of wine. "In the meantime, I think we've earned this."
He poured two glasses of rich red wine and handed one to me. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and I felt the now-familiar flutter in my stomach. Since my return from London, something had shifted between us—a new openness, a tentative exploration of the connection we both felt but hadn't acknowledged.
"To completion," he said, raising his glass.
"Almost completion," I corrected with a smile. "We still have seven volumes to go."
"True. But the first is always the hardest." He took a sip, studying me over the rim of his glass. "You seem different since your visit to London. More... settled."
I touched the locket at my throat, a habit I'd developed whenever contemplating how much to reveal about my unusual situation. "My grandmother helped me understand some things about myself. About what I want from my life and my art."
"And what is that?" Alexandre asked, his voice softening.
"Authenticity," I said simply. "In everything."
He nodded slowly. "A worthy but difficult aspiration. Most people spend their lives avoiding that level of honesty."
"I did, once," I admitted, thinking of my first life. "I made choices based on what seemed safe rather than what felt true."
"And now?"
"Now I know better." I met his gaze directly. "Life is too short for compromise."
Something flickered in Alexandre's eyes—recognition, perhaps, or shared understanding. He moved to the large windows again, watching the rain trace patterns down the glass.
"I compromised once," he said quietly, his back to me. "When my father died and I took over the publishing house. I was twenty-four, just beginning to find my voice as a painter."
I remembered what he'd told me at the café but sensed there was more to the story. "You never told me what kind of work you created."
He turned, a hint of surprise in his expression, as if he hadn't expected genuine interest. "Abstract expressionism, primarily. Not unlike Rothko, though with more structure." His lips curved in a self-deprecating smile. "At least, that's what I told myself."
"Do you still have any of your work?"
"A few pieces. In storage." He took another sip of wine. "They're not very good."
"I doubt that," I said gently.
Alexandre's expression softened. "You have more faith in my artistic ability than I do."
"I recognize a creative soul when I see one," I replied. "The way you respond to art, the way you push for emotional truth in my illustrations—those aren't just the reactions of a publisher. They're the instincts of an artist."
He was silent for a moment, studying me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. "Few people see that part of me anymore."
"I see you," I said simply.
The words hung between us, weighted with meaning beyond their simplicity. Alexandre set down his wine glass and moved closer, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Yes," he said softly. "You do. That's what makes you dangerous, Lily Bennett."
"Dangerous?" I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You make me want things I gave up long ago."
Before I could respond, a knock at the door announced the arrival of our food. Alexandre stepped back, the moment suspended but not broken. He went to answer the door while I tried to calm my racing heart.
The meal—simple but elegant pasta and salad—provided a welcome distraction. We ate at the small conference table in the corner of the studio, the conversation shifting to safer topics: production schedules, the upcoming press for the first volume's release, early concepts for the second volume.
As we finished eating, the storm outside intensified. Lightning flashed, followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder. The lights flickered once, twice, then went out completely, plunging the studio into darkness.
"Perfect timing," Alexandre's voice came from the darkness. "Just as we finished dinner."
I heard him moving, then the flare of a match illuminated his face as he lit a candle from a drawer in his desk. The warm glow spread, casting long shadows across the room. He lit several more candles, placing them around the studio until the space was bathed in gentle, flickering light.
"The building's generator should kick in soon," he said, returning to the table. "But I rather like the atmosphere, don't you? Very nineteenth century—appropriate for our Hugo project."
In the candlelight, Alexandre looked different—the harsh lines of his face softened, his customary intensity mellowed to something more approachable. I found myself studying him openly, noticing details I'd missed before: a small scar near his right eyebrow, the way one corner of his mouth lifted slightly higher than the other when he smiled, the surprising length of his eyelashes.
"You're staring," he observed, amusement in his voice.
"I'm an artist," I replied with a smile. "I'm supposed to look closely."
"And what do you see?"
"Someone who understands the cost of choices," I said honestly. "Someone who recognizes the value of artistic truth because he's lived without it."
Alexandre's expression grew serious. "You have an unsettling ability to see beneath the surface, Lily."
"Is that a compliment or a complaint?"
"Both, perhaps." He refilled our wine glasses. "Tell me something true about yourself—something no one else knows."
The request caught me off guard. What could I share that wouldn't reveal my impossible situation? I considered carefully, then decided on a truth from my first life that still applied.
"I'm terrified of becoming irrelevant," I admitted. "Of creating work that doesn't matter, that doesn't move anyone or change anything."
Alexandre nodded slowly. "A worthy fear for an artist. Better than fearing failure."
"What about you?" I asked. "Tell me something true."
He was quiet for a long moment, swirling the wine in his glass. "I haven't picked up a paintbrush since the day my father died," he finally said. "Not once in eleven years."
"Why?"
"At first, because I was drowning in responsibility—learning the business, keeping the publishing house afloat during a difficult transition." His eyes met mine in the candlelight. "Later, because I was afraid."
"Of what?"
"That I would discover I had nothing meaningful to say." His voice dropped lower. "Or worse—that I did, and had silenced it for nothing."
The raw honesty of his confession touched me deeply. This was a side of Alexandre Durand that few people ever saw—the vulnerability beneath the commanding exterior, the artist buried beneath the publisher.
"It's never too late," I said softly, echoing what I'd told him before but with deeper understanding now.
"Isn't it?" He smiled sadly. "Some doors, once closed, can't be reopened."
"I don't believe that," I replied, thinking of my own impossible second chance. "Life is stranger and more full of possibilities than we imagine."
Alexandre studied me in the flickering light. "You speak as if from experience."
"Perhaps I am," I said, allowing a small hint of my truth to show.
The candles guttered as another gust of wind rattled the windows. Alexandre rose and moved to stand before the rain-lashed glass, his silhouette outlined against the storm-dark sky. I joined him, drawn by some invisible pull.
"I've never met anyone quite like you, Lily," he said without turning. "You have the technical skill of a much more experienced artist, but it's more than that. You understand what I'm trying to achieve with this collection in a way no one else has."
"Because we share the same vision," I replied. "Art that speaks truth, even when that truth is uncomfortable."
He turned to face me then, his expression more open than I'd ever seen it. "Do you know how rare that is? To find someone who sees the world as you do?"
"Yes," I said simply. "I do."
In my first life with Tom, we'd never shared that fundamental understanding. He'd seen my art as a charming talent, a pleasant hobby, eventually a marketable skill—but never as the essential expression of truth that Alexandre recognized it to be.
We stood close now, the storm raging outside while candles flickered around us. The locket warmed gently against my skin, a steady, comforting presence.
"Lily," Alexandre said softly, my name sounding like a question.
I looked up at him, no longer hiding the attraction I felt. "Yes?"
His hand rose to cup my cheek, his touch tentative despite his usual confidence. "I've tried to maintain professional distance. To remember that I'm your publisher, your mentor perhaps. But I find myself thinking of you in ways that have nothing to do with our work together."
My heart raced as I placed my hand over his. "I know. I feel it too."
For a moment, he hesitated, searching my eyes for any sign of doubt. Finding none, he lowered his head slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
I didn't.
His lips met mine with gentle restraint that quickly deepened into something more urgent as I responded. Unlike the calculated, careful kisses I remembered from Tom, this was raw and honest—a communication as clear as any words could be. Alexandre's arms encircled me, drawing me closer as the kiss intensified, years of denied passion finding expression in this single moment.
When we finally parted, both breathless, he rested his forehead against mine. "I've wanted to do that since the day you walked into my office with that stormy seascape."
I smiled, my hands still resting on his chest where I could feel his heart racing. "That long?"
"Longer, perhaps," he admitted. "Since I first saw your early work and recognized something in it that called to me." His fingers traced the line of my jaw. "But I never expected to feel this... connection."
"Neither did I," I said truthfully.
The lights suddenly flickered back on, the harsh fluorescents breaking the intimate atmosphere the candles had created. We stepped apart slightly, though Alexandre kept hold of my hand.
"Too bright," he murmured, moving to switch off the overhead lights, leaving just a small desk lamp illuminated. He returned to me, his expression serious. "Lily, I need you to understand something. What I feel for you has nothing to do with the Hugo project. If you want to step away from this—" he gestured between us, "—there would be no professional consequences. Your work stands on its own merit."
The consideration behind his words touched me deeply. In my first life, Tom had used his professional connections to help my career, always with subtle strings attached. Alexandre was offering the opposite—a clear separation between our personal and professional relationships.
"I know," I said, reaching up to touch his face. "That's one of the reasons I trust this feeling between us. It's based on mutual respect, not advantage or convenience."
He caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm. "You continue to surprise me, Lily Bennett."
"In good ways, I hope."
"In the best ways." He drew me close again. "I've never met anyone who understands both my artistic vision and the practical realities of publishing. It's like you've lived in both worlds."
If only he knew how accurate that observation was.
"I understand compromise," I said carefully. "I understand choosing security over passion. And I understand why that's no longer enough for me."
Alexandre studied me with those perceptive gray eyes. "Something happened to you, didn't it? Something that changed your perspective fundamentally."
The locket warmed against my skin, as if encouraging honesty. I couldn't tell him everything, but I could offer a version of the truth.
"Yes," I admitted. "I had a... moment of clarity. A glimpse of where certain choices might lead. It made me realize I couldn't continue on that path."
"And now?"
"Now I choose truth," I said simply. "In my art and in my life."
His smile was tender as he brushed a strand of hair from my face. "Then we want the same things."
As he kissed me again, more deeply this time, the locket pulsed with gentle warmth against my skin—not the urgent heat of warning, but the steady glow of affirmation. This connection with Alexandre, based on shared passion and mutual understanding, was part of the path I was meant to find.
In my first life, I'd chosen safety with Tom—a relationship built on compromise and careful navigation of expectations. This was its opposite—challenging, intense, rooted in authentic connection rather than convenient compatibility.
When we finally parted, the storm outside had begun to subside, though rain still pattered against the windows. Alexandre kept his arms around me, as if reluctant to break the connection between us.
"It's late," he said softly. "I should take you home."
"Yes," I agreed, though part of me wanted to stay in this moment, in this candlelit studio where we'd finally acknowledged what had been growing between us for weeks.
As we gathered our things, Alexandre paused, his expression suddenly vulnerable. "Lily, I need you to know—I don't enter into relationships lightly. What I feel for you is... significant."
"For me too," I assured him, touched by his honesty.
He nodded, seemingly relieved. "Good. Then we'll proceed carefully. There's too much at stake—your career, the Hugo project, this connection between us—to rush."
His consideration, so different from Tom's confident assumptions about our future, made me smile. "Agreed. Though I think we've been proceeding carefully for weeks now, don't you?"
Alexandre laughed softly, the sound warming me from within. "True enough. Perhaps we've been more cautious than necessary."
As we left the studio, his hand found mine, fingers intertwining naturally. The locket rested warm against my skin, a gentle reminder that this path—with its complications, its intensity, its demand for complete authenticity—was exactly where I was meant to be.
Whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever secrets still remained between us, I knew with absolute certainty that this connection with Alexandre was fundamentally different from what I'd had with Tom. This wasn't a retreat to safety or a compromise of vision. This was a meeting of equals, a recognition of shared values, a partnership that would demand the best of both of us.
And as Alexandre's hand tightened around mine, as the locket pulsed with gentle warmth against my skin, I embraced that challenge with a joy my first life had never known.
