Read Chapter 9: A Whisper of Scandal

The headline sat on the front page of *Le Grasse Matin* like a slap: **“SABOTAGE AT MAISON ROUSSEL — FAMILY LEGACY OR CORPORATE SABOTAGE?”**

Camille read it twice, her coffee going cold. The article was a masterpiece of implication. Anonymous sources within the company. References to “internal divisions” and a “reckless young perfumer” whose return had coincided with the destruction of irreplaceable botanical stock. They even quoted a supplier who claimed the rare rose variant had been seen in Odette Maurel’s garden, which was nonsense—but the public wouldn’t know that.

The shop phone rang. Then her mobile. Then the atelier line, all within seconds of each other. Camille let them ring. The glass roses on her grandmother’s desk seemed to tremble with each peal.

Élise Fabron left three voicemails by noon. The first was warm, concerned. The second, tighter. The third, clipped and professional, mentioning that her partners at the boutique collective had “questions” about the viability of the partnership.

“Camille.” Mathieu’s voice came down the hallway before his body appeared. He wore a steel-gray suit and a look she’d seen him give junior analysts who’d missed their numbers. “Board meeting. Twenty minutes. Wear something that doesn’t look like a chemistry lab accident.”

She looked down at her apron, stained with iris butter and a streak of bergamot. “I have a formula to protect.”

“You have a company to protect. The board doesn’t care about your formula if the brand burns first. Alexandre’s already in the conference room.”

The word *Alexandre* landed like a stone in her chest. She hadn’t spoken to him since the night she’d learned about his father. A part of her—the part that had watched him say *my father died under mysterious circumstances* through the glass of the CEO’s office—wanted to feel sorry for him. The other part, the part that had trained her nose to detect what lay beneath a surface, wanted to scream.

She changed into the only non-lab outfit she owned: a black sheath dress that had been her mother’s, too tight in the shoulders. She didn’t bother with makeup. Let them see the artist, unvarnished.

The conference room smelled of tension and stale coffee. Seven board members lined the long table. The CEO, Madame Vasseur, nodded once as Camille entered. Alexandre was seated at the far end, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. His jaw was set. He didn’t look up when she sat opposite him.

“Two hours ago,” Vasseur began, sliding the newspaper across the table, “we took a call from Galeries Lafayette. They are reconsidering the terms of their contract with Thibault Maurel’s house—” Yes, she knew who the silent investor was, but couldn’t say it, “—only because they’re worried association with the Roussel name might taint their luxury portfolio.”

“The sabotage happened on our grounds,” Camille said, keeping her voice level. “The damage was to our fields, our stock. Not to our reputation. Whoever leaked this to the press did so to hurt us.”

“And yet,” a board member with brass buttons said, “the article paints a picture of chaos. A house divided. A young woman with a history of rebellion—” He read from the paper, “‘more interested in personal artistic expression than commercial viability.’”

Camille’s nostrils flared. “I have spent my entire adult life training. I did not come home to be reduced to—“

“Then prove it,” Vasseur said, cutting clean. “City Hall has confirmed the Fête du Parfum gala will proceed as scheduled—Friday night. It’s the most public stage left before the competition deadline. We need a Roussel presence that looks united. Not a lone artist. Not a corporate suit. Together.”

Camille blinked. “Together like…”

“Like you and Alexandre Marchand are co-leads on the project. Publicly. Both of you smiling, sharing a toast, laughing if it kills you. Do you think you can manage that?”

The silence stretched like taffy. Camille felt the weight of seven expectant gazes. Across the table, Alexandre’s eyes finally met hers. There was no condescension in them. Just a flat, professional calm that pushed her blood temperature up ten degrees.

“I can manage it if he stops sabotaging my formula,” she said.

Alexandre’s eyebrow twitched. “I played one violin note in your symphony and you called it sabotage. The sabotage—actual sabotage—came from someone who dug up your grandmother’s roses. That wasn’t me.”

“But it might be someone you know,” Camille shot back. “Someone whose family has a long history with mine.”

The room went cold. Madame Vasseur’s mouth thinned. Alexandre’s hands flattened on the tabletop, knuckles pale.

“I think,” he said, his voice very quiet, “we should discuss this in private. For the board’s benefit, yes, we can smile. But we’ll need to align our… stories.”

Vasseur studied them both. “You have three days before the gala. I want a joint statement on the sabotage investigation by tomorrow morning. And I want you two to be seen in public at least twice before Friday—once at a lunch, once at a private event. Convince the city that Maison Roussel is not crumbling.”

“And if we can’t?” Camille asked.

“Then the board will begin considering alternative creative direction.” Vasseur’s eyes flickered toward Alexandre. “Even before the competition ends.”

The threat hung in the air like musk.

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An hour later, Camille and Alexandre stood on the rooftop terrace of the atelier, high above the jasmine fields. The city sprawled below, a patchwork of ochre rooftops and cypress spires. Below them, the rose garden where the roses had been dug up had been replaced with fresh soil and young plants, hopeful and small.

Alexandre broke the silence first.

“I didn’t sabotage your stock.”

“I believe you.”

He turned, surprised.

“I don’t believe you’re innocent,” Camille continued, “but I don’t think you’d destroy the thing you’re trying to save. And you’re trying to save what your father was connected to, aren’t you?”

His face shuttered. For a moment, she thought he’d walk away. Then he leaned against the stone balustrade, hands in his pockets, looking older than his years.

“My father’s notebooks,” he said slowly. “They mention a formula. Marcel Roussel’s final work. He wrote about it like it was… not just perfume. Like it was a confession. The scent of a secret. That’s what he called it.” He looked at her. “He died before he could finish his research on it.”

Camille’s heart was beating against her ribs. “Your father was a perfumer.”

“Master perfumer. Trained in Grasse. Worked for your grandfather’s house briefly, in the early nineties.” Alexandre’s jaw tightened. “Three months later, he was dead. The official report said accidental poisoning from mishandled synthetics. My mother never believed it.”

The wind carried the scent of lavender up from the valley. Camille remembered Odette’s dried rosebud in her pocket, the weight of it like a stone.

“The leak in the newspaper,” she said. “Do you think it was Odette?”

Alexandre shook his head. “No. But I think she’s been using it to steer you—to test you.” He met her gaze. “She gave you the rosebud because she wants you to find the truth. Not because she wants you to win.”

“Then what does she want?”

“A reckoning.” He said the word like a sommelier says the name of a vintage they’ve spent a career chasing. “And I think if we find Marcel’s masterwork, we find out what the reckoning is for.”

Camille pulled the rosebud from her pocket, cradling it in her palm. Its dried petals were the color of old blood. “I was going to test it against the sealed vial in Odette’s atelier tomorrow. Alone.” She looked up at him. “Maybe I shouldn’t be alone anymore.”

Something shifted in Alexandre’s face. Not quite trust—but close. A truce sealed on the boundary of a battlefield.

“Then let’s go together,” he said. “As co-leads. For the board, for the public… and for my father. If his death is tied to that formula, I need to know.”

Camille didn’t say yes. She closed her hand around the rosebud and looked out at the fields where her grandmother’s roses once grew—and where, one day, they would again.

“Friday,” she said. “After the gala. We’ll go to Odette’s atelier together.” She pocketed the rosebud. “You can help me decode the mystery. And Alexandre?”

He waited.

“If you betray me again—even slightly—I’ll make sure the only thing the public remembers about the Marchand name is scandal.”

For the first time, Alexandre smiled—a real smile, small and tired. “I’d expect nothing less from a Roussel.”