Read Chapter 6: The Intern

The café was tucked behind the Palais-Royal, the kind of place that survived on regulars and quiet, and Meiling spotted Léa before she saw her—a slight girl in an oversized charcoal sweater, bent over a notebook, a pencil moving in tight, decisive strokes. There was something about the posture that reminded Meiling of herself at twenty-two, hungry and easily underestimated.

Meiling slid into the seat across from her. "You texted me."

Léa looked up, unsurprised. Her face was pale and sharp, all angles and dark eyes. She closed the notebook with a deliberate slap. "You took something from the archives yesterday. A scarf."

The words hung between them. Meiling kept her expression still. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do." Léa tilted her head. "I was there. I saw you pick the lock on Henri's desk, which, by the way, was not subtle. The staff gossips less than you think and more than Antoine would like."

Meiling considered her options. The girl couldn't be more than twenty-five, an intern by her lanyard—green, the color of the atelier's most junior tier. But her eyes were old. Calculated.

"Who are you?"

"Léa Moreau. I've been at the house for eight months." She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Monogramming apprentice, second floor. I work with silk thread and beads. Nobody notices me."

"Clearly not."

Léa almost smiled. "I've read everything in the archives. Not just the pattern books—the newspaper clippings, the Baccarat ledgers, the correspondence with the silk weavers in Lyon. I know the history of this house better than anyone alive." She paused. "Better than Antoine."

Meiling leaned back. The coffee she'd ordered sat untouched. "Then you know about the other designer."

"I know the official story has holes." Léa's voice dropped. "Have you ever wondered why the atelier's signature—the little double-stitch on every cuff—looks so different from Henri's early sketches? He never used that stitch in his life. It appears suddenly in 1923, fully formed, with no note, no pattern, no explanation. And the house motto? 'For those who walk through fire.' Henri was a businessman. He didn't write poetry."

Meiling's pulse quickened. The scarf's hidden dedication. The same words.

"Who taught you the double-stitch?" she asked.

Léa hesitated. For the first time, something flickered behind her composure—fear, or maybe loyalty. "My grandmother. She taught me when I was twelve, sitting at her kitchen table in Liège. She said it was our family's stitch. That her mother had designed it for a Parisian house that never credited her."

The word hit Meiling like a physical blow. Liège.

"What was your great-grandmother's name?"

"Charlotte Serre." Léa watched her reaction carefully. "She was a weaver and a designer. She came to Paris in 1921, worked for a couturier on the Rue de la Paix, and then disappeared from every record in 1924. My grandmother always said Charlotte was erased. That someone took her work and made it their own."

Meiling thought of the scarf, currently sealed in a courier box somewhere over Belgium. The restoration lab would find what Meiling already suspected: the initials C.S. woven beneath the M.L. Two people, one erased. Henri Lumière and Charlotte Serre.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're the first person in ninety years who's asked the right questions." Léa's hands were clasped tight on the table. "Antoine won't look. He's too busy protecting the house from falling apart to ask why it was built on a lie. But you're an outsider. You don't owe this place anything."

"I don't have the proof yet. I sent the scarf to Brussels—"

"They'll confirm the second signature. The silk is from a Belgian mill that kept better records than the French ever did." Léa pulled the notebook toward her, opened it to a page covered in precise sketches. "But the scarf is only the beginning. Charlotte kept a journal. It's in the house archives—I found it nested inside a ledger from 1923, hidden in the binding. Antoine's been sitting on it for years, whether he knows it or not."

Meiling frowned. "Why would he hide it if he didn't know what it was?"

"He didn't hide it. His father did." Léa tapped the sketch of an embroidered letter. "Henri's son, André, knew about Charlotte. He tried to set the record straight in the 1970s, and the board shut him down. The journal was buried in the archives to keep it quiet, and André never spoke of it again. When Antoine inherited the house, he inherited his grandfather's secrets without the key to decode them."

"So he has the journal and doesn't know what it is."

"Correct." Léa closed the notebook again. "And if you want to save this house, you need that journal. Not just for the truth—for the money."

"The five-million-euro debt."

"They're calling it a preservation loan, but it's more than that. Devereux Capital has been circling Maison Lumière for a decade. They collect heritage brands like trophies, strip them for parts, and sell the name to fast-fashion conglomerates." Léa's voice hardened. "The only thing stopping them is the threat of scandal. If the press learns that Lumière's entire heritage—the double-stitch, the house motto, the archives themselves—rests on stolen work from a Belgian woman, Devereux will walk away. But so will every buyer, every client, every artisan. The house would be ruined."

Meiling understood the trap immediately. The truth wouldn't save them. It would burn everything to the ground.

"That's why Antoine is protecting the letters," she said slowly. "He thinks if anyone finds out, the house falls."

"He's right." Léa's gaze was steady. "But there's a third way. Charlotte's descendants—my family—never signed any document. We have no legal claim to the house. But we could release a public statement supporting Lumière's revival, crediting Charlotte as a co-founder without demanding restitution. A gesture. A legacy restored without a corporate tombstone."

Generosity as a weapon. Meiling almost smiled. "You want a place at the table."

"I want my great-grandmother's name in the history books." Léa's chin lifted. "I want to walk into the flagship and see a plaque with her name on it. I want the double-stitch to be taught as Charlotte's contribution to this house, not Henri's lucky accident. And I want a permanent position in the atelier when this is done."

Meiling studied her. The girl was ambitious, precise, and she'd handed Meiling the keys to a kingdom Antoine didn't know he was guarding. But leverage was a living thing, and it could turn and bite the hand that held it.

"Who else knows about you?"

"No one. I've been waiting for an opportunity." Léa slid a folded paper across the table. "This is the file number for the journal in the archive's storage system. It's catalogued as a ledger binding repair from 1923. You'll need to request it from Clothilde—she's the only one who can authorize a retrieval without Antoine's signature."

Clothilde. The CFO who'd smiled too knowingly in the board meeting, who'd hinted at secrets and watched Meiling like a chess player reading an opponent's next move.

"Why Clothilde?"

Léa's lips curved. "Because she already knows what's inside. She's been waiting for someone to ask the right questions too."