Read Chapter 8: The Audition

The afternoon light filtered through the dusty windows of the rehearsal room above Le Chat Bleu, catching motes of dust that hung suspended like tiny stars. Julien sat at the upright piano, his long fingers resting on the keys but not yet playing. His posture was that of a man about to dive into deep water.

"Lucien agreed to see us," he said, not looking at her. "Tomorrow. Private. His office at Le Paradis."

Evie's heart staggered. "Tomorrow? Julien, we've had one session together. One."

"And that one session told me everything I need to know." Now he looked at her, and there was something fierce in his pale eyes. "You felt it too. Don't pretend you didn't."

She had felt it. That was the problem. When her voice had wrapped around his notes in that courtyard, something had clicked into place—a lock turning, a door opening. It frightened her more than the idea of failing Lucien ever could.

"We need more time," she said, pacing the narrow room. "The piece isn't finished. Your mother's song—"

"Is finished enough." He cut her off, and she saw the flash of pain cross his face before he masked it. "I worked on it all night. The structure is there. What it needs is what you gave it yesterday. Your voice, your rhythm, your *life*."

Evie stopped pacing and studied him. He was so earnest, so certain. In New York, the men who'd promised her things had always had their hands in her purse or their eyes on her neckline. Julien looked at her like she was sheet music he needed to decode.

"And if we fail?" she asked quietly.

"Then we fail." He shrugged, but his jaw tightened. "But I've been playing it safe my whole life, Evie. Classical recitals in drawing rooms, my father's friends applauding politely, never a wrong note, never a real feeling. Yesterday was the first time I played something that mattered."

Something in her chest softened against her will. She walked to the piano and ran her hand along its scarred wooden edge.

"Show me what you wrote."

He played. The opening was still fragile, still searching, but when Evie began to hum along, finding the spaces between his notes, the piece started to breathe. She watched his shoulders relax as she shaped the melody with her voice, bending it the way she'd learned in smoky Harlem clubs, giving it a swing that made the sorrow less heavy, more human.

"Like that," he said when he stopped, his voice rough. "That's it. That's what I heard in my head."

"Then let's not waste time talking about it. We have one night." She pulled a chair beside him and leaned over the keys. "From the top. And this time, don't play it like a funeral. Play it like a woman who loved to sing."

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The office at Le Paradis was everything Le Chat Bleu was not: velvet drapes, a crystal chandelier, thick carpets that swallowed sound. Lucien sat behind a massive mahogany desk, a cigarette burning in a silver holder, his dark suit immaculate, his smile revealing nothing.

"You understand this is unusual," he said, eyes sliding between them. "I don't normally audition duos in my private office. But Julien here..." He gestured vaguely. "His father and I have history. I owed him a favor."

Evie felt the words land like a slap. They weren't here because Lucien believed in them. They were here because of Julien's name, his family, his connections. She glanced at Julien, but his face was unreadable as he sat at the grand piano Lucien had wheeled in for the occasion.

"Whenever you're ready," Lucien said, settling back.

Julien's fingers found the keys. The opening notes of his mother's elegy filled the room, softer than it had been in the rehearsal space, more intimate. Evie closed her eyes for just a moment, letting the music wash over her. She thought of Lily, of her mother's locket, of everything she'd left behind and everything she was chasing.

Then she opened her mouth and sang.

She didn't perform it the way she'd performed in Le Chat Bleu, where the audience wanted fire and grit. She sang it the way it deserved—tender at first, then swelling with a joy that fought against grief, her voice wrapping around Julien's classical lines and bending them just enough to make them new. She felt him adjust to her, his tempo shifting almost imperceptibly to match her phrasing, and for those few minutes, they weren't two people from different worlds. They were one instrument.

The last note hung in the air. Evie's hands were trembling.

Lucien was silent for a long moment. Then he tapped his cigarette into the ashtray.

"Interesting," he said.

Evie's stomach dropped. *Interesting.* She knew what that meant. She'd heard it from club owners in New York, from producers who promised to call and never did.

"Interesting," Lucien repeated, standing. He walked around the desk, circling them slowly. "It's not polished. The transitions are rough. Perhaps a third of the piece feels finished." He stopped in front of Julien. "And it's sentimental in ways that might not translate to a paying crowd."

Julien's hands gripped his knees. Evie could see the anger building in him, the same fierce pride she'd clashed with in that courtyard.

"But." Lucien raised a finger. "It's also the first thing I've heard in Paris that wasn't trying to be something else. You're not imitating New York. You're not imitating Vienna. You're doing something... new."

He walked back to his desk and picked up a slim black book. He held it out to Julien.

"I own a smaller venue. Chez Nous. Intimate, well-heeled crowd, but they come to be surprised rather than to be seen. I'll give you a weekly slot. Saturday nights, ten o'clock. Four weeks, starting next week. Come back to me after that, and if you've managed to polish this diamond, we'll talk about Le Paradis."

Evie stared at the book in Julien's hands, her pulse thrumming. A weekly slot. At a real venue. Not a café where she warbled for francs and wine. A chance.

But Lucien wasn't finished. He turned his gaze on her, and his eyes were calculating in a way that made her skin prickle.

"One thing, Mademoiselle Hart." He said her name like he was tasting it. "This piece—it's about something personal, yes? I can hear it. Loss. But loss alone doesn't fill seats. Audiences want to believe they're watching something real. Something they can't have." He paused. "Is this real? Between you two, I mean."

The question hit her like cold water. Julien went very still beside her.

"It's real music," Julien said, his voice tight.

"That's not what I asked." Lucien smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "But I'll take that as a maybe. Explore it. The best acts have a story that sells itself." He waved a dismissive hand. "You're dismissed. I'll have my manager send the details for Chez Nous."

They walked out of Le Paradis into the fading evening light. The streets were filling with the sounds of carriages and motorcars, with laughter from café terraces. Evie felt like she was walking on a different plane, the world slightly out of focus.

Chez Nous. Four weeks. A chance.

"He'll exploit it," Julien said suddenly. "Whatever becomes of us—of this—he'll try to package it. Sell it. Make it dirty."

Evie turned to face him. His eyes were stormy, his jaw set. She'd seen that look before—the fierce protectiveness of someone who'd been burnt by people in power.

"Then we make sure we're the ones telling the story," she said. "Not him."

Julien held her gaze for a long moment. Then something shifted in his expression—an opening, a vulnerability he'd kept carefully hidden.

"My mother was the one who named me Julien," he said quietly. "My father wanted to call me after his own father. But she won. She always won, until she didn't." He looked away. "This piece, Evie—if I'm going to play her song for strangers, I need to know it's in good hands."

"Julien." She reached out and touched his arm. "I'm not going anywhere."

He looked down at her hand on his sleeve, and then back at her face. For a moment, she thought he might say something else. But instead, he simply nodded.

"I'll walk you to the Métro."

They walked in silence, but it was a comfortable one, filled with the echo of the music they'd made together. And when Evie descended the stairs into the underground, she caught him watching her, a small, wondering smile on his face.

She couldn't shake the feeling that they'd just stepped off a cliff together. The only question was whether they'd learn to fly before they hit the ground.