Read Chapter 16: The Charity Dinner

The ballroom of the Hôtel des Flots was a study in calculated elegance—crystal chandeliers casting warm light over tables draped in navy silk, the club crest embroidered on every napkin. Camille smoothed the front of her charcoal dress, a loan from Solène in the front office, and tried to remember how to breathe in heels.

Julien stood beside her, devastating in a midnight suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his frame. He hadn't stopped scanning the room since they'd walked in.

"You're doing the thing," she said.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look like you're calculating exit routes from a hostage situation."

His jaw tightened, then relaxed. "Old habit."

"Tonight, you're not a hostage. You're the guest of honor." She touched his sleeve. "You're also the reason this room is full of people writing checks."

Moreau had made sure of that. Two nights of phone calls, a hastily assembled committee of sponsors and their wives, and suddenly the club's disgraced star was the centerpiece of a charity gala for local youth rugby programs. Image rehabilitation, served with champagne.

A waiter drifted past with a tray of oysters. Julien watched him go like the man was carrying contraband.

"Eat something," Camille said. "You'll need the energy for all the handshaking."

"I'd rather have a beer and a baguette on the beach."

"That's not on the menu tonight." She steered him toward a cluster of sponsors near the bar. "Smile. It's only three hours."

The first hour was agony disguised as small talk. Julien shook hands with men in expensive suits and women in louder jewelry, offering variations on the same script: *Yes, the suspension was a lesson. Yes, I'm committed to the team. No, this hasn't affected my love for the game.* Camille watched him perform, noting the flicker of tension in his jaw each time someone mentioned the incident.

"You're good at this," she murmured when they finally broke free for a moment.

"I grew up in a rugby club. My mother made me charm sponsors since I was twelve." He grabbed a glass of water from a passing tray. "Doesn't mean I like it."

"Where is she now? Your mother?"

His grip tightened on the glass. "She lands in Montpellier tomorrow. I told her I can't see her until after the rematch."

"Julien—"

"I know. I know it's not fair." He set the glass down, unopened. "But if I see her before that game, I'll fall apart. And there's already enough pressure without adding my mother's disappointment to the pile."

Camille wanted to argue, but the band struck up a slow song and the lights dimmed slightly. Around them, couples drifted toward the small dance floor.

"Come on," she said, pulling him by the hand. "You owe me at least one dance after all that small talk."

He followed, surprised, and then his hands found her waist and she placed hers on his shoulders and they were moving, slowly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You know I haven't danced since my sister's wedding," he said.

"You're not bad at it."

"My sister said the same thing. Said I had rhythm from all the stepping around defenders."

Camille laughed, and the sound seemed to surprise him. His face softened, the tension draining from his shoulders as they swayed.

For a moment, they weren't the physiotherapist and the suspended player. They were just two people in a beautiful room, moving together in the dark, the noise of the gala fading to a murmur around them.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For being here. For not looking at me like I'm broken."

"You're not broken, Julien."

"I feel like I am, sometimes." His hand pressed more firmly against her back. "And then you remind me I'm not."

Her breath caught. The song was ending, the final notes hanging in the air, and he was looking at her with an intensity that made the room disappear. His face lowered toward hers, his lips inches away—

And then he pulled back, a mask sliding over his features.

"I'm not ready," he said.

"Julien—"

"Not for this." He stepped away, releasing her. "I'm not ready for this. For us. For—"

"For a relationship?" Her voice came out smaller than she intended.

He looked at her, something raw and wounded in his eyes. "For rugby. I'm not ready for rugby. For the rematch. For any of it." He ran a hand through his hair. "And if I'm not ready for that, I can't be ready for you. It wouldn't be fair."

Camille stood frozen as guests applauded the band. Around them, the gala continued—someone laughed, a champagne glass clinked, a sponsor called Julien's name for another round of introductions.

"I should go talk to Moreau," he said. "Thank you. For the dance."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd, and Camille was left alone on the edge of the dance floor, watching him go.

The night had been meant to polish his image. And it had, mostly. The morning papers would show a smiling Julien Marchand, hand extended, charming sponsors, raising money for children's rugby.

But Camille saw the truth. The rematch was four days away, and Julien Marchand was terrified.

She found her clutch purse and made her way toward the terrace for air, her heels clicking against the marble. The Mediterranean stretched dark and infinite beyond the hotel's gardens, the moon a thin sliver over the water.

A hand touched her elbow.

"Miss Roussel."

She turned to find a man in a well-cut gray suit, perhaps sixty, with silver hair and eyes that missed nothing. He didn't look familiar.

"Yes?"

"Forgive my intrusion. I'm Paul Rey. I was a friend of Vincent Marchand's."

Camille's pulse quickened. "You knew Vincent?"

"We played together in Toulouse, years ago. Before Julien came up." The man's smile was thin. "I saw you dancing with Julien tonight. You care about him."

"I'm his physiotherapist."

"With benefits beyond the professional, I suspect." He held up a hand before she could protest. "I'm not here to judge. I'm here to warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

"Julien's father. Antoine." The name hung in the air like smoke. "I hear you've been asking questions about him."

Camille said nothing, but her silence was confirmation enough.

"Antoine wasn't just a man who abandoned his son," Rey said. "He was also a man in debt. Deep debt. To people who don't forgive debts."

"The gambling syndicate."

Rey's eyes flickered with surprise, then something like respect. "You're sharper than I expected. Then you understand the stakes. Vincent's death, Julien's injury, the threats you've received—these are not coincidences."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that Antoine didn't just run. He was running from someone. And now that Julien is making headlines again, that someone might come looking for the son in place of the father."

Camille felt the night air turn cold against her skin. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I was there when Vincent died." Pain moved across Rey's face. "And I've carried the weight of that day for five years. I can't change what happened, but I can try to protect the people Vincent loved."

His gaze met hers. "Protect Julien. And protect yourself. If the syndicate knows about you, they know you're his weak spot. They'll use you to get to him."

Camille opened her mouth to respond, but Rey was already stepping back.

"Good evening, Miss Roussel. And please—don't mention this conversation to Julien. He has enough to carry without adding my old guilt to his load."

He disappeared into the shadows of the garden, leaving Camille alone with the sound of the waves and the weight of everything she now knew.

Behind her, the gala continued its bright, glittering celebration. But the night had changed, and she knew with sudden certainty that nothing would be the same again.