Read Chapter 35: The Red Carpet

The red carpet stretched ahead like a ribbon of blood under the floodlights, and Camille kept her chin high, her hand resting lightly on Antoine’s forearm. The photographers called their names—not just Antoine’s anymore, but hers too—and the shutter clicks sounded like rain on a tin roof.

“You’re gripping me a little hard,” Antoine murmured through his smile.

“I’m not used to being hunted,” she whispered back, flashing her practiced, camera-ready smile at a journalist from *Le Monde*.

“You’re doing fine. Just don’t trip on the scarf.”

Camille touched the red silk at her throat, the same one her mother had worn in the photograph that sat in a box she’d never fully unpacked. It had been a small rebellion to wear it tonight, a defiant nod to the woman who had abandoned her. Now, standing under the blinding lights of the Palais des Congrès, it felt less like rebellion and more like a ghost clinging to her skin.

The AlgoSens team had arrived in two waves. François had slunk through the side entrance earlier, avoiding the press, which was smart given what Sarah Moreau’s latest article had done to his reputation. Camille hadn’t spoken to him in four days. Neither had Antoine. The board meeting was scheduled for Monday, and the air in the office had thickened to the point where even the coffee machine seemed to hum with tension.

But tonight, for one evening, they were the good guys. The nominee. The ethical AI startup that had turned down a lucrative contract rather than compromise patient privacy. The audience inside waited for the gala dinner, for the award, for the vindication.

First, the carpet.

Antoine paused at a designated press stop, and Camille stepped slightly aside to give him the frame, the way they’d rehearsed. He answered a question about their partnership with his usual charm—*we complement each other, France needs more projects like ours*—and Camille let herself breathe for a half-second.

That was when she saw her.

A woman in the crowd, off to the left, beyond the velvet ropes. Not a photographer, not a fan, not a tech influencer with a ring light and a sponsored handbag. She was standing perfectly still, wearing a dark coat, her silver hair cut short in a way that made her look older than Camille remembered, but the eyes—those eyes were impossible to mistake.

Camille’s breath caught. Her hand went to the scarf without thinking.

“Camille?” Antoine’s voice came from a distance, as if underwater. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer. The woman was moving now, not toward the entrance but toward the side of the carpet, where a security guard was too distracted by a celebrity arrival to notice a quiet woman slipping through. She came closer. Closer.

And then she was there, in front of Camille, close enough to smell the faint rosewater perfume that Camille had almost forgotten but would never fully lose.

“You look like your mother did at that age,” the woman whispered, her voice rough, as if she’d been saving those words for ten years.

Camille’s world tilted.

“What are you doing here?” The words came out sharp, brittle, the same tone she’d used on her last phone call with this woman a decade ago. *Don’t call me again.*

“I’ve been following your career.” Her mother—Isabelle—smiled, an uncertain, fragile thing. “I’ve read every article. Watched every interview. I knew you’d be here tonight.”

“That’s not—” Camille stopped herself. The journalists were still snapping, but they were focused on Antoine, who had turned to gauge what was happening. His eyes flicked between them with concern.

Isabelle pressed something into Camille’s palm. Paper, folded. A letter.

“Your father wrote this before he passed.” Isabelle’s voice cracked on the word *passed*, and Camille felt something tighten in her chest. “I found it in his study months after the funeral. He never got to give it to you. I held onto it because I was afraid you wouldn’t want it. But you should read it.”

“Ten years,” Camille said, and her voice was barely a whisper. “You’ve had this for ten years.”

Isabelle’s chin trembled. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered. “I always have been. I didn’t know how to say it before. I still don’t. But I wanted you to hear it tonight, in front of all these people who know how brilliant you are. So one day you might believe it.”

The crowd roared somewhere behind them—a celebrity had arrived, a starlet in a sequined gown. But Camille stood frozen, the letter burning in her palm, her mother’s face shimmering before her.

“I have to go,” Isabelle said quickly, as if she were afraid of staying too long, of ruining the moment. “But I’ll leave my number in the envelope. If you ever want coffee.”

Then she turned and walked back through the crowd, into the dark beyond the floodlights, and Camille watched her go without saying a word.

“Camille.” Antoine’s hand was on her shoulder, gentle. She hadn’t felt him move, but there he was, grounding her. “Who was that?”

Camille looked down at the letter. Cream paper, yellowed at the edges. Her father’s handwriting—looping, hopeful, the handwriting of a man who always believed the next invention would be the one that worked—covered the front of the envelope.

*For Camille. To be read when she’s ready.*

Her eyes burned. She blinked hard.

“My mother,” she said.

The word felt foreign in her mouth. She hadn’t said it in years.

Antoine didn’t press. He simply moved closer, his body a shield between her and the cameras, and it was that simple act of protection—that quiet, wordless claiming of space around her—that made the first tear slip down her cheek.

“We need to go inside,” he said softly. “They’re about to announce the award. I can tell them you’re not feeling well. We can leave.”

“No.” Camille straightened her shoulders. She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her clutch. “We’re winning tonight.” She lifted her chin, met his eyes. “And I’m not running away.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. He offered his arm, and she took it, her fingers still trembling.

As they walked through the doors of the Palais, past the marble columns and the velvet drapes, Camille felt the weight of the letter against her thigh. Her father’s words, unread for a decade. Her mother’s voice, whispering *I’m proud of you* through the noise of a Paris evening.

She had faced hostile investors. Sabotaging rivals. Media attacks. Public scrutiny. All of it had felt like a battlefield she could navigate, a puzzle she could solve.

But standing on that red carpet, staring at her mother’s retreating back, Camille understood that the real fight had never been out there.

It had always been inside her.