Read Chapter 28: The Investor's Ultimatum

Mademoiselle Delacroix led Élodie through a side door of the theater, past crates of forgotten props and a dusty harpsichord draped in a stained sheet, into a narrow antechamber that smelled of old paper and wax. A single lamp burned on a round table where a woman sat with her hands folded, dressed in charcoal silk, her silver hair swept into a severe knot. She looked up as they entered, and Élodie felt the weight of her gaze like a hand on her chest.

"Madame de la Roche," Delacroix said, gesturing with unusual deference. "Mademoiselle Marchand."

"Thank you, Renée. You may leave us."

Delacroix hesitated, her eyes flicking between them, then withdrew with a soundless click of the door. Élodie stood alone before the investor, whose face offered neither warmth nor judgment—only a patient, appraising stillness.

"Please, sit." Madame de la Roche motioned to the chair across from her. "I have heard remarkable things about your voice. About what happened on your opening night."

Élodie sat, her hands finding each other in her lap. "Word travels quickly."

"Word travels at the speed of scandal, my dear. And scandal at the speed of money." A thin smile crossed the woman's lips. "I am not a sentimental woman. I do not invest in haunted theaters out of romance. I invest in outcomes. So tell me plainly: is the ghost dangerous?"

The question landed like a dropped baton. Élodie thought of Céleste's touch on her shoulder, the warmth of her guidance, the child's voice rising from the sealed room. She also thought of the shattered mirror, of Laure fleeing in terror.

"No," Élodie said. "She is not dangerous. She is... seeking something. Resolution."

"Resolution." Madame de la Roche repeated the word as if tasting it. "And what does that resolution require?"

"The truth about what happened to her. To her child."

The investor's eyes sharpened. She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping. "You believe there are remains in that sealed room."

"I believe so, yes."

"Proof would require opening it. Publicly, I assume. Given the confession already leaked, half of Paris knows this theater is the site of a century-old crime." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "I find that delicious. A theater reborn not in spite of its tragedy, but because of it. Audiences will flock to see the place where a diva's ghost still sings. The romance of it. The terror, tempered by beauty."

Élodie's heart beat faster. "Then you'll fund the restoration?"

Madame de la Roche raised a hand. "I will consider it. But I have conditions."

Name them, Élodie thought. She kept her voice steady. "I'm listening."

"One. The ghost must be proven non-threatening to the public. A supernatural occurrence during a performance—a shattered mirror, a spectral chorus mid-aria—would be a liability I cannot underwrite. I need proof that Céleste Laurent will not interfere with the business of the theater."

"How would you expect me to prove such a thing?"

Madame de la Roche's smile returned, thinner now. "A private performance. Invite only myself and my advisors. The theater empty of audience, the ghost given full opportunity to appear. If she reveals herself to me, I will see her nature firsthand. If she remains silent, I will take that as an absence of will. Either way, I will know whether my investment is sound."

Élodie's mouth went dry. "You want to provoke her."

"I want to meet her." Madame de la Roche's voice softened, just for a moment. "You spoke of resolution. Perhaps she wishes to be seen. Acknowledged. I am offering her a stage without the chaos of a crowd. A controlled environment."

"And if she refuses to appear? If she stays silent?"

"Then I will assume she is either weak or indifferent—neither of which threatens my interests. The theater will receive my funding, and the ghost will remain a charming rumor, nothing more."

Élodie studied the woman's face. There was something beneath the composure—a hunger, curiosity, maybe grief. She could not name it. "And if she appears and you find her terrifying?"

Madame de la Roche's eyes glittered. "Then I will know the truth, and I will act accordingly."

The words hung between them like a blade. Élodie understood the gamble: one performance, no audience, no buffer. If Céleste manifested violently, as she had with Laure, the investor's verdict would be swift and final. The theater would be razed within the week, its ghosts buried under concrete and ash.

"May I ask," Élodie said slowly, "why you care at all? You could buy a dozen theaters in Paris without ghost complications."

Madame de la Roche was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice carried a faint tremor she seemed to fight against. "Because forty years ago, I was a young soprano in Lyon with a voice that could move stone. And I let fear silence me. I let a manager convince me that my intuition was madness, that the music I heard in empty halls was exhaustion, not presence." She met Élodie's eyes. "I left the stage, married well, and spent my fortune buying the silence I should have defied. This theater is the closest I will ever come to a second chance. I want to see if I was a coward then, or simply wise."

Élodie's breath caught. The confession hung in the dim light, raw and unpolished. She reached across the table without thinking, and Madame de la Roche let her hand be taken.

"You weren't a coward," Élodie said. "You survived."

"Survival is not the same as living." The investor withdrew her hand gently, composing herself. "Tomorrow evening. Nine o'clock. You will sing for me, alone, on that stage. The ghost may do as she wishes. I will give you my answer by midnight."

Élodie nodded, though her stomach twisted. "And if she doesn't come?"

"Then you will have sung beautifully to an empty house, and I will consider that a good omen." Madame de la Roche rose, smoothing her skirts. "I have been told you hear music others cannot. I want to hear it too."

She moved toward the door, then paused. "One more thing. The vote to accelerate demolition is tomorrow morning. If you do not wish to proceed with this performance, I will not hold it against you. But without my offer, the theater will fall regardless. You have until midnight tonight to decide."

The lock clicked behind her. Élodie sat in the lamplight, the silence of the theater pressing in from all sides. She closed her eyes and listened—for the music box lullaby, for Céleste's whisper, for any sign of what to do.

Nothing came.

She rose and made her way up the dim stairwell toward the stage. In the wings, she paused. The house lay dark and empty, row after row of vacant seats like an audience of shadows. She walked to the center of the stage, where she had stood the night before, trembling, until a ghost had steadied her voice.

"Was that me?" she whispered into the dark. "Or was that you? Did I choose to open that safe, or did you decide for me?"

The theater gave no answer.

Then, faintly, from above—the third floor, the sealed room—the lullaby began. A music box, winding down its fragile notes. Élodie tilted her head, and in the melody she heard something new: a break, a skip, as if a note had been deliberately omitted. The same omission she had noticed in Céleste's aria, the missing phrase that made the song incomplete.

A code, she thought suddenly. The missing note is a message. But for whom?

She pulled out her phone and dialed Julien's number. It rang four times before going to voicemail.

"Julien," she said, her voice trembling with the weight of what she'd discovered, "I need you to trust me. I'm going to sing for Madame de la Roche tomorrow night—alone, with the ghost. But before I do, I need you to look at the score again. The missing note in the lullaby. It's not an error. It's a key."

She hung up, and in the silence that followed, she heard it again—the music box, playing its incomplete song, waiting for someone to finish it.