Read Chapter 24: The Burnt Page

The fragment was barely larger than her palm, its edges curled and blackened like a dried autumn leaf. Elise carried it to the kitchen table where Vivienne sat with her morning coffee, still in her silk robe, looking far too elegant for the hour.

“I found this in Theo’s bin,” Elise said, setting it down between them. “The rest of the script—the whole draft—is gone.”

Vivienne lowered her cup. Her eyes, sharp as cut glass, studied the fragment without touching it. “You went through his rubbish?”

“He accused me of stealing it.” Elise’s voice cracked on the word *stealing*. “Said I sold it to a rival producer. He stormed out before I could—” She stopped, pressed her fingers to her temples. “I thought maybe if I could find some trace of it, prove I didn’t take it, I could—”

“Prove what?” Vivienne picked up the fragment now, turning it between two fingers. A line of dialogue was visible, scorched halfway into illegibility. “That you didn’t burn your boyfriend’s manuscript and toss the evidence before he found it?”

“I didn’t burn anything.”

“I know.” Vivienne set the fragment down and met Elise’s gaze. “But whoever did wanted you to find this. Or wanted Theo to find it. Either way, the message is the same—look at what’s left of your work, and blame the woman in your bed.”

Elise sank into the chair across from her. The morning light through the Paris windows was soft and forgiving, but nothing about this moment felt soft. “So if I didn’t take it... who did?”

Vivienne leaned back, tapping a manicured nail against the table. “Who has keys to Theo’s flat in London?”

“I don’t know. Marcus did. Used to, I mean, before Theo fired him.” Elise’s mind raced. “But they had a huge confrontation. Marcus knows he’s burned. He wouldn’t risk breaking in after being fired.”

“Who else?”

“The housekeeper comes twice a week. There’s a super for the building.” Elise shook her head. “Anyone with basic skill could get into that flat. It’s not Fort Knox.”

“No,” Vivienne said slowly, “but it is in a building with security cameras in the lobby, isn’t it?”

Elise blinked. “Yes.”

“And Theo’s study—the room where he keeps his drafts—faces the interior courtyard, doesn’t it? I remember from the photographs of the flat in the tabloids after you two went public. The ones Camille’s photographer took.”

Elise felt a chill run up her spine. “Camille.”

“Camille has been running a campaign against you both for months. She knows where Theo keeps his secrets—Marcus fed her every schedule, every private meeting, every vulnerability for eighteen months.” Vivienne’s voice was flat, clinical. “She knows about the Edinburgh incident. She knew about your mother’s grave, Elise. Do you really think she wouldn’t know a way into Theo’s flat?”

Elise stared at the fragment. The burnt page. Someone had taken the script—Theo’s most personal work, the film he’d been writing in secret for years—and burned it. Not for profit. For destruction.

“But why burn it?” she asked, half to herself. “If you wanted to hurt him, you could sell it. Humiliate him. Leak it. Burning it leaves nothing. No money, no leverage, just—” She looked up. “Just pain.”

Vivienne’s expression shifted, something almost like approval flickering across her features. “Exactly. Whoever took that script wasn’t trying to profit from it. They were trying to hurt Theo in the most intimate way possible. And they wanted the evidence of that hurt to be found.”

“By me,” Elise said quietly. “Because Theo would blame me.”

“A two-birds situation.” Vivienne nodded. “You’re right that Marcus is unlikely to break into the flat himself. But he doesn’t need to. He ran that script through his hands for months. He knew where it was kept. And he has access to people who do this kind of work for money.”

A bitter taste rose in Elise’s throat. “PIs. Fixers. The kind of people who take photographs of gravestones.”

“The kind of people Camille pays well.”

Elise stood, pacing the length of the kitchen. The apartment felt smaller than it had yesterday, when Theo had held her and told her he’d chosen her. That tenderness was ash now, scattered by the same wind that had carried his script away.

“If I can prove Marcus took it,” she said slowly, “Theo will have to believe me. It would also prove— beyond doubt— that Marcus is still working with Camille, even after Theo fired him.”

“If you can prove it.” Vivienne’s tone was careful. “Theo’s trust in you is already fractured. How will you get proof that won’t look like more manipulation?”

Elise stopped pacing. “The housekeeper. Theo mentioned her once—she’s been with him for years. If someone broke in, she might have seen something. Or the super.” She pulled out her phone. “I have the number for the building management. I can ask for the security footage from the night before last.”

“And if they say no?”

“Then I remind them that a crime was committed—theft of a creative work is still theft—and that if they don’t cooperate, I’ll have Theo escalate it formally. He has a lawyer. A good one.”

Vivienne studied her for a long moment. “You’re willing to do this for him, even though he accused you?”

“He accused me because he was hurt.” Elise’s voice was steady. “Because someone deliberately designed a wound and pointed him at me. The worst thing I could do now is let that stand. If I can show him the truth, he’ll have to see it.”

“And if the security footage shows nothing?”

Elise looked down at the burnt fragment, at the text singed away to nothing. She thought of Theo’s face when he’d looked at her—betrayal and fury and beneath it, a grief so raw it had stolen his breath.

“Then I’ll find another way.” She picked up her phone and began to dial. “I won’t let Marcus destroy what’s left of him. Not while I’m standing.”

The call connected. Elise straightened her spine and spoke in her most professional French, asking for building management, explaining that there had been a possible theft at Mr. Ashford’s residence and that they needed to review the security footage from Tuesday night.

The response was polite but apologetic. “Madame, the cameras in the lobby are on a rolling seven-day loop. If you can indicate a specific time, we can check, but we’ll need authorization from the resident.”

“I can have Mr. Ashford call you,” Elise said. “But he’s currently unreachable. Is there any other way to access the footage?”

A pause. Then, lower: “The system archives to a cloud server. Our security contractor maintains it. I can give you their contact information.”

Elise felt a flicker of hope. “Please.”

Vivienne watched her, arms crossed, as Elise scribbled the name and number onto a napkin. When she hung up, Vivienne raised an eyebrow.

“The security contractor is called Blackbird Security Solutions,” Elise said. “I’m going to call them now and see if they have any record of access to Theo’s floor on Tuesday night.”

“And if they do?”

Elise’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll have proof. And Theo will have to listen.”

She dialed again, her heart beating fast against her ribs. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Then a voice answered—male, crisp, professional.

“Blackbird Security, Laurent speaking.”

“Hello,” Elise said, forcing calm into her voice. “My name is Elise Moreau. I’m calling about a possible security breach at the residence of Theodoric Ashford in London, the night of Tuesday the fourteenth. I need to know if your system logged any unusual access to his floor.”

A beat of silence. Then: “Madame Moreau. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss client access without authorization from the resident.”

“I understand. But Mr. Ashford is currently unreachable, and this is urgent—a creative work has been stolen from his residence. I’m acting on his behalf.”

Another pause. She heard the faint click of a keyboard. “I can confirm that our system did log an access event to Mr. Ashford’s floor on the night in question. An individual entered using a key card that matched his household profile.”

Elise’s breath caught. “What time?”

“Twenty-three forty-seven. The access was brief—under four minutes.”

“Can you identify who the key card belonged to?”

The silence stretched. Elise gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles went white.

“That information is restricted,” Laurent said finally. “But I can tell you this much—the card used was not Mr. Ashford’s primary card. It was one of two secondary cards issued eighteen months ago to his then-manager.”

Elise’s blood ran cold.

Marcus.

She thanked him, hung up, and turned to face Vivienne. Her voice was very quiet when she spoke.

“It was Marcus. He used a key card from eighteen months ago to get into Theo’s flat and take the script. The security company has the record.”

Vivienne’s eyes widened slightly. “Then we have proof.”

“We have one proof.” Elise looked down at the burnt fragment, then back up. “But Marcus is already working with Camille through Blake & Associates. Do you really think a security log will stop them?”

Vivienne said nothing.

Elise reached for her coat. “I need to find Theo. Before Marcus gets to him again with another lie.”

Outside, the Paris morning had turned grey, clouds rolling in from the west. Elise flagged a cab and gave the driver Theo’s hotel address—the one he’d told her he was staying at last night after he stormed out. She didn’t know if he was still there. She didn’t know if he’d even take her call.

But she had proof. And she had the truth.

And for the first time since she’d found the burnt page, she thought she might actually have a chance.