Read Chapter 11: THE SHORTLIST

The Delaroche shortlist was announced on a Wednesday at 6:00 p.m.

At 5:58, Studio C was silent.

At 6:01, twenty phones lit at once.

Élise stared at the email.

FINALISTS: SOLÈNE ARTAUD LUCIEN VALCOURT ÉLISE MOREAU MATEO FERRAND INES KRAUS

Five names.

For several seconds she could not breathe.

Camille screamed first.

She crossed the room, grabbed Élise by both shoulders, and shook her. “You impossible, horrible person. You did it.”

Around them came congratulations, some warm, some carefully neutral. Vautrin appeared in the doorway ten minutes later.

He looked at Élise.

“Don’t celebrate too long.”

Then he left.

Camille stared after him. “I would pay money to watch that man receive a birthday present.”

That night, Élise called her parents.

Her mother cried. Her father asked practical questions about whether the prize money was taxed.

“Papa, I haven’t won.”

“I know. But if you do, don’t let twenty thousand become twelve because you forgot paperwork.”

In Paris, talent might be mystical. In Tours, it still needed a tax category.

The Delaroche finalists were given six weeks to produce a final installation. Their work would be viewed by the jury in January, then displayed publicly.

The morning after the shortlist, Élise found her locker forced open.

Nothing obvious was missing.

Her sketchbook, however, had been moved.

The map of favors was still inside.

She photographed every page and uploaded copies to an encrypted drive.

Then she confronted Orphée.

“Someone went through my locker.”

Hugo looked genuinely confused. Solène did not.

Maxime said, “Why would you assume us?”

“Because ordinary thieves take expensive brushes.”

Lucien looked at Solène. “Did you?”

“No.”

“Maxime?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

Élise studied each face.

“Someone knows about the map.”

Solène’s eyes flicked toward Lucien.

There.

Élise turned to him.

“You told them.”

“I told Solène you were documenting patterns.”

“Why?”

“Because she saw you copying jury information.”

“So you protected me by confirming it?”

“I told her it was academic curiosity.”

“Was that before or after we kissed?”

The room froze.

Hugo looked delighted despite himself.

Lucien’s face hardened. “Do not do this here.”

“Why? Orphée already trades private information.”

Solène stood. “Your romantic disaster is not relevant.”

“It became relevant when he decided my secrets belonged to the committee.”

“I was trying to keep Maxime from removing you,” Lucien said.

“Removing me from what?”

Orphée’s silence answered.

Élise laughed.

“You vote on membership.”

“Of course we do,” Solène said.

“And I’m not a member.”

“You are on provisional invitation.”

“Meaning you can use me without letting me vote.”

Maxime’s patience broke. “You have received more access in three months than most students receive in three years.”

“And you think that means I owe you gratitude instead of scrutiny.”

“I think it means you are a hypocrite.”

Élise nodded slowly. “Probably.”

That unsettled him more than denial would have.

She picked up her coat.

Lucien followed her into the stairwell.

“Elise.”

“No.”

“Listen.”

“You told them about my sketchbook.”

“Yes.”

“Without asking me.”

“Yes.”

“Because you thought you knew how to manage the risk better than I did.”

He did not answer.

“That,” she said, “is your father.”

His face went white.

She regretted it and did not take it back.

“Elise—”

“We are done using each other for a while.”

She walked away.

Two days later, an anonymous account sent Élise a photograph.

It showed Maxime Roche at a café with Adrien Kessler, the Delaroche juror Élise had refused to meet.

The timestamp was from the previous week.

Beneath it was one line:

Ask who chose the shortlist.