Read Chapter 12: ANONYMOUS

Élise did not show the photograph to Lucien.

She showed Nora.

They met in the back corner of a café near Place d’Italie where no Saint-Aurelie student had any reason to go. Nora enlarged the image on her laptop.

“Could be harmless,” she said.

“Everything is harmless one event at a time.”

“Fair.”

The metadata had been stripped. The anonymous account had been created that morning.

“Who knew you were looking into Orphée?” Nora asked.

“Too many people.”

“Who would benefit from you attacking Maxime?”

Élise thought of Solène’s ambition, Hugo’s resentment, Lucien’s warnings.

“Also too many people.”

They began with public records.

Adrien Kessler sat on the Delaroche final jury, not the shortlist committee. But one shortlist juror, gallery director Pauline Sorel, served on the board of a nonprofit funded by the Valcourt Fondation. Another, Professor Maret, had recently received support for a catalog from a fund administered by Maxime’s uncle.

None of this proved corruption.

It proved proximity.

Nora leaned back. “The problem with elite networks is they can look guilty while doing nothing illegal.”

“And innocent while deciding everything.”

“Exactly.”

They needed more than connections.

Élise returned to Saint-Aurelie after midnight using the access code Lucien had once given her. The administrative archive occupied a locked room beside the faculty offices. She had no key.

But student exhibition files were stored in an adjacent workroom, and professors often left papers in the shared printer tray.

She searched recycling bins.

At 1:17 a.m., she found a draft Delaroche shortlist score sheet torn into four pieces.

Her name appeared in sixth place.

Five finalists had been selected.

Above her was Hugo Delmas.

Beside the scores, handwritten notes showed a late adjustment: H.D. –4, E.M. +3.

No explanation.

She photographed the page.

“What are you doing?”

Élise spun.

Lucien stood in the doorway.

For several seconds neither spoke.

Then he closed the door behind him.

“You cannot be here,” he said.

“Neither can you.”

“I have studio access.”

“To the faculty printer?”

His gaze dropped to the torn sheet in her hand.

“Give me that.”

“No.”

“Elise.”

“Did Orphée move me onto the shortlist?”

His face revealed nothing.

“Answer.”

“No.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Did your father?”

His jaw tightened. “No.”

“Maxime?”

“I don’t know.”

She held up her phone. “I have evidence my score changed after the first tally.”

“That happens in jury deliberations.”

“Then why was the draft shredded?”

“Because drafts are discarded.”

“You are doing it again.”

“What?”

“Explaining every piece until the pattern disappears.”

Lucien stepped closer. “And you are doing the opposite. Making every piece fit the pattern you already want.”

She hated that he had a point.

He saw the hesitation.

“Come with me.”

“No.”

“Five minutes.”

He led her not toward Atelier 7 but into the old print archive beneath the library. Behind a row of map cabinets was a narrow door she had never noticed.

Lucien unlocked it.

Inside were shelves of boxes marked by year.

“What is this?”

“Orphée’s archive.”

Élise stared.

Minutes of meetings. Correspondence. Guest lists. Competition predictions. Alumni letters. Nearly a century of institutional memory hidden inside the school.

“You said you wouldn’t tell me everything.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because someone is feeding you selected evidence, and if you keep chasing it blind, they will make you useful.”

She looked at him.

“Again.”

“Yes.”

He pulled a box from the shelf marked 2019–2025.

“Read what you want. But nothing leaves this room.”

“You trust me now?”

“No,” he said. “I trust you more than whoever sent that photograph.”

It was not romantic.

It meant more than romance would have.