Page 4 of Crown of Thorns
More champagne is being served as personnel subtly ushers us towards the table. Silver candlesticks are lit, and a framed menu sits waiting for us.
“I’m so glad you accepted our offer,” Jean-Luc says. “We needed a change. A breath of fresh air.”
He lifts his glass to call for a waiter while sitting down at the table. “New, young talent such as yourself. If I tell you how long I've been debating with the rest of the board?” He shakes his head, amused by his own thought. “Anyway, you are the first professor who’s both specialized in Sociology and Finance. Had I been younger, I’d surely have attended your classes.”
“Thank you, sir.” “Thank you, sir.” My face feels warm from all the praise. When LeChevalier told me about the welcome dinner, I didn’t expect…this.
Around us, other people are being seated as the starter is served.
Jean-Luc leans forward, eyes narrowing slightly as if coaxing a secret from me. “So, how did you end up with both a degree in Sociology and Finance?”
I shrug.“Passion. I started with sociology, but quickly realized I needed more. I needed to understand the facts aside from the events.”
Movement across the table makes me look up. A guy sits down with the slow, entitled grace of someone who’s used to being noticed. He’s young, a bored look on his face as he glares at his phone, but there’s a sharpness in the way he moves, like he’s cataloging the room while pretending not to care.
“After graduation, the university offered me a spot in their PhD program, on the condition that I also take on a teaching assistant role. It was intense, but I said yes. It felt like everything I wanted was finally within reach.”
“Nice.” Jean-Luc looks impressed. “And which university did you graduate from? I can’t recall.”
“Uhm—” I hesitate, the syllable sticking in my throat. Of all the credentials on my CV, that one name still feels like a stain I can't scrub clean. The university has the worst reputation in the country. I open my mouth, then close it again, silently cursing the heat crawling up my neck.
“Belval. Isn’t that right, Professor?”
I gape across the table in surprise. The guy from before is no longer on his phone. He’s watching me now, dark eyes glimmering with amusement. His blazer, tailored and dark, mirrors the tousled strands of his raven hair—slicked back on the sides, messy on top. A crisp white shirt hugs his chest, hinting at the hard lines beneath. His face is all angles, high cheekbones, a square jaw, lips full and wet from the rim of his wineglass. One eyebrow arches in challenge. There’s something familiar about him.
Jean-Luc blinks in surprise, then lets out a low chuckle. “How did you know?” He asks, clearly amused and more than a little proud.
“It says so on his blazer.” He points his glass at my chest, the fabric of his jacket straining around his biceps that tighten and flex when he leans back. Landing a hand through his hair, he smirks.
“Typical of you to see the details. Professor, please meet my son, Louis.”
My cheeks blush from embarrassment. It’s such a small detail, the pin embroidered into the material, that I believed no one would notice. Now I feel ridiculous attending this dinner wearing a suit from my previous employer. But it’s the nicest one I have.
“Nice to meet you, Louis Deveraux.” I taste his name on my tongue and stretch my hand out over the table.
Louis just smiles at me, holding my hand a little longer than necessary. “Nice to meet you too, Professor. I don’t follow Sociology but perhaps I should.”
“Yes, you should,” Jean-Luc agrees with a grin. “You’ll turn my boy into a motivated student.”
I force a smile. Something about the phrasing makes my skin tighten.
The waiters begin serving the first course, and conversation shifts to small talk and wine pairings. All through dinner I feel Louis’s attention on me. I feel it when he’s on his phone, bored and obnoxiously sexy. I feel it when he flirts with the waiter. I feel it when he watches me, unbothered and direct. I still wonder why he looks so familiar, but then these past weeks have been crazy. Being back here in Saint-Laurent has brought a blanket filled with dust that should have been locked up in the closet with skeletons. A reunion, a funeral, a job.
As if stitching new roles over the old ones could stop me from unraveling.
More wine flows. I’ve excused myself a few rounds before, per usual, skin itching as I’m reaching the limit of attention span for social gatherings. Unfortunately, French dinners can last for hours. Finishing yet another glass of water, I excuse myself and head for the toilets, grinning when I check the message from my baby sister.
Melody: Still alive over there?
I reply.
Me: Barely
My phone pings immediately.
Melody: Want me to pick you up?
I don’t reply right away.
