Chapter 2 BEST OF TWO
1357 Words
CHAPTER TWO
BEST OF TWO
The papers scattered across the pavement.
The young man immediately reached for her arm as she stumbled.
“Je suis désolé! I’m so sorry.”
Élise steadied herself.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He looked genuinely concerned.
“I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“I noticed.”
He laughed.
“Fair.”
He crouched to collect the pages.
Élise helped him.
When she picked up one of them, she glanced at the page.
“Is this a script?”
“Yes.”
She handed it back.
“You don’t like it.”
He looked surprised.
“How did you know?”
“You’ve been insulting it for the past five minutes.”
He laughed.
“I was not.”
“You called the main character an idiot.”
“I stand by that.”
Élise smiled.
He gathered the remaining pages.
“So you read?”
She nodded.
“A lot.”
“What kind?”
“Almost everything.”
“That’s vague.”
“It’s because I don’t really have one favorite.”
He tilted his head.
“Then what do you like?”
Élise thought for a moment.
“Stories that make you forget you’re reading.”
His expression changed slightly.
“Explain.”
She shrugged.
“I like books that don’t feel like someone is trying too hard to impress you. Give me characters who feel real. People who make bad decisions, say the wrong things, regret things, fall in love at the worst possible time…”
He smiled.
“You like romance.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You described romance.”
“I described good writing.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A big one.”
He laughed.
“Okay. Then what makes a good book?”
Élise looked toward the street.
“A story that leaves something behind after you’ve finished it.”
He waited.
She continued.
“Sometimes it’s a character. Sometimes it’s a feeling. Sometimes it’s just one sentence you keep thinking about days later.”
The young man’s smile faded into something more thoughtful.
“I like that.”
“Most people don’t.”
“Most people aren’t talking about books with me.”
“Maybe you’re talking to the wrong people.”
He laughed again.
“You’re interesting.”
“That’s debatable.”
“No, it’s not.”
He looked at her for a moment.
“What do you write?”
Élise hesitated.
“Nothing published.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She smiled.
“I write stories.”
“Novels?”
“Sometimes.”
“Have you ever finished one?”
“Almost.”
“Almost?”
“I always convince myself the ending isn’t good enough.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“Because unfinished stories don’t get the chance to become good.”
She looked at him.
“That sounds like something a writer would say.”
“Maybe I read enough to pretend.”
She smiled.
Her phone suddenly rang.
Élise glanced at the screen.
The hospital.
She immediately stood.
“I’m sorry. I have to take this.”
“Of course.”
She answered the call.
“Hello?”
Her expression changed as she listened.
“Is she okay?”
The young man watched her face.
“I’ll be there.”
She ended the call and hurriedly gathered her bag.
“I have to go.”
“Wait.”
He reached into his pocket.
“I could give you my—”
Her phone rang again.
She looked at it.
“I’m sorry.”
Then she hurried away.
The young man stood there, holding the card he had almost given her.
He watched until she disappeared into the crowd.
Then he looked down at the pages scattered across the bench.
He smiled faintly.
He hadn’t even gotten her number.
He didn’t know her last name.
He didn’t know where she lived.
He knew only three things.
Her name was Élise.
She loved books.
And she had a way of talking about stories that made him want to hear more.
He slipped the card back into his pocket.
Perhaps Paris would give him another chance.
He had no idea that the woman who had just walked away from him would soon become one of the most important people in his life.
And Élise had no idea that the stranger she had just met was Théo Beaumont—the man who ran Maison Aveline.
The same publishing house where she had just submitted another application.
She had no idea.
Not yet.
⸻
SURROGACY OPPORTUNITY — PRIVATE INTERNATIONAL PROGRAM
She frowned.
She almost scrolled past it. It was an i********: ad she had seen before.
Then she saw the compensation. It felt like a scam; things like these were everywhere.
Up to €50,000.
“Wait!”
Élise stared at the screen.
“That’s too good to be true.”
She read the advertisement again.
* Qualified candidates.
* Medical supervision.
* Private accommodation where necessary.
* Full pregnancy-related expenses covered.
* Significant financial compensation upon completion.
Her fingers went still.
Fifty thousand euros could clear her grandmother’s hospital debt.
The remaining money could change everything.
She could get her grandmother proper long-term care. She could return to school. She could stop working two exhausting jobs. She could finally buy the equipment she needed to write seriously.
She could breathe.
Élise locked her phone.
Then unlocked it again.
She opened the advertisement.
It’s just nine months.
She stared at those words.
Nine months.
That was all.
She wouldn’t have to love anyone.
She wouldn’t have to become part of anyone’s family.
She would carry a baby, receive the money, and go back to her life.
Simple.
At least, that was what she told herself.
Her thumb hovered over the application button.
She almost closed it.
Then she thought of Marguerite lying in that hospital bed.
She thought of the bills.
She thought of how tired she was of saying, “I’ll find a way,” when she had no idea what that way would be.
She pressed the button.
The form appeared.
Name. Age. Contact information. Medical history.
She filled everything in carefully, reading each question twice before answering.
When she reached the final page, she hesitated.
This was no longer an advertisement she could scroll past.
It was a decision.
Élise took a slow breath and submitted the application.
For a few seconds, she simply stared at the confirmation screen.
Then she locked her phone.
“What am I doing?”
She whispered the question to an empty kitchen.
The kettle clicked off.
Élise poured the hot water into her cup and watched the steam rise.
Outside, the weather was chilly, but the evening still looked bright through the window.
She picked up her phone again.
Two applications in one week.
One for the publishing job she had dreamed about.
One for an opportunity she had never imagined considering.
She gave a nervous little laugh.
“Who knows which one will work?”
She had no idea that one of them would change her life completely.
She read the words again, slower.
Private accommodation.
Medical supervision.
Pregnancy-related expenses.
Fifty thousand euros.
The number refused to leave her mind.
She imagined Marguerite’s account without another overdue notice. She imagined walking into the hospital without calculating every euro in her bank account before asking a doctor a question.
She imagined sleeping for more than a few hours without worrying about the next shift.
For once, money would not be something she had to chase.
It would be something waiting for her.
But then another thought came.
A baby.
Her stomach tightened.
She knew pregnancy was not a small thing. Nine months was a long time to carry someone else’s child, no matter how simple the advertisement made it sound.
Still, the possibility remained.
Fifty thousand euros.
Enough to change everything.
Élise stared at the screen for another moment.
Then she whispered, “Maybe I should just look into it.”
And this time, she clicked.
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