The law office of Laurent & Associates nestled in a Haussmann-era building off the Avenue Montaigne, its facade a blend of wrought-iron balconies and polished brass plaques.
Eleanor arrived on foot from her penthouse, the late afternoon sun dipping toward the Seine, casting elongated shadows that mirrored her resolve.
The divorce papers had been drafted weeks ago, amid the scandals fallout and Victor's coma, but filing them now felt like severing the final thread.
Her coat hugged tight against the autumn chill, the locket a subtle weight in her pocket, cravings subdued for once by the sharp focus of liberation.
The receptionist, a poised woman in her forties, pearls gleaming, escorted her to Maître Laurent's office without fanfare.
oak-paneled walls lined with leather bound tomes,
