**A PARIS VALENTINE **

**Chapter Fourteen: Apologies and Regrets **

Monique sat at her desk, staring blankly at her computer screen. The office had quieted down now that the bulk of the day had passed, yet the tension lingered like a thick fog. She could feel it pressing against her chest—the whispers, the stares, the subtle looks of judgment that had followed her since morning. She hadn’t said a word. She had tried to work through it, focusing on the files, the fabrics, the designs she knew by heart—but the weight of everyone noticing, everyone questioning her, had finally begun to seep into her thoughts.

Her hands hovered above the keyboard, and she exhaled slowly. She didn’t even realize that tears had formed at the corners of her eyes. Then the office door clicked open, and Jean stepped in. The familiar presence made her heart skip, though she told herself to ignore it.

“Monique,” he said quietly, yet there was a firmness in his tone that immediately pulled her attention.

She looked up, trying to compose herself.

“I… I came to apologize on behalf of the employees,” Jean continued, his eyes steady, direct, unwavering. “They’ve been… unprofessional. And I’m sorry you had to experience that today.”

Monique felt a strange warmth spread across her chest. For a moment, she wanted to respond, to tell him it wasn’t necessary, that she could handle herself. But the honesty in his voice disarmed her.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Jean nodded, then, with an unexpected calmness, added, “I’d like to make it up to you… in a way. Maybe a small dinner? Disguised as business, if you prefer. A chance to clear the air, just the two of us.”

Monique blinked. Her heart raced. She wasn’t sure if this was inappropriate or kind or—dangerous. But she simply nodded. “Okay… thank you.”

He smiled briefly and left her desk, leaving a flutter of nerves in his wake. Monique exhaled deeply and tried to focus on the documents in front of her, but the edges of the papers blurred. She could feel every glance that had landed on her throughout the day, the weight of judgment and curiosity, and now a spark of something else—a pull she couldn’t quite name.

Home and Honest Tears

Later that evening, Monique returned home. The ride on her motorbike had done little to calm the storm inside her. As she entered the house, Aunt Amy and her mother were waiting, concern etched deeply into their faces.

“What’s wrong, Monique?” Aunt Amy asked, stepping forward, her tone gentle yet firm.

Monique hesitated, gripping the straps of her bag tightly. Her throat felt thick, and for the first time that day, she let herself sink into the reality of what had happened.

“I… I regret not going to school,” she said, voice cracking. “I regret that we were poor. That we—” She paused, choking on the words. “Now everyone at the office knows. I don’t know how they know.”

Her mother froze. “Does Madam Juliet know?” she asked immediately, panic lacing her voice.

Monique shook her head quickly. “No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t know my second name… or anything about me really. I have no proper documentation. No papers.”

Her mother’s shoulders relaxed fractionally, but she remained tense, eyes darting to Aunt Amy for reassurance.

Monique sank onto her bed, covering her face with her hands as tears ran freely. Aunt Amy came to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay, child,” Aunt Amy whispered. “You’re talented. They cannot take that away from you.”

Monique let the words wash over her but didn’t respond immediately. She felt small, fragile, but also oddly exposed. She pulled her phone out, scrolling absentmindedly, her thumb hovering over Jean’s name. She wanted to see if he had reached out, wanted to see the words he might have sent, the way he might check on her.

Meanwhile, in another part of the city, Jean paused over his own phone. He hesitated before unlocking it, staring at her name on the screen. Part of him wanted to call, to make sure she was okay, to hear her voice, even for a few seconds. Another part restrained him, reminding him to tread carefully, to respect her space, to not push too quickly.

The Dinner That Wasn’t Yet

Jean had promised the dinner as a gesture, but it hadn’t happened yet. The thought of it lingered in both of their minds. In Monique’s, it was a cautious curiosity, a whisper of anticipation that she told herself not to heed. In Jean’s, it was a responsibility, a test of patience—but also a reminder of how far he was willing to go to protect her from scrutiny, from judgment, from those who would doubt her worth.

Back at the company, Juliet had been watching the unfolding day with a carefully hidden rage. She noted Jean’s behavior, the way he had stood in Monique’s defense, the subtle glances he sent, the small acts of attention that were not necessary but clearly personal.

Juliet’s lips pressed into a thin line.

How dare he? she thought. This girl is nothing. A poor, uneducated girl. And he dares… dares to protect her, to care for her, to—

Her hands tightened on the edge of her desk. The private investigator’s reports, the background checks, the vague information she had gathered—all of it painted Monique as a risk, a threat, a mistake. And yet, Jean’s actions today had shown that he was already ignoring it. Already letting his instincts guide him.

“I appreciate her for her designs,” Juliet murmured, her voice low, bitter, almost to herself. “Unique. Promising. But I will not tolerate a poor girl into our family. I will not be that stupid.”

Her mind raced. We’ve worked too hard. Too long. This cannot happen. I will not allow it.

Private Moments of Reflection

Monique lay in bed later, staring at her phone in silence. She scrolled through contacts, work messages, and notifications but kept returning to one name: Jean. Her chest fluttered inexplicably at the thought of him, the defense, the apology, the dinner that had been promised. She didn’t know why, but she felt… noticed. Seen. Protected. And it terrified her, because she had vowed never to let anyone close.

Across the city, Jean hovered over his phone, doing the same. Every message from Monique was a possibility. Every notification a risk. His instincts told him she was vulnerable, yes—but more than that, extraordinary. And it irritated him that anyone would dare question her, or belittle her, or see her as anything less than she was.

Meanwhile, Juliet sat at her own table, wine untouched, eyes narrowed. She had a plan. She would observe. She would wait. Every moment, every interaction, every glance between Jean and Monique was a thread in a net she would tighten slowly.

Because the attraction was already there. Even if Jean didn’t fully realize it yet.

And Juliet had never let anything—or anyone—interfere with the life she had meticulously built for her family.9