Apart from the last, it was these assets that Hugh Montfort wanted. It made House Massot a takeover target. There was a shareholders’ meeting in three months, and Sophie knew exactly what would happen; word of the disaster behind the serene grey facade of their offices would leak out. The share price would plunge. Hugh Montfort would make a bargain-basement offer, acquire Massot for a song, be the big hero, she reflected bitterly; and her son’s inheritance would be decimated, while her husband’s life’s work would be lost forever.

She was not about to let that happen. Sophie was determined. She would save the company, fight off Montfort, restore House Massot to glory, and leave Tom what Pierre had intended for him.

The place to start, as ever, was with people she could trust.

The last report was delivered to Sophie on a Monday morning. By the time she closed the slim blue file, she had already determined what to do.

She picked up the phone and called down to reception.

“Good morning, Madame.”

“Celine,” Sophie said, glancing at the personnel list in front of her. “Could you come up to my office a moment?”

There was a quick intake of breath—the girl was frightened. But she said “Certainly Madame,” meekly. The receptionist’s manners had greatly improved, ever since that first day, and Sophie had been kind to her, always smiling at her and wishing her a good morning. Even before she’d fired Gregoire, Sophie had seen gratitude, real gratitude, in the girl’s eyes.

The knock on the door came promptly, less than a minute later.

“Come in,” Sophie said.

Celine Bousset, the receptionist, entered Sophie’s office timidly and stood in front of her, eyes lowered. She was wearing a smart, simple shift dress in dusky pink, with a matching cardigan, neat pearl studs, and flat shoes. Sophie noted the hair in a formal pleat, the rose pink nails, her groomed eyebrows. She had mentioned to Celine once that dress was as important as manner when you sat on reception, and since then, the girl had striven to dress well, on her limited budget.

Sophie appreciated it. Celine was making an effort. It was more than you could say for half the vice presidents in the company.

“Please sit down,” she said.

The girl sat, opened her mouth, then thought better of it.

“Don’t worry.” Sophie smiled at her. “I’m not going to fire you.”

She breathed out a ragged sigh of relief. Sophie thought there were even tears prickling in her eyes. She recalled Celine’s panic on the first day, when she’d thought she was going to get fired, how she’d pled that she needed the money.

“I have a lot of work to do here, Celine.” Sophie glanced out of her window, Gregoire’s old window, to the fine view of rue Tricot, basking in the summer heat. “And not a lot of time.”