Their love meant something; Judy clung on to that through all the years ahead, until Sophie Massot showed up, tore the scars from her wounds, and set her heart bleeding again.

At first Judy had not been able to see her way. But Sophie Massot had now given her the opportunity, and she would not need asking twice.

She saw the little café on the corner of rue Tabac. Jacques, the owner, was outside, serving a customer; he saw Judy and waved cheerfully.

She smiled and waved back. It occurred to her, depressingly, that these relationships, with waiters, people who served her every day, were the closest she came to friendships.

Judy Dean had trusted nobody for years.

She shrugged her cardigan round her shoulder. She would not think of anything depressing today. Today, she was going to change her life and bring the Massot nightmare to an end.

Judy was ready to move on.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” said Jacques, flatteringly. “Très belle aujourd’hui.”

He kissed his fingertips, extravagantly.

“Merci.” Judy took her seat at an outside table for two. She did not have to be ashamed of sitting alone, she thought; a pretty woman never was.

Jacques brought her usual breakfast. Sweet, milky coffee—so good—and a warm, buttery croissant, flaky and delicious. Judy refused cheeses and meats. Not this morning; it was all she could do to manage the croissant. She was nervous, in a delightful way. This might be the last day she would have to dance attendance on Sophie.

And then, finally, she was going to take back control. She would bring House Massot crashing down, and all her tormentors with it.

“Good morning, Judy.” Sophie Massot gave her a businesslike smile that annoyed Judy intensely. One staff meeting and the housewife thought she was a Harvard MBA.

“Hi,” Judy responded.

“You look very pretty this morning,” Sophie said.

“So do you,” Judy lied. She thought Sophie looked tired; the black dress and jacket she had chosen today just showed up the pallor in her face, and there were no pearls to soften her complexion. “You know, I think we shouldn’t bother with a press release.”

“Oh?” Sophie leaned back in her chair, one groomed eyebrow raised enquiringly.

“Yes,” Judy said confidently. “You see, your strategy is all about luxury, haute couture. I think a press release would trivialize it.”

“You may have a point there.”

“I can give the press background briefings instead.”

“Sounds good.”

Of course it does. A press release Sophie would see; it would have to be positive. Unlike the poison Judy was pouring into the fascinated ears of her press contacts: off-the-record tidbits about costs and waste, about the insane whims of a spoiled woman, somebody who had dismissed, to date, about three hundred Frenchmen from their jobs—men with families to support. . . .

“Tell me what you think of this,” Sophie said.

She slid a heavy envelope across the mahogany desk. Despite herself, Judy was curious.