“Never better.” He spooned up a little more puree. He was free, entirely free. All of a sudden Montfort felt a great rush of gratitude. “It’s a beautiful summer day in Paris, and I can do whatever I like. You’ve finished, Elizabeth. Can I tempt you with some pudding? They make a vanilla cake with bitter almond cream that’s absolutely sensational.”

“Thank you. I’d like that,” said Elizabeth. She still wasn’t sure about Hugh. Maybe it would hit him later. He’d just been fired, and yet he was sitting here smiling like it was his birthday.

“And then I’ll drive you to the airport and send you home. First class.”

“That’s very kind,” Elizabeth said.

He was gorgeous, so gorgeous. She couldn’t blame the other girls. She would miss working for him, but . . .

Elizabeth glanced down at her wedding ring and thought of her lovely dependable Jack, and felt more than a bit disloyal.

Yes, maybe it was all for the best.

“Here, here, Madame.”

Sophie looked up to see Celine, smiling and laying another article on her desk. “The agency just sent this over.”

She scanned it quickly, and nodded. “Very good.”

The latest piece was from Women’s Wear Daily in New York, the latest glowing review of the new haute couture collection, the pieces in the Fifth Avenue store were racing out the door.

“There are new stories every day.”

Sophie nodded. She’d hired Burston-Marseller, the PR giant, to handle her press for now; they were expensive, but they were also doing an outstanding job. The afterglow from the party was constantly fanned into fresh flames, and they’d told her the good coverage would last until the stockholders’ meeting.

“That’s wonderful, Celine.”

In truth, it felt a bit flat. She’d been busy, but even the chaos of the last few days—ordering more stock as fast as the Brandts and their apprentices could turn it out, managing the press, talking to analysts—even that could not banish the shock of Judy from her mind.

Well, not Judy—Pierre.

Judy didn’t matter. She was just a bitter ex-mistress. Sophie was determined to forget her, and simply to resolve never to trust anybody so easily again. That was her own fault; she hadn’t learned from Gregoire.

But her husband . . .

That was humiliation, real humiliation; it had been with her every time she closed her eyes to sleep, and every moment she woke up. She imagined that every woman in the Massot offices was discussing it; she imagined it was the talk of all Paris.

And she, Sophie, had been blind; hadn’t suspected . . .

Hadn’t cared?

When Pierre had to “work late” she’d never murmured. Never questioned. And now she had to ask herself why.