“I'm not alone. I have you.”
Something flickered across her face. Too quick to read. “You shouldn't have to rely on me. Shouldn't have to sneak and hide and lie.” Her hand found mine. Squeezed. “You deserve better than this.”
“I deserve what I've earned.” I squeezed back. “And you've been earning it with me. Covering for me. Risking everything to keep me safe.”
“That's what family does.” She said it simply. Like it explained everything. “You're all I have, Sebastian. You and your father. This palace. You've been my family since I was seven years old. Since my parents died and your mother took me in.”
“I remember.” I did. Remembered her moving into the room next to mine. Remembered her becoming the sister I'd never had. “She loved you.”
“She loved everyone.” Élodie's voice went soft. Distant. “That's what made her dangerous to the wrong people. All that love. All that compassion. All that belief that people were fundamentally good.”
“You think that's what got her killed?”
“I think someone saw weakness where there was only strength.” She released my hand. Stood. Moved to the window. “Your mother believed the world could be better. That people deserved second chances. That mercy was power.” She touched the glass. “Maybe if she'd been harder. More suspicious. More willing to see enemies instead of potential allies...”
“She'd still be dead. Just more bitter about it.”
Élodie laughed. Hollow. “Maybe. Or maybe she'd have seen the knife coming.”
The words settled like lead in my gut. Because she was right. Because my mother's kindness had made her vulnerable. Because love and trust were weapons other people used to destroy you.
“Is that why you do this?” I asked. “Why you cover for me? Because you learned from her mistakes?”
“I cover for you because I love you. Because you're the only family I have left.” She turned from the window. “And because someone needs to keep you alive long enough to actually make a difference instead of dying in some warehouse because you're too stubborn to accept help.”
The intercom chimed, formal and soft. My father's voice, smoke and gravel. “His Majesty requests your presence, Your Highness.”
Élodie's expression shifted. Professional mask sliding into place. “You should shower. Get dressed. Try to look less like you spent the night fighting a small war.”
“No promises.”
“Liar,” she said. But there was affection in it. The same affection that had carried us through eighteen years of friendship. “I'll tell your father you'll be there in fifteen minutes. That gives you time to clean up and rehearse whatever excuse you're planning to use for the bruises.”
“Kitchen accident.”
“You don't cook.”
“Tripped over Apollo.”
“Apollo is perfectly trained and never in the way.”
“Aggressive doorknob?”
She almost smiled. “Work on it. Your father's not stupid.” She moved toward the door, paused with her hand on the handle. “Sebastian?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful today. Marcel is visiting. He's been asking questions about security protocols. About your schedule. About gaps in coverage.” Her eyes met mine. Serious. Warning. “I don't trust him.”
“You don't trust anyone.”
“I trust you. That's enough.” She opened the door. “And I trust that you're smart enough to know when something feels wrong. If Marcel corners you. If he asks about your movements. If anything feels off?—“
“I'll tell you.”
“Good.” She glanced back at the television screen. Akintola's face still frozen there. Patient. Waiting. “And Sebastian? Maybe take a night off. Let the city survive without you for once.”
She left before I could respond. Door closing with a soft click that felt final.
