Chapter 3: The Demanding Publisher
2433words
"You look like you're going to a funeral, not a meeting," Marie comments from the doorway, coffee mug in hand. "It's just Alexandre Durand, not the devil himself."
I almost laugh. In my memories, Alexandre Durand had become something of a devil—the harsh critic whose standards I couldn't meet, the first in a long line of men who made me doubt my artistic voice. But now, with fifteen years of perspective, I wonder if I'd misremembered, misinterpreted.
"I want to look serious," I reply, pinning my hair into a loose chignon. "Professional."
Marie snorts. "Chérie, he doesn't want professional. He wants exceptional. That's why he called you."
I meet my own eyes in the mirror. Exceptional. Not a word anyone had used to describe me or my art in years. In my first life, I'd settled for "nice" paintings that matched Tom's clients' sofas.
"You're right," I say, unpinning my hair and letting it fall in waves around my shoulders. I unbutton the top two buttons of my dress, not enough to be provocative but enough to look less constrained. "Better?"
Marie grins. "Much. Now you look like an artist, not an accountant."
I carefully select five pieces for my portfolio—the stormy seascape I'd worked on all night to finish, two Parisian street scenes with unusual perspectives, a portrait of an elderly woman at Luxembourg Gardens, and a small, intimate study of hands intertwined. The last one is new—something I created in the early hours of this morning, drawing from memories of passion that my twenty-year-old self shouldn't possess.
As I slide them into my portfolio case, a memory surfaces—my first meeting with Alexandre Durand, nearly forgotten beneath years of suburban boredom.
---
*Six months earlier, the École des Beaux-Arts auditorium. Alexandre Durand stood at the front, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that emphasized his tall, lean frame. At thirty-five, he was already legendary in the publishing world—the young heir who had transformed his family's traditional publishing house into a powerhouse of artistic innovation while maintaining its literary prestige.*
*"I'm not interested in technical proficiency alone," he told the room full of eager art students. "I can find technicians anywhere. I'm looking for artists who have something to say. Who aren't afraid to provoke, to challenge, to reveal."*
*His gray eyes had scanned the room, intense and searching. When they landed on me, I felt exposed, as if he could see every doubt, every fear, every compromise I'd ever made.*
*Later, when he reviewed our portfolios, he spent longer on mine than the others. I'd stood nervously as he flipped through my work, his expression unreadable.*
*"Your technique is excellent, Mademoiselle Bennett," he finally said, his English perfect but tinged with a French accent that made each word sound like a caress. "But where are you in these paintings? I see skill, but no courage."*
*The words had stung like a slap. "I don't understand," I'd stammered.*
*He'd closed my portfolio with decisive hands. "Art without risk is merely decoration. Come back when you're ready to bleed a little on the canvas."*
*I hadn't gone back. Two weeks later, I'd received a form letter saying my work wasn't selected for the illustration project.*
---
The memory makes me wince, but also strengthens my resolve. This time will be different. This time, I know what it means to bleed on the canvas—fifteen years of slow suffocation have taught me that.
"Wish me luck," I tell Marie, slinging my portfolio over my shoulder.
"You don't need luck," she replies with a confidence I wish I shared. "You need courage. And from the look in your eyes today, I think you finally found it."
---
The Durand Publishing House stands on a corner of Rue de Rivoli, a magnificent nineteenth-century building with wrought-iron balconies and tall windows that reflect the afternoon sun. I pause on the sidewalk across the street, taking in its grandeur. How had I forgotten this place? How had I forgotten the way my heart raced at the sight of it, at the possibility it once represented?
I cross the street and push through the heavy doors into a marble-floored lobby. A crystal chandelier hangs from a ceiling adorned with intricate moldings. The walls are lined with framed book covers and illustrations—a gallery of Durand Publishing's artistic legacy.
"May I help you?" The receptionist looks up from her desk, her expression politely disinterested.
"Lily Bennett. I have an appointment with Monsieur Durand at two o'clock."
Her eyebrows lift slightly. "Ah, yes. Eighth floor." She gestures to an ornate elevator at the back of the lobby. "His assistant will meet you."
The elevator ascends smoothly, carrying me toward a confrontation fifteen years in the making—though Alexandre doesn't know that. To him, I'm just another young artist, one he's already dismissed once.
The doors open to reveal a sleek reception area where a woman with a severe bob and red-framed glasses sits behind a modern desk—a stark contrast to the building's historic character.
"Mademoiselle Bennett?" She stands, extending a manicured hand. "Claudine Mercier, Monsieur Durand's executive assistant."
I shake her hand, noting the assessing look she gives me—taking in my loosened hair, my portfolio, my slightly trembling hands.
"You're punctual. He appreciates that." She glances at her watch. "He's finishing a call. Would you like coffee while you wait?"
"No, thank you."
Claudine gestures to a leather sofa. As I sit, she leans closer, lowering her voice. "A word of advice? He's in a mood today. Three illustrators have already left in tears. The deadline for this project is tight, and he's..." she searches for a diplomatic word, "...particular."
My stomach tightens, but I nod gratefully. "Thank you for the heads-up."
"Don't show fear," she adds, straightening. "He can smell it like a shark smells blood."
Before I can respond, a door opens at the end of the hallway. A young man hurries out, clutching a portfolio similar to mine, his face flushed with humiliation. He doesn't make eye contact as he rushes past us to the elevator.
"Number four," Claudine murmurs, returning to her desk. "Mademoiselle Bennett is here, Monsieur," she calls toward the open door.
"Send her in." The voice that responds is deep, commanding, and achingly familiar.
I rise, gripping my portfolio like a shield. Claudine gives me an encouraging nod as I walk past her desk and through the doorway into Alexandre Durand's office.
The space is unexpected—not the sleek, modern executive suite I'd anticipated, but a warm, book-lined room with tall windows overlooking the Tuileries Gardens. One wall is covered with framed illustrations from Durand publications. A massive antique desk dominates the center, covered with manuscripts, art samples, and proofs.
And behind it stands Alexandre Durand.
My breath catches. How had I forgotten the sheer presence of him? Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that shows just a touch of silver at the temples despite his relative youth. His face is all angles—high cheekbones, strong jaw, straight nose. But it's his eyes that hold me captive—storm-gray and penetrating, set beneath straight brows that give him a perpetually serious expression.
In my memories, he'd become a caricature of the harsh critic. The reality is far more dangerous—a man whose intensity radiates from him like heat from a flame.
"Mademoiselle Bennett." He doesn't extend his hand, just gestures to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."
I comply, setting my portfolio on my lap. He remains standing, studying me with those unnerving eyes.
"You didn't return after our last meeting," he says without preamble. "I expected you would."
This surprises me. In my memories, he'd dismissed me completely. "You sent a rejection letter," I reply, finding my voice.
One dark eyebrow arches. "I sent a form letter to those who didn't follow up. It wasn't a rejection; it was a challenge." He sits, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. "One you apparently weren't ready to accept."
Heat rises to my cheeks—not from embarrassment this time, but from a spark of indignation. "Perhaps your challenge wasn't clearly communicated."
His eyes narrow slightly, but I detect something like interest flickering in their depths. "Perhaps not. But you're here now. Show me what you've brought."
I open my portfolio and lay out the five pieces on his desk, arranging them deliberately with the stormy seascape in the center. Alexandre studies each one in silence, his expression giving nothing away. The seconds stretch into minutes, the only sound the ticking of an antique clock on the bookshelf.
Finally, he picks up the seascape, examining it more closely. "This is recent."
"I finished it last night."
"The technique has improved since I last saw your work." He sets it down and picks up the study of intertwined hands. "This too. There's more... conviction in your brushstrokes." His eyes lift to mine. "What changed?"
Everything, I want to say. Fifteen years of regret. A second chance I never expected.
"I stopped being afraid," I say instead.
"Of what?"
"Of being seen." The words come from some deep, honest place within me. "Of revealing too much."
Alexandre leans back in his chair, regarding me with new interest. "And what made you decide to stop hiding, Mademoiselle Bennett?"
"Life is too short for fear," I reply, thinking of the crash, of the years wasted playing it safe. "I realized I'd rather fail boldly than succeed timidly."
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of recognition, as if I've said something that resonates with him personally. He stands abruptly, moving to the window with his back to me.
"I'm working on a new project," he says, gazing out at the gardens below. "A limited edition collection of classic French literature with original illustrations. Five volumes, to be released simultaneously in six months."
"Six months for five volumes?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice. "That's an impossible timeline."
He turns, and I'm startled to see a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I don't believe in impossible, Mademoiselle Bennett. Merely in those willing to attempt the extraordinary and those who are not." He returns to his desk, pulling a contract from a drawer. "I want you for this project."
I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "Me? But you just said my technique has only 'improved.' That's hardly a ringing endorsement."
"I don't need perfect technique. I need authenticity. Your seascape—" he taps the painting, "—has something the others who've come through that door today lack. Honesty. Emotional truth." His eyes hold mine. "You're still holding back, but there's potential. I want to see what you're afraid to show."
The echo of his words from our first meeting sends a shiver down my spine. But this time, instead of feeling crushed by his assessment, I feel challenged. Seen.
"The deadline is aggressive," he continues, sliding the contract toward me. "You would need to work exclusively on this project. No other commissions, no gallery submissions. Complete dedication."
I glance at the contract, my eyes widening at the compensation figure. It's generous—far more than a young artist could typically expect.
"Why me?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. "There must be dozens of more established artists eager for this opportunity."
Alexandre's gaze is steady, assessing. "Established artists come with established habits. Established limitations." He leans forward. "You're on the edge of something, Mademoiselle Bennett. I can see it in your work. The question is whether you're brave enough to leap."
The challenge in his words ignites something in me—a determination I'd forgotten I once possessed. In my first life, I'd backed away from this precipice, chosen the safer path that led to Tom, to Connecticut, to slow artistic death.
"I accept," I say, reaching for the contract.
Alexandre looks momentarily surprised, as if he'd expected more resistance. Then he smiles—a genuine smile that transforms his severe features, making him suddenly, dangerously handsome.
"Excellent." He hands me a pen. "The first volume is Victor Hugo's 'Les Misérables.' I'll need concept sketches by the end of the week."
As I sign my name, I feel a strange sense of destiny realigning. This moment—this choice—is where everything changed the first time. Where I began the long retreat from my artistic ambitions.
Not this time.
I hand him back the signed contract, our fingers brushing briefly. An unexpected current passes between us, and I see his eyes darken slightly.
"I look forward to seeing what you create, Lily," he says, using my first name for the first time. The way he pronounces it—"Lee-lee"—makes it sound like a different name entirely, something exotic and unfamiliar.
As I gather my portfolio, my grandmother's locket shifts against my skin, the chain catching the light. Alexandre's gaze drops to it, and his expression changes so dramatically that I freeze.
"That necklace," he says, his voice suddenly tight. "Where did you get it?"
"It was my grandmother's," I reply, confused by his reaction. "A family heirloom."
He stares at the locket for a long moment, something like recognition flickering in his eyes before his expression smooths into professional detachment once more.
"It's unusual," he says, his tone carefully neutral. "Bring your preliminary sketches on Friday, nine o'clock. Don't be late."
The abrupt dismissal catches me off guard. "Of course. Thank you for this opportunity."
He nods once, already turning his attention to papers on his desk. "Claudine will see you out."
As I leave his office, I touch the locket, still warm against my skin. Alexandre Durand had recognized it—I'm certain of it. But how? What connection could he possibly have to my grandmother's necklace?
The mystery of his reaction follows me into the elevator, down through the ornate lobby, and out onto the sunlit street. But stronger than the mystery is a sense of exhilaration I haven't felt in years.
I've taken the first step on a new path. One where I don't retreat from challenge but embrace it. One where Alexandre Durand's demanding standards push me toward greatness instead of driving me toward safety.
One where I might finally discover what I'm truly capable of creating—and becoming.
The locket pulses warmly against my skin, as if in approval. Choose wisely this time, the mysterious note had said. And for the first time in fifteen years, I believe I have.
