Chapter 7 – The Wall That No Longer Stands Firm

Two days after their garden conversation, Claire received a message from someone who hadn't appeared in her life for nearly five years: Alban Reeve. A former colleague and her first business partner when establishing the southern Lyon restaurant branch. The man had once been sharp, ambitious, and too bold—two of many reasons Claire had ultimately parted ways with him.

The message was simple yet unsettling:

> *"Heard your house isn't as quiet as it used to be, Claire. Let's meet. There's something you might want to hear... before those walls come crashing down."*

Claire read it three times. Then deleted it. Yet the words lingered in her mind all morning.

---

Meanwhile, Elliot sat at the dining table doing homework, his hair still damp from a shower, ink stains on his shirt collar. Emilia occasionally passed by while cleaning, but the boy remained undisturbed.

Claire descended the stairs quietly, dressed in a pale cream work coat and flawlessly polished shoes. Yet Elliot noticed—her expression was different today.

"Not eating breakfast?" he asked without looking up.

"I'm not hungry," Claire replied curtly.

"You're never really hungry. But you always drink two cups of coffee every morning," he remarked with a small smile.

Claire paused. "Today... I don't want coffee."

Elliot watched her walk toward the door, then asked:

"Are you going somewhere unusual?"

Claire turned. "Meaning?"

"Your face... looks like someone who knows they're about to hear something they don't want to."

Claire didn't answer. But her gaze confirmed his intuition wasn't wrong.

---

The meeting with Alban Reeve took place at an old restaurant in Saint-Amour district, where they'd once discussed expansion plans that never materialized. Claire arrived precisely on time, sitting silently at the innermost table, waiting without touching the menu.

Alban appeared ten minutes late. More gray-haired than she remembered. But his smile remained the same—the smile of someone who always wielded information as a weapon.

"I've heard things... about that boy," Alban said without preamble.

Claire didn't flinch. "Which boy?"

"The one living in your house. Elliot."

Claire remained expressionless.

Alban leaned back. "I just wonder... do you truly not recognize him, Claire?"

"Explain."

Alban's gaze intensified. "Because... that boy, Claire, is the son of the woman who destroyed your family."

The world seemed to freeze. Even the clinking of cutlery around them faded from Claire's hearing. She stared at Alban unblinkingly.

"I don't believe in such stories," she said calmly.

"This isn't a story. It's documentation. His mother's name... Fiona Delrae. She worked at your father's company. She—"

"Enough." Claire's voice was ice.

Alban fell silent.

Claire stood slowly. "Whatever his past, he didn't choose it. Neither did I. And if your only reason for contacting me is to dredge up old wounds, this will be the last message you ever send."

Then she left. Leaving the man amidst his stifled breath and poorly concealed shock.

---

That night, Claire sat alone on the upstairs balcony. She gazed at the sky—not with tranquility, but with restrained unease.

Elliot didn't appear tonight. No footsteps, no chocolate aroma. And inexplicably, Claire felt the absence.

When she finally went inside, she found something at her study door—a small note in Elliot's handwriting:

> *"Sorry if I've been talking too much lately. If you ever need space, I understand. But... I won't leave. Unless you ask me to."*

Claire crumpled the note. Not in anger, but because she didn't know how to feel.

The walls she'd built so perfectly... were beginning to tremble.

And for the first time, Claire—the woman who always knew direction, boundaries, when to let go—found herself without a compass.

---

Claire tucked Elliot's note into her desk drawer. She didn't tear it up or discard it. Just slipped it between documents—as if wanting to hide it yet keep it close.

That night, she attempted to work as usual. But her eyes only stared blankly at the screen. Data, numbers, charts—all blurred beneath the weight of Elliot's words: *"I won't leave. Unless you ask me to."*

She didn't know when the boy had learned to write with such depth, such... intimacy.

And somehow, Claire found she never truly wanted to ask him to leave.

---

The next morning, the house was quiet again. But not comfortably so. Emilia served breakfast slower than usual, and Henri didn't open the door for Claire as he normally would.

Claire descended the stairs, her steps light yet unhurried. When she reached the dining room, Elliot was already seated—wearing a jacket instead of his uniform, his hair slightly tousled, his expression more serious than she'd ever seen.

"I'm not going to school today," he announced first.

Claire pulled out a chair, sitting slowly. "Why?"

Elliot shrugged. "Something's more important. I think we need to talk."

Claire didn't respond immediately. Her hand reached for the coffee cup but didn't lift it.

"People are starting to notice I live here. I hear whispers at school. Some teachers ask... if I'm really your adopted child."

Claire's gaze lifted.

"I didn't answer them. Because I don't know the answer myself," Elliot continued.

The atmosphere turned cold. But unlike before, this was a fragile cold—like walls awaiting one final touch before collapsing.

"If I'm burdening you," Elliot said quietly, "just say so. But don't stay silent. I understand rejection better than hints."

Claire exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.

"I'm not rejecting you," she said at last. "I just don't know yet... whether you came into my life as comfort or reminder."

Elliot lowered his head. "Reminder?"

"Yes. Of a past I wanted to forget. Of wounds I never healed."

Elliot didn't speak. But Claire knew he was listening.

"Someone came to see me yesterday," Claire continued. "Someone trying to connect you to my history."

Elliot's posture stiffened.

"Her name was Fiona Delrae. Do you know who that is?"

Elliot closed his eyes briefly. "I've... heard the name. At the orphanage, they never said much. Just once, when I was eight, a volunteer mentioned my mother used to work for some big company owner, then disappeared after a scandal. I never knew what it meant."

Claire studied Elliot's face—now stripped of all pretense. No defenses. No performances.

Just honesty.

"I don't care who your mother was," Claire said calmly. "And I won't let anyone define your worth by someone else's actions."

Elliot seemed to hold his breath.

"But I'll be honest," Claire added. "I don't know how to let someone... stay too long in my life."

Elliot nodded slowly. "And I don't know how to... remain in someone's life... without fearing I'll be thrown out any moment."

Claire set down her cup. Then stood, walking over to Elliot. She placed a hand on his shoulder—for the first time, touching him with full awareness.

"If you choose to stay," she said softly, "then let's learn... how to coexist. Without hurting. Without leaving."

And for the first time, the walls within Claire began crumbling. Not by force. But by realization: Elliot hadn't come as disruption... but as a mirror.

A mirror of wounds. A mirror of loss.

Yet also... a mirror of possibility.