What Remained - The Night Of My Life

Mathieu Lewis's POV

Night fell quietly over Kensington. The sky sealed itself shut — heavy, starless. Inside the villa, the lights went out one by one, like sighs.

Amber fell asleep quickly. Her breath turned steady, almost childlike. I remained lying there, eyes open, body still. The ceiling felt too white, too smooth. Nothing projected onto it.

I got up without a sound.

The floor creaked only faintly beneath my steps. I crossed the hallway, passed the living room, and entered the study. The tablet waited on the desk, resting like an injunction.

I turned it on. The file opened. Charts, projections, internal notes. And then, further down, a document with no title. Just initials: PM.

I clicked.

The text appeared. Dense. No frills. No empty phrases. No slogans. Just a voice. A tension. A way of saying without explaining.

"To export is not to sell. It is to translate. Not to seduce, but to unsettle. Not to adapt, but to resist."

I froze.

I kept reading. Every line felt weighed, carved, withheld. There was silence in this text. And fire.

I didn't know who had written it. But I wanted to.

I scrolled back to the top. In small print, almost faded:

Priscilla Moreau – Editorial Director, Paris

I noted the name. I didn't recognize it. But it resonated.

I reread the final sentence:

"What we export is not a product. It's a posture."

I stayed there, alone, in the blue glow of the screen, with this unknown voice speaking to me as if it already knew.

The Preview Day

The meeting began at precisely nine o'clock, in a glass-walled room at the Mayfair office. The London sky stretched above us, grey, compact, like a silent threat.

Whitmore opened the session. His voice was steady, his tone surgical. He spoke of repositioning, visibility, conquest. Blake, the American investor, added figures, projections, profitability thresholds. Ferraro, in from Milan, spoke of aesthetics, visual codes, necessary ruptures.

I took notes. I nodded. But I wasn't there to comment. I was there to observe. To understand what Paris expected of me.

Then Delorme spoke.

— "Before we get into the details, I want to highlight the work of Priscilla Moreau."

I looked up.

— "She's the one who wrote the editorial note that served as the foundation for our strategy. She heads the editorial division in Paris. What she proposed isn't just a text — it's a posture."

The name meant nothing to me. But something in the way he said it made me pause.

— "She restructured the narrative around our export axes. Italy, Canada, South Asia. She set a tension, a voice. She rejects consensus. She writes to unsettle, not to seduce."

I wrote down her name. Priscilla Moreau. Without knowing why. Just… so I wouldn't forget it.

Delorme continued:

— "She wrote the relaunch manifesto in a single night. The document convinced the committee without a single revision. And she's the one who proposed the idea of a narrative partnership with Hensley — not just a commercial agreement, but a fusion of stories."

I straightened slightly.

— "Will she be here tomorrow?"

Delorme hesitated.

— "She was meant to come. But personal complications kept her in Paris. She sent us her notes. And Althea incorporated them into the program."

I turned my head toward Althea. She said nothing. But her gaze confirmed everything.

I asked:

I turned my head toward Althea. She said nothing. But her gaze confirmed everything.

I asked:

— "May I read that note? The one she wrote."

Delorme nodded.

— "It's part of the confidential file. I'll send it to you after the meeting."

I noted it without comment. But something stirred in me. That name — Priscilla Moreau — meant nothing. And yet, it resonated. Like a thread stretched between two points I couldn't yet connect.

The meeting continued. They spoke of branding, digital strategy, thresholds of engagement. Blake outlined the expectations of the American market. Ferraro insisted on the need for a bold visual gesture. Whitmore concluded with calendar imperatives.

But I was thinking of her.

Not of Amber. Not of Althea.

Of that invisible woman, the one whose words had, it seemed, redefined the posture of an entire company.

I wanted to read what she had written. I wanted to understand what, in her voice, had shifted the lines.

And without knowing why, I sensed that reading it would not be neutral.

Bien sûr, Kolé. Voici la traduction en anglais des deux textes que tu as demandés — la transition marquant la fin de la réunion et la scène privée entre Mathieu et Althea dans son bureau — fidèlement rendus dans un style littéraire, feutré, et tendu :

---

1. End of the Meeting – Transition

The meeting ended without applause, without unnecessary gestures. Files were closed, glasses shifted, glances scattered. Everyone left the room with a kind of choreographed precision — as if silence were part of the protocol.

I returned to my office. The hallway was empty, footsteps had faded. The sky beyond the windows had darkened into a denser grey.

I took off my jacket and laid it over the back of the chair. The confidential folder was there, on the low table, still unopened.

I hadn't read the note yet.

And that's when she knocked.

Two soft taps. Then the door opened.

Althea stepped in.

She walked in quietly, closed the door behind her. The office still held the rhythm of the meeting — open folders, half-full glasses, suspended tension.

— "You wrote down her name."

I turned around.

— "I write down what resists."

She approached, without sitting. She placed her glass on the corner of the desk, like a marker.

— "Priscilla doesn't try to convince. She writes to shift."

I looked at her.

— "And you? Are you defending her?"

— "I defend what holds. What doesn't yield."

She paused, then added:

— "You'll read the text tonight. But don't read it like a report. Read it like a fault line."

I didn't answer. She moved toward the confidential folder, brushed it lightly with her fingertips.

— "She didn't try to please. She tried to say. And sometimes, saying is enough."

I sat down.

— "Why didn't she come?"

— "Because she knows her presence would blur the text. And because we didn't protect her."

I frowned.

— "Protect her from what?"

She didn't answer right away. Then, as she reached the door:

— "From those who confuse posture with strategy."

She left without a sound.

I remained there, alone, in my own office, with that phrase hanging like a riddle.

The folder was there. Closed. Charged.

I reached for it.

---