CHAPTER 1
The Coffee Catastrophe
The Question:What is harder: raising a child alone in a foreign city, or suddenly having the chaos of the father appear?
Paris, 9:00 AM.
Amelie Dubois's life was a perfectly structured chaos. The morning routine—getting her five-year-old daughter, Misha, ready, avoiding burning the croissants, and making the school drop-off—had to be completed by 9:15 AM. Timing was everything for the single mother and struggling event planner.
She finally sank into a tiny café near the 16ème arrondissement, armed with a strong espresso and a file titled, "Amelie Événements: Budget Urgency." She needed to land a massive investor deal by the end of the day, or her small, hard-won company would be shuttered.
Misha, her daughter, tugged at her sleeve, pointing outside the window. "Maman, does that man... does he really look like our Papa?" Amelie's head snapped up.
Outside, leaning against a lamp post, was a man who looked like he'd been dressed by a Parisian designer and then wrestled by a small bear. It was Léo Beaumont.
Léo, the reckless, charming Franco-British billionaire she'd left behind eight years ago after one insanely passionate, yet ultimately catastrophic, weekend in London.
"Absolutely not, Misha," Amelie hissed, trying to sound casual in French. "That man clearly doesn't know how to iron a shirt. And your father... well, he only exists in your imagination."
Léo suddenly turned. His eyes—those same magnetic blue eyes that Amelie had never forgotten—stared straight at her. And then they dropped to Misha.
Misha had a tiny, mischievous dimple that was an exact, genetic replica of the one currently struggling to suppress panic on Léo's face.
Léo's takeaway coffee cup slipped from his hand. It landed perfectly on the front of his very expensive, pristine white shirt, instantly creating a huge, embarrassing brown stain.
Léo didn't look at the mess; he only looked at Misha. His face was a mixture of confusion, shock, and a strange, sudden paternal reverence.
Misha whispered quietly, "Oh. He looks even messier now."
Amelie knew she should grab Misha and run, but Léo's first word, as he stumbled toward their table, stopped her cold.
"You... pourquoi pas là (why not there)?" Léo asked, his English heavily accented with French surprise. His eyes were now fixed on Amelie.
"Which 'there' are you remembering, Léo?" Amelie shot back, building a protective wall around her daughter.
Léo looked back at Misha. "Misha Beaumont," he said, as if confirming a diagnosis. "You should be in the London Library. Why are you in Paris?"
Amelie froze. Misha's middle name was indeed Beaumont, a secret Amelie had carried for years.
"How dare you...!" Amelie started, her voice low and dangerous.
Léo finally wiped the coffee from his cheek. He quickly regained his composure, presenting Amelie with an audacious proposal, delivered with typical chaotic flair.
"I know you're struggling, Amelie. Your company is sinking. I'm here. And I am this girl's father. I will give you a massive event contract. You need to save your company. And I... I need to give Misha the stability and the best of the Beaumont legacy." "You have nothing left to take from me," Amelie asserted.
Léo looked at her, his eyes twinkling. "Yes, I do. I need your daughter's complete trust.
Therefore, we will have a fake engagement. Six months. I'll cover all your expenses from Paris to London. It will be a sacrifice for the mother. And for me—a comedy."
Misha interjected. "Is that man going to be my new assistant, Maman? He is so funny."
Amelie looked at her daughter, and then at this chaotic billionaire. Her company was going under. Her daughter needed a father who was, himself, a giant child. The Mom Agenda forced her hand.
"Six months," Amelie vowed. "But you will not touch my company, my daughter, or my order."
CHAPTER 2
The Volkov Vetting
The Question:How do you keep your ordered life intact when the chaos you've agreed to marry comes with a very judgmental family history?
Paris, Amelie's Apartment, Two Hours Later.
Amelie stared at her daughter's suitcase. She hadn't packed clothes; she had packed a fortress of familiarity. Inside were Misha's favorite worn blanket (critical for naptime), three specific picture books (required for bedtime), and a small emergency binder labeled "Misha Protocols."
Léo, meanwhile, was attempting to close his own suitcase, which appeared to contain a disproportionate amount of crumpled silk scarves and expensive, unidentifiable gadgets.
"I need you to focus, Léo!" Amelie snapped, snatching a passport from a tangle of wires. "We are going to London. Your mother, Lady Isolde Beaumont, is going to be vetting me. I need to be prepared."
Léo finally wrestled his suitcase shut with a grunt. "Maman? Don't worry about Isolde. She only cares about two things: stability and the Beaumont Legacy. You're the stability; Misha is the legacy."
"And what is the legacy, Léo?" Amelie asked, tapping a pen against her emergency notebook. "Besides being chronically late and spilling coffee?"
Léo's eyes finally lost their playful glint, focusing on the notebook. "The legacy is the Talisman of Saint Jude. It's not a dusty relic, Amelie. It's the key to the entire Beaumont financial trust. My mother believes I'm too irresponsible to inherit it, and she's probably right. The board is meeting this week to challenge my competency."
Amelie stopped writing. "So, the fake engagement isn't just about giving Misha a family? It's about securing your family's fortune so your daughter can inherit it?"
"It's about both," Léo admitted, his voice low. "If the board successfully freezes the trust, Misha gets nothing. You, my pragmatic little Parisian, need to convince my mother that you are a highly organized, history-obsessed woman who can manage the chaos that is me."
Amelie looked down at his chaotic suitcase. "I'm an event planner. I manage chaos for a living. But I need data. What does Lady Isolde consider the most vital historical fact about this 'Talisman'?"
Léo walked over to the bookshelf, pulled down a massive, leather-bound volume, and dropped it onto the table. It was titled: The Complete Genealogy of the Beaumont Line, 1450-Present.
"She will test you on the Talisman's origin story," Léo whispered, leaning close enough that Amelie could smell his cologne—expensive, disorganized, and entirely too attractive. "The official story is a myth. The real origin is a secret, and it's buried somewhere in the last forty years of the Beaumont lineage. She won't ask you for the myth; she'll ask you for the lie."
Amelie felt a sudden, cold fear. This wasn't a rom-com; it was a conspiracy. She had just signed a six-month contract to navigate a volatile inheritance battle for the sake of her daughter.
"So, what is the lie?" Amelie demanded.
Léo simply shrugged. "I don't know the lie, ma belle. I only know how to create the chaos. That's why I need you to find the order."
CHAPTER 3
The Grand Entrance
The Question:What happens when a meticulously planned life collides with centuries of reckless wealth and a grandmother with zero sense of humor?
London, Later That Evening.
The Beaumont estate wasn't a house; it was a fortress carved from granite and inherited arrogance. As their private jet landed at a discreet airfield outside London, Amelie reviewed her mental checklist. She had crammed two centuries of dubious Beaumont history into her brain during the flight, fueled by anxiety and a surprising amount of stale airplane coffee.
"Remember the rules, Léo," Amelie whispered as they stepped into the sleek black car awaiting them. "You're stable, I'm the calming influence, and Misha is a treasured gift, not a negotiation tool."
Léo, looking suspiciously tidy in a fresh (and expensive) linen suit, gave her a mischievous wink. "Relax, ma belle. Just follow my lead."
"I am following the lead of the man who flew a drone through a conference room earlier this week," Amelie muttered.
Misha, sandwiched between them, looked wide-eyed at the sprawling grounds. "Papa, is this a castle? Do you have a dragon?"
"Better," Léo replied, tapping Misha's nose. "We have a grandmother who is harder to defeat than any dragon."
The grand hall of the estate was overwhelming. It was lined with portraits of stern, wealthy ancestors, all of whom looked like they disapproved of modern happiness. At the center, seated stiffly by a fireplace that could roast a small ox, was Lady Isolde Beaumont.
Lady Isolde was the embodiment of old money: sharp, impeccable, and radiating a silence more terrifying than any shout.
Léo's entire demeanor—the reckless charm, the easy smile—vanished. He instantly morphed into a cautious, slightly awkward son.
"Maman," Léo said, stepping forward. "I've brought Amelie and Misha."
Lady Isolde's eyes—identical to Léo's, but colder—studied Amelie from her tailored jacket to her sensible heels.
"Amelie," Lady Isolde stated, her voice a dry whisper of old parchment. "I am told you are an event planner from Paris. And Misha." She barely glanced at the child. "The unexpected complication."
Misha, sensing the tension, instinctively retreated behind Amelie's legs.
"Lady Isolde," Amelie replied, stepping forward and offering a firm, professional handshake. "I am Léo's fiancée and Misha's mother. We are both here to bring stability to Léo's life and the Beaumont name."
Lady Isolde did not return the handshake. Instead, her gaze fixed on a small, ancient tapestry hanging above the mantle.
"Stability, Mademoiselle Dubois?" Isolde asked, her lips barely moving. "Stability is built on history. Tell me, what is the one verifiable truth regarding the carving on the base of the Talisman of Saint Jude? No myths. No legends. The truth, Amelie. Your engagement, and Misha's future, depends on the answer."
Amelie's heart hammered against her ribs. She had studied the official myths and the false histories Léo had provided, but the verifiable truth? That wasn't in the book.
Léo subtly moved his hand, reaching for her waist—a gesture that was simultaneously protective and a frantic signal for her to run.
Amelie took a deep breath. Her Mom Agenda had no time for panic. She looked at the tapestry, focusing on the threads, the patterns—searching for a clue, any clue, that the meticulously messy Léo might have left her.
CHAPTER 4
The Verifiable Truth
The Question:When history is a lie, can instinct and observation save your future?
Amelie's mind raced, fueled by the adrenaline of the high-stakes interrogation. Verifiable truth. As an event planner, she knew the difference between the presentation and the reality. The presentation was a grand, historic manor. The reality was a fragile, debt-ridden empire held together by a chaotic billionaire and a five-year-old girl.
She looked at Léo. He was meant to be the picture of stability, but he was subtly—and quite poorly—trying to clear his throat. He reached up to adjust the ancient tapestry above the mantle, brushing the delicate fabric with exaggerated care.
Why is he touching the tapestry? Amelie thought. Is that the clue?
No. Léo was too clumsy for subtle signals. His hand motion was a distraction.
But as he adjusted the tapestry, a tiny silver object—a Beaumont family crest pin— slipped from the cloth and clattered onto the polished stone floor, rolling just a few inches from Isolde's impeccable black pump.
"Léo! Control yourself!" Lady Isolde hissed, eyes blazing.
Léo ignored his mother, stooping to retrieve the pin. As he stood up, he made deliberate eye contact with Amelie and quickly, almost imperceptibly, pointed his thumb down at the fireplace hearth before handing the pin to Isolde.
The fireplace. Amelie focused on the hearth. It wasn't the original stone. It was a modern, pale slab of marble. And tucked into the corner where Léo's arm had brushed, she saw it: a tiny, faint serial number etched into the base.
It wasn't historical carving. It was an asset tag.
Amelie realized the truth wasn't about the Talisman's ancient legend; it was about its current financial status. She took a deep, calculated breath, ignoring the cold sweat on her palms.
"Lady Isolde," Amelie said firmly, meeting the older woman's icy gaze. "The one verifiable truth regarding the carving on the base of the Talisman of Saint Jude is that the Talisman itself is not a carving. It is a secured asset."
Léo's eyes widened, a flicker of pure astonishment replacing his panic.
"The Talisman is currently registered in the Swiss Federal Reserve under the Beaumont
Heritage Trust," Amelie continued, channeling her event planner confidence. "The 'carving' is the asset's serial number, used for quarterly auditing. It proves the Talisman is not merely decorative, but functional—the literal foundation of the Trust."
A heavy silence descended upon the hall. Lady Isolde's rigid posture softened fractionally. Her lips twitched, an expression that might have been approval, or possibly murderous intent.
"Impressive, Mademoiselle Dubois," Isolde said, a slow, dry smile finally appearing. "You see the reality beneath the surface. You do not see history; you see control. That is the Beaumont way."
She rose, towering over Amelie. "The engagement stands. You may unpack. But know this: I will be watching your every maman decision."
Amelie had passed the first test by translating Léo's clumsy chaos into a financial reality. But as Léo shot her a look of utter, grateful relief—a look that was too real for their fake relationship—Amelie knew the true chaos was only beginning. She had just bought herself six months of marriage to the most reckless man in London.
CHAPTER 5
The Agenda Enforcement
The Question:What happens when a highly organized mother attempts to schedule chaos?
The Beaumont Estate, The Next Morning.
Amelie woke before dawn, fueled by anxiety and jet lag. The successful confrontation with Lady Isolde had bought her safety, but now the real work—the Mom Agenda— began.
She found Léo in the sprawling kitchen, attempting to make coffee by operating a massive, chrome, Italian espresso machine as if it were a high-tech weapon. Steam hissed violently.
"Léo! Step away from the machine!" Amelie commanded, rushing to disengage the boiler. "It's 6:00 AM. Your body clock is still on Paris time, and you're about to cause a five-alarm fire."
Léo gave her a wide, caffeinated grin. "Good morning, ma fiancée. I was simply trying to achieve maximum efficiency. I calculated the optimal pressure for a triple-shot rocket fuel blast."
"You calculated chaos," Amelie countered, handing him a simple, pre-packaged coffee pod. "From now on, we follow my schedule. I need to demonstrate that I have stabilized your life for the board meeting next week."
She slapped a highly detailed, laminated schedule onto the marble counter.
"Rule One: Punctuality. You will arrive at all appointments five minutes early. Rule Two: Appearance. No wrinkled scarves. No coffee-stained shirts. Rule Three: Protocol. You will attend the three mandatory 'Family History' dinners this week. No exceptions. We start with the daily briefing at 7:30 AM."
Léo slid the schedule across the counter with one finger. "Amelie, I don't do schedules. I do spontaneous productivity. I innovate best when I'm slightly late and completely dishevelled."
"Spontaneous productivity is how you almost lost your family's entire trust fund, Léo," Amelie reminded him sharply. "This is not about your creativity; it's about Misha's stability. If you fail to appear stable, Isolde will nullify the engagement." Suddenly, a loud, crashing sound echoed from the corridor.
"Mamma! The dragon is attacking!" Misha shrieked, running into the kitchen, followed by a small, frantic-looking butler.
It wasn't a dragon. It was the family's ridiculously oversized, antique grandfather clock, which Misha, in a moment of pure genetic Volkov curiosity, had apparently decided to examine for "ticking secrets." The clock now lay in pieces.
The butler wrung his hands. "Mr. Beaumont, she... she dismantled the eighteenthcentury precision timepiece."
Léo looked at Misha, his eyes shining with unadulterated pride. "Genius! She has the Volkov sense of engineering."
Amelie closed her eyes, fighting the urge to scream. The mother's love for Misha was overwhelming, but the chaos Misha had inherited from Léo was becoming an existential threat to her planned order.
"No, Léo," Amelie said, taking Misha's hand firmly. "She has inherited your unmanaged chaos. And that is exactly why the Mom Agenda is necessary. You will help me fix that clock, and then you will attend the briefing at 7:30 AM. Five minutes early."
She looked Léo dead in the eye, the strictness of her voice overriding the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. She wasn't just planning an event; she was trying to organize a disaster.
CHAPTER 6
The Daily Briefing
The Question:How many archaic rules does it take to crush one event planner's meticulously crafted schedule?
The Beaumont Estate Library, 7:30 AM Sharp.
Amelie, looking immaculate and carrying Misha (who had been bribed with a croissant to remain silent), walked into the library. Léo, miraculously, was right beside her—one minute and thirty seconds early.
The "Daily Briefing" wasn't a quick meeting; it was a formal gathering around a massive mahogany table. Lady Isolde was already seated, flanked by two stone-faced Beaumont trustees—Mr. Silas, the lawyer, and Mrs. Finch, the archivist.
"Punctuality," Lady Isolde noted, her gaze fixed on Amelie. "A promising start, Mademoiselle Dubois. Sit."
Amelie sat, placing Misha on her lap. Misha immediately started trying to eat the corner of a centuries-old document.
"Misha, non!" Amelie whispered, quickly pulling the paper away.
"The briefing is not about quarterly earnings," Isolde began, ignoring the child. "It is about precedence. The Beaumont family maintains stability through adherence to ancient customs. Since you are now officially engaged to Léo, you must learn them."
Mrs. Finch, the archivist, cleared her throat and read from a scroll: "The Fiancée's Five Pillars of Presence."
Amelie quickly pulled out her pen and notepad.
"Pillar One: You must wear a piece of Beaumont heritage jewellery at all public functions. This is not for vanity; it is for tracking."
Amelie paused, pen hovering over the paper. Tracking?
"Pillar Two: All Beaumont children must be proficient in at least two dead languages by age seven. Misha will begin Latin tomorrow."
Amelie's eyes widened. "She is five! She just mastered 'please' and 'thank you' in French!"
Léo leaned over and whispered, "Just write it down. It's mostly for show."
"Pillar Three: The engagement announcement party must be held at a location symbolic of the family's first successful asset acquisition—a derelict vineyard in Tuscany. You are the event planner. You will organize this party in three days."
Amelie almost dropped her pen. "Three days? In a foreign country? With a dilapidated venue? That's impossible!"
"The Beaumont family does not acknowledge the word 'impossible'," Isolde said with a frosty smile. "Now, to the most crucial rule for Léo's stability..."
Mrs. Finch continued, her voice gaining an unsettling formality: "Pillar Five (The Most Sacred): To ensure the purity of the lineage, the Fiancée must, during the six months, undergo a brief, weekly Genetic Vetting. It is a simple saliva sample to confirm there are no... undesirable historic alliances in your bloodline."
Amelie froze. This was no longer a comedy about scheduling. This was a direct invasion of her privacy and possibly, a threat to Misha.
Léo, sensing her alarm, put his hand on her knee—a gesture of support that was quickly becoming less fake and more essential.
"Maman, this is excessive," Léo interjected, breaking his compliant persona. "Amelie is a private citizen. The DNA test is ridiculous."
"It is required, Léonard," Isolde stated, using his full, formal name—the ultimate sign of disapproval. "The Beaumonts are careful. We must confirm no external interests have infiltrated the family through an opportunistic marriage. You have six months, Mademoiselle Dubois. Fulfill the contract, or lose everything."
Amelie looked down at Misha, who was now peacefully sucking her thumb. Her own private chaos was now clashing with the Beaumonts' centuries of dangerous order. The Mom Agenda just got a lot more complicated.
CHAPTER 6
The Daily Briefing
The Question:How many archaic rules does it take to crush one event planner's meticulously crafted schedule?
The Beaumont Estate Library, 7:30 AM Sharp.
Amelie, looking immaculate and carrying Misha (who had been bribed with a croissant to remain silent), walked into the library. Léo, miraculously, was right beside her—one minute and thirty seconds early.
The "Daily Briefing" wasn't a quick meeting; it was a formal gathering around a massive mahogany table. Lady Isolde was already seated, flanked by two stone-faced Beaumont trustees—Mr. Silas, the lawyer, and Mrs. Finch, the archivist.
"Punctuality," Lady Isolde noted, her gaze fixed on Amelie. "A promising start, Mademoiselle Dubois. Sit."
Amelie sat, placing Misha on her lap. Misha immediately started trying to eat the corner of a centuries-old document.
"Misha, non!" Amelie whispered, quickly pulling the paper away.
"The briefing is not about quarterly earnings," Isolde began, ignoring the child. "It is about precedence. The Beaumont family maintains stability through adherence to ancient customs. Since you are now officially engaged to Léo, you must learn them."
Mrs. Finch, the archivist, cleared her throat and read from a scroll: "The Fiancée's Five Pillars of Presence."
Amelie quickly pulled out her pen and notepad.
"Pillar One: You must wear a piece of Beaumont heritage jewellery at all public functions. This is not for vanity; it is for tracking."
Amelie paused, pen hovering over the paper. Tracking?
"Pillar Two: All Beaumont children must be proficient in at least two dead languages by age seven. Misha will begin Latin tomorrow."
Amelie's eyes widened. "She is five! She just mastered 'please' and 'thank you' in French!"
Léo leaned over and whispered, "Just write it down. It's mostly for show."
"Pillar Three: The engagement announcement party must be held at a location symbolic of the family's first successful asset acquisition—a derelict vineyard in Tuscany. You are the event planner. You will organize this party in three days."
Amelie almost dropped her pen. "Three days? In a foreign country? With a dilapidated venue? That's impossible!"
"The Beaumont family does not acknowledge the word 'impossible'," Isolde said with a frosty smile. "Now, to the most crucial rule for Léo's stability..."
Mrs. Finch continued, her voice gaining an unsettling formality: "Pillar Five (The Most Sacred): To ensure the purity of the lineage, the Fiancée must, during the six months, undergo a brief, weekly Genetic Vetting. It is a simple saliva sample to confirm there are no... undesirable historic alliances in your bloodline."
Amelie froze. This was no longer a comedy about scheduling. This was a direct invasion of her privacy and possibly, a threat to Misha.
Léo, sensing her alarm, put his hand on her knee—a gesture of support that was quickly becoming less fake and more essential.
"Maman, this is excessive," Léo interjected, breaking his compliant persona. "Amelie is a private citizen. The DNA test is ridiculous."
"It is required, Léonard," Isolde stated, using his full, formal name—the ultimate sign of disapproval. "The Beaumonts are careful. We must confirm no external interests have infiltrated the family through an opportunistic marriage. You have six months, Mademoiselle Dubois. Fulfill the contract, or lose everything."
Amelie looked down at Misha, who was now peacefully sucking her thumb. Her own private chaos was now clashing with the Beaumonts' centuries of dangerous order. The Mom Agenda just got a lot more complicated.
CHAPTER 7
The Shadow of the Bloodline
The Question:What secret is so dangerous that a billionaire would risk his entire legacy just to keep it buried?
The Beaumont Estate, Léo's Private Study, Minutes Later.
Amelie slammed the heavy mahogany door shut behind them, her heart still pounding from the absurdity of the "Genetic Vetting." Misha, thankfully, had been whisked away by a nanny Léo insisted was "trustworthy but terrifying."
"A DNA test, Léo? You signed a contract knowing your mother would demand a genetic background check? My past is clean, but my family left France a long time ago. This isn't comedy; this is a hostile takeover!" Amelie spat out, her voice barely a whisper of rage.
Léo leaned against a desk covered in intricate, half-finished circuit boards. He looked genuinely troubled, the chaotic playfulness finally stripped away.
"It's worse than that, Amelie," he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. "The genetic vetting isn't about some random ancestor. It's about a specific gene marker—a very rare one—that the Beaumonts have been obsessed with for centuries."
Amelie, the pragmatic scientist, narrowed her eyes. "Obsessed with what? A predisposition to bad manners?"
"No. Obsessed with control," Léo said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "The Beaumonts didn't just accumulate wealth; they stole certain intellectual properties over generations. The official story of the Talisman of Saint Jude is that it's a financial key. The truth is, the carvings on it are a genetic lock."
He walked over to a safe hidden behind a fake bookshelf and spun the dial with practiced speed.
"Every generation, a few individuals—usually women—are born with a highly unique gene that allows them to intuitively understand and manipulate complex patterns and encrypted data. They call it the 'Scribe Gene.' They were the original code-makers for the Talisman."
Léo pulled out a worn, leather-bound diary, not the thick genealogy book. "The family believes that the Talisman's power can only be unlocked and upgraded by a modern descendant carrying this specific Scribe Gene."
Amelie stared, the scientific absurdity clashing with the immediate, visceral fear she felt. "And you think I have this... 'Scribe Gene'?"
"I don't think it, Amelie. I know it," Léo confessed, his gaze intense. "Eight years ago, that weekend in London? It wasn't random. I was studying the genealogical charts. Your great-great-grandmother's family was briefly tied to a lesser Beaumont line. They had the marker. I was doing a reckless, idiotic bit of genetic research when... we met."
He paused, the admission clearly costing him. "When Misha was born, I found out you'd hidden her. But Misha is more than just my daughter. She carries the Scribe Gene. She is the only person who can truly secure the entire Beaumont wealth—not just financially, but technically."
Léo walked over to her, his hand reaching out, not to touch, but to plead.
"The DNA test isn't to check if you're a good wife. It's to check if you have the Scribe Gene in its adult, awakened form. If Isolde discovers you have it, she won't just approve the engagement; she will try to control you to control Misha. I proposed this contract, Amelie, not just to get stability, but to keep both of you safe from my own family."
The fake fiancé had just admitted their entire relationship was built on a genetic conspiracy and a desperate act of paternal protection. Amelie wasn't marrying chaos; she was marrying a man trying to outrun his own family's dark, scientific obsession.
CHAPTER 8
The Diversion Strategy
The Question:Can an event planner use logistics, timing, and pure nerve to sabotage a highly illegal genetic test?
Leo's Private Study, The Beaumont Estate, Moments Later.
Amelie absorbed Léo's shocking revelation. The fear was still there, cold and sharp, but it was quickly being replaced by the calculating focus of a mother protecting her child. If her blood held a key, she needed to lock the door.
"The test is tomorrow morning, isn't it?" Amelie stated, already scanning the room for resources. "Isolde wouldn't waste time."
"She scheduled Mrs. Finch to take the sample after breakfast," Léo confirmed, his voice heavy with dread. "It's standard protocol, but this time, it's a trap."
Amelie ignored his despair. She opened her event planner's notebook—the one typically used for seating charts and catering deadlines. Now, it was a battle plan.
"We need a diversion. A chaos so specific, it forces the entire household, including Mrs. Finch, to be elsewhere for exactly four minutes and twenty seconds." Amelie started writing, her pen scratching against the paper with frantic intensity.
Léo raised an eyebrow. "Four minutes and twenty seconds? Why such precision?"
"Because that's how long it takes to process a simple saliva swab through a standard household air-drying vent," Amelie replied, tapping the side of her temple. "You're a tech expert, Léo. You can rig the internal air system to destroy the sample with excessive heat. I will provide the sample—but it will be a fake."
Léo was stunned into silence, momentarily forgetting his own genius for chaos. "You want me to commit corporate espionage using the air conditioning, and you want to use a fake DNA sample? Amelie, who are you?"
"I am a mother with a deadline," Amelie shot back, pushing the notebook toward him. "The Diversion Strategy starts now." The Plan:
The Target: Finch, the archivist and genetic collector. The Bait: Léo's priceless, 17th-century telescope, currently stored in the attic. The Execution: Léo will loudly announce that he's taking the irreplaceable telescope to the roof for "a crucial alignment," knowing Mrs. Finch's obsessive nature will compel her to follow and supervise its handling, removing her from the breakfast room.
"You hate that telescope, Léo. You've ignored it for years," Amelie pointed out.
"Exactly," Léo grinned, the familiar mischief returning. "The sudden, uncharacteristic interest from the most irresponsible Beaumont will trigger maximum anxiety in Mrs. Finch. It's a perfect psychological trap."
Amelie smiled, a rare, cold, calculating expression. "Good. Now, the fake sample. We need DNA that is close enough to yours to avoid immediate suspicion, but definitely lacks the Scribe Gene."
Léo's eyes darted nervously to Misha's closed door. "We can't risk Misha's."
"No," Amelie agreed instantly. "We need something closer to your periphery. Someone with a similar lineage, but who isn't a Beaumont."
Léo tapped his chin, then his eyes lit up with a scandalous idea. "My cousin, JeanPierre. He's a terrible human being, but he's obsessed with collecting his own family's medical waste for... reasons. He's currently vacationing somewhere hot. I'm sure I can find a discarded hairbrush or something."
Amelie ignored the alarming detail about Jean-Pierre. "Get it done, Léo. I'll handle the timing. If this fails, Isolde controls Misha. The clock is ticking."
Amelie's Mom Agenda had moved past polite scheduling and into full-blown espionage, all for the security of her little girl.
CHAPTER 9
The Saliva Swap
The Question:Can a highly choreographed moment of chaos distract a suspicious matriarch and a paranoid archivist long enough to cheat a genetic test?
The Beaumont Estate Dining Room, 8:00 AM.
The room was oppressive, radiating centuries of quiet wealth. Lady Isolde sat at the head of the long table, sipping Earl Grey with the stillness of a queen observing a chess game. Mrs. Finch, the archivist, stood rigidly nearby, holding a small, silver tray containing the implements for the genetic test.
Amelie sat opposite Léo. She felt the pressure of the six-month contract tightening around her. She had applied a thick layer of lip gloss to ensure her saliva sample would be minimal—and she carried the carefully guarded, pre-prepared sample from Léo's cousin, Jean-Pierre.
"It is time, Mademoiselle Dubois," Lady Isolde announced, placing her teacup down with a sharp clink.
Mrs. Finch presented the silver tray. Amelie leaned forward, ready to execute the diversion strategy.
Léo, however, was ahead of her.
"Maman, before we proceed," Léo declared loudly, causing several antique spoons to wobble. "Amelie and I have decided to dedicate the day's event to Misha's education." Léo pulled out a brand-new, oversized water pistol from beneath the table.
"I will be demonstrating the principles of hydrodynamic force!" Léo announced, aiming the pistol.
Amelie stared at him, aghast. This wasn't the plan! He was supposed to mention the telescope!
"Léo! Stop!" Amelie hissed under her breath.
He winked, a dangerous glint in his eye. He wasn't following the Diversion Strategy; he was improvising with maximum chaos.
"The principle, Maman," Léo explained, aiming the water pistol at the intricate, handpainted ceiling fresco, "is simple: equal and opposite—"
Before he could finish, a loud, panicked cry erupted from the doorway.
"The Talisman of Saint Jude! It's gone!"
It was the butler, his face the colour of old plaster.
Lady Isolde shot out of her chair, the sudden movement causing her teacup to smash on the floor. "Gone?! Impossible!"
Mrs. Finch, the archivist, let out a sound like a strangled mouse. The Talisman was her life's work. She abandoned the testing tray instantly and ran toward the butler. "The safe! We must check the secondary lock!"
Now! Amelie's professional focus kicked in. The butler's cry was Léo's planned
Diversion—a brilliantly executed, if delayed, lie. She had her four minutes and twenty seconds.
As Isolde began grilling the terrified butler, Amelie executed the Saliva Swap. She quickly palmed the sterile swab and replaced it with her pre-prepared sample, using the brief moment of distraction to seal the original, empty casing.
She had just managed to switch the sample when Léo, aiming to maximize the chaos, suddenly squeezed the water pistol. A thin jet of water shot across the room, hitting the ornate marble fireplace—and triggering the air vent mechanism that Léo had rigged.
A sudden, sharp hiss of superheated air blasted out from the mantle, briefly enveloping the silver tray where Amelie had placed the fake sample.
Amelie looked at Léo. He wasn't smiling; he was looking at her with a mixture of terror and awe.
Lady Isolde, distracted by the fake theft alarm, slowly turned back to the table, her eyes narrowing.
"Mrs. Finch will return shortly," Isolde stated, picking up the now-hot silver tray. "I trust your sample is ready, Mademoiselle Dubois."
Amelie met her gaze, maintaining a calm that felt like a fragile porcelain shell. "It is ready, Lady Isolde. I believe the Beaumont chaos is quite... contagious."
CHAPTER 10
The Genetic Verdict
The Question:When you cheat a genetic test, is the agonizing wait for the result worse than the certainty of the threat?
The Beaumont Estate, Leo's Private Study, That Afternoon.
The intense drama of the morning had dissolved into a tense, suffocating silence. Lady Isolde had taken the sample, sealed it, and immediately dispatched it to a private lab, ensuring no one could intercept the results. The verdict on Amelie's bloodline, and consequently, Misha's stability, was due in six hours.
Amelie sat rigidly on Léo's antique sofa, her meticulously planned schedule now crumpled in her hand. The knowledge that she had potentially risked everything for a chaotic impulse—Léo's suggestion of the water pistol diversion—gnawed at her.
Léo paced the room, his agitation expressed by his inability to touch anything without making it move. He nervously adjusted a bookshelf, then a globe, then a stack of papers.
"Stop moving!" Amelie finally snapped, running a hand over her tired face. "You're vibrating. The plan was executed. Now, we wait."
"Waiting is your expertise, ma belle," Léo muttered, stopping his pacing. "My expertise is impulsive action followed by immediate crisis management. We cheated my mother's system—something no one has ever done. If she finds out..."
"She won't," Amelie asserted, though her voice lacked conviction. "Jean-Pierre's DNA is close enough to yours to pass a cursory check, but far enough from the Scribe Gene to raise no flags. It's the perfect distraction."
Léo slowly walked toward her, the seriousness from the morning still clouding his eyes. He sat beside her, not touching, but close enough for her to feel the warmth of his proximity.
"I know this is terrifying for you, Amelie," he said, his voice unusually soft. "You agreed to a contract for money and stability. I dragged you into a genetic war."
Amelie looked at him. In the high-stakes world of the Beaumonts, his confession was the only thing that felt real. "You did it to protect Misha. That, I understand."
"And you risked everything for Misha," he countered, reaching into his suit jacket pocket. He didn't pull out a gun or a financial report. He pulled out a small, delicate, silver locket.
"This is ridiculous," Léo said, shaking his head at his own impulse. "It was never part of the plan. But... I saw you this morning. The way you stood up to Isolde, the way you protected Misha—you didn't just act like my fiancée. You acted like the only person who can manage my chaos."
He opened the locket. Inside was a tiny, slightly blurry photo of a young Misha laughing, taken by a café waiter during their disastrous first meeting.
"This is not for the contract, Amelie," Léo insisted, his blue eyes holding hers with an intense, raw emotion she hadn't seen before. "It's a thank you. For being her mother, and for being... my co-conspirator."
He gently placed the locket in her hand. The cool, solid weight of the silver was a stark contrast to the flimsy, fake contract they shared.
The intercom on the desk suddenly buzzed, sharp and loud, shattering the moment. It was Lady Isolde.
"Léonard," Isolde's voice crackled through the speaker, crisp and cold. "The lab results are in. Bring Mademoiselle Dubois to the parlour immediately. The verdict has been delivered."
Amelie closed her hand around the locket, the fragile piece of real affection now resting against the overwhelming anxiety of the genetic verdict. The six-month countdown was far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.