The interviewer, Madame Rousseau, was a stern woman with impeccable posture and silver-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun. She glanced at my paperwork with pursed lips.
“Your French is minimal,” she noted in heavily accented English.
“I’m learning,” I replied. “Quickly.”
She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “And your experience?”
“Administrative work,” I answered vaguely. “I’m organized, punctual, and I learn fast.”
She studied me for a long moment, then sighed. “We have one position. Receptionist at Lambert Financial. They need someone who speaks English for their international clients.”
My heart leaped. Financial.
“Don’t get excited,” she added. “You answer phones and greet clients. Three-month temporary contract. If they like you, perhaps it becomes permanent.”
I nodded eagerly. “When can I start?”
Lambert Financial occupied the third floor of a modest building in the 8th arrondissement. The office was smaller than I expected—just fifteen employees. My desk sat near the entrance, a fortress of polished wood separating me from visitors.
“Bonjour, Lambert Financial,” I practiced each morning before the office opened, trying to perfect my accent.
My immediate supervisor, Jazelle, was initially cold toward me—another American taking a job a French person could have filled. But she thawed slightly when she saw my determination to learn.
“Your pronunciation,” she said one afternoon, wincing as I mangled a client’s name over the phone.
After I hung up, she added, “Let me help you.”
At lunch, while others went to nearby cafés, Jazelle began teaching me proper French, correcting my grammar and pronunciation between bites of her sandwich. In return, I stayed late to help her with English reports.
By night, I attended free language-exchange meetups at a local bookstore. There, surrounded by expatriates and locals, I practiced conversation and gradually built a small social circle—careful never to reveal too much about my past.
My tiny studio apartment, rented with the last of my pawn shop money, became my sanctuary. Each night, I wrote down new French words I’d learned, repeating them until they felt natural on my tongue.
The language became my armor.
Each new phrase a brick in the wall between my past and present.
Three months into my contract, I noticed something odd while sorting mail. An invoice from a major client had been duplicated, and Lambert Financial had paid it twice—an error of nearly €40,000.
I hesitated, unsure if it was my place to point it out, but the duplicated invoice number nagged at me.
“Excuse me,” I said, knocking softly on the door of Philippe Lambert’s office, the company’s founder and CEO. “I noticed something in the accounts that might be important.”
He looked up, surprised to see the receptionist in his doorway.
When I explained the double payment, his expression shifted from annoyance to interest.
The next day, Lambert Financial recovered the duplicate payment, and I received something unexpected: a promotion to administrative assistant.
“You have good eyes,” Philippe told me. “We need that.”
My new role gave me access to financial reports, client portfolios, and investment strategies. The language of finance came back to me easily. Numbers had always made sense in a way people sometimes didn’t.
While filing reports and organizing data, I absorbed everything I could about European markets.
Six months into my new life, I had established a routine: work during the day, French lessons or quiet study in the evenings.
On weekends, I explored Paris alone, finding comfort in anonymity.
Occasionally, late at night, I would wake from nightmares where Emmett found me, dragging me back to a life of humiliation. I’d bolt upright, heart racing, before remembering the ocean between us.
One rainy Tuesday, I prepared the conference room for a client meeting. As I arranged water glasses and notepads, Philippe entered with Jazelle and two senior advisers.
“Isabella, could you bring the Mercer portfolio when you have a moment?” Philippe asked.
I nodded and retrieved the file.
As I placed it on the table, I noticed the investment strategy they had outlined. Something about it triggered an alarm in my mind.
“Will that be all?” I asked, turning to leave.
“Yes, thank you,” Philippe replied.
