Chapter 2: A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 2: A Dish Served Cold

The first light of dawn was a fragile, grey promise painting the edges of the brocade curtains. Elara moved through the sleeping chateau like a ghost, her footsteps swallowed by the thick, ancient rugs. She carried nothing but her handbag and a single, small suitcase, its wheels silent on the polished parquet floors. Every sleeping portrait on the walls seemed to watch her, a silent jury of de Valois ancestors. She didn't care. Their legacy of casual cruelty had found its expiration date in her.

She paused at the door of the guest room. Inside, Thomas was a lump under the silk duvet, breathing the deep, untroubled breaths of a man who believed the world was his stage. On his pillow, where her head should have been, she had left a single, elegant note. She had used the expensive, cream-colored stationery from the desk, the de Valois family crest embossed at the top. A final, perfect twist of the knife.

A pre-booked taxi was waiting at the end of the long, gravel driveway, its headlights off. As she slipped inside and the car pulled away, she didn’t look back at the magnificent stone facade. She was looking forward, her gaze fixed on the quiet country road that led to the train station, and beyond that, to Paris. To justice.

---

Thomas woke hours later to a pounding head and the brilliant, intrusive sunlight of a perfect birthday morning. He rolled over, reaching for Elara, his hand meeting only the cool, empty space of the sheets. He blinked, the fog of cognac slowly clearing.

“Elara?” he called out, his voice thick with sleep.

Silence. Then his eyes fell on the note. He propped himself up on his elbows, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. A game. She was always so clever. He unfolded the thick paper.

My Dearest Thomas, A man like you deserves more than just a gift. You deserve an adventure. Your first clue is waiting with your morning coffee. Follow my trail. I promise a surprise you’ll never forget. Yours, E.

His smile widened. This was classic Elara—dramatic, thoughtful, and all about him. He threw on a robe and bounded downstairs, his hangover forgotten, replaced by a giddy sense of anticipation. His friends, Hugo and Baptiste, were already in the grand dining room, nursing their own hangovers with coffee and croissants.

“Morning, birthday boy,” Hugo grunted. “Your girlfriend’s vanished.”

“She’s planned a surprise,” Thomas announced, his voice brimming with pride. He poured himself a coffee from the silver pot. Tucked beside it was another, smaller note.

Clue #1: Go to the place that smells of heaven and home, where the best pain au chocolat in all of Provence is born. Ask for the box reserved for a king.

He knew the place instantly. A tiny, family-run boulangerie in the next village. “She’s incredible,” he said to his friends, grabbing his car keys. “Absolutely worships me.”

Baptiste smirked. “Don’t get lost.”

Thomas laughed, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. “It’s my day. Nothing can go wrong.”

---

On the TGV speeding towards Paris, Elara watched the picturesque towns blur into a smear of green and terracotta. She felt a strange, detached calm, the focused serenity of a sniper lining up a shot. Her phone was a weapon in her hand. At precisely 9:45 a.m., she sent the first scheduled text.

Elara: Hope you enjoyed the pastries. Did you find the next clue?

She pictured him, standing outside the boulangerie, brushing flakes of pastry from his expensive shirt, feeling adored. She imagined him finding the next note taped to the bottom of the pastry box, his ego swelling with every step.

The next clue led him to a high-end men's boutique thirty minutes away, a place she knew he loved. There, a clerk presented him with a beautifully wrapped box containing a silk tie, paid for by Elara. With it was another note, this one written in a more teasing script.

Clue #2: Something handsome for the most handsome man. Now, for your real gift, you’ll have to work a little harder. Meet me for a late lunch. L’Orangerie, Avignon. 2 p.m. Don’t be late.

From the train, she felt a grim satisfaction. She was pulling the strings, making the puppet dance. Each stop on his wild goose chase was a location they had visited together, a place steeped in what she had believed was a shared, happy memory. Now, she was methodically tainting each one, overwriting the romance with the bitter code of her revenge.

Her phone buzzed with a reply from Thomas.

Thomas: You are driving me crazy!!! Best birthday ever. Hugo and Baptiste are jealous as hell. Can’t wait to see you. I’m starving.

Elara’s thumb hovered over the screen. For a fleeting moment, she remembered the man she thought he was—the charming smile, the easy warmth. A wave of sadness washed over her, a mourning for the beautiful lie she had so eagerly believed. Then, she remembered the sound of his laughter as he described a young boy’s devastation. She remembered the cold, cruel pride in his eyes.

The image was like a splash of ice water. The sadness vanished, leaving only cold, hard resolve. The boy named Arthur had waited for hours. Thomas could wait a little longer.

---

Thomas pulled up to L’Orangerie at two-fifteen, flushed with excitement and the thrill of the chase. The sun was high, and the chic restaurant, set in a beautiful courtyard, was bustling. He scanned the tables, looking for Elara’s dark hair, her stylish silhouette. She wasn’t there.

The maître d’ approached him. “Monsieur de Valois?”

“Yes. A reservation for two. I’m meeting Elara Moreau.”

The maître d’ offered a polite, apologetic smile. “Madame Moreau is not here, but she left this for you.”

He handed Thomas a crisp, sealed envelope. Thomas’s brief flash of annoyance was immediately replaced by renewed amusement. Another twist. He tore it open.

My Love, I’m so sorry, a last-minute emergency. I’ve been delayed! But the day is not over. I have made it up to you, I promise. I’ve booked a table for you tonight. 8 p.m. at Le Chêne d’Argent. It’s our place. Wear the tie. This will be the grand finale. I will be there. All my love, E.

Le Chêne d’Argent. The two-Michelin-star restaurant where he had first told her he loved her. It was an hour’s drive back in the direction he’d come from. A surge of frustration warred with his anticipation. But the grand finale? He imagined a diamond watch, a weekend in Monaco, perhaps something even more significant. The promise of it was enough. He would play along.

He spent the afternoon driving, listening to music, texting his friends updates about Elara's "epic" surprise. He felt like the star of his own movie, the world revolving around his happiness.

At eight o’clock sharp, wearing the new silk tie, he walked into the hushed, elegant dining room of Le Chêne d’Argent. The air smelled of truffle oil and old money.

“De Valois, table for two,” he announced to the host.

“Of course, monsieur. Welcome back.”

He was led to the best table in the restaurant, a secluded corner booth with a view of the entire room. A bottle of his favorite champagne was already chilling in a silver bucket beside it. He settled into the plush velvet, feeling a smug, profound sense of satisfaction. He was Thomas de Valois. This was how his life was supposed to be.

He checked his watch. 8:10. He sipped his champagne. 8:25. He straightened his tie. A few diners shot him curious glances. The lone man at the best table, waiting. 8:40. The smugness was curdling into irritation. He pulled out his phone to call her, his thumb hovering over her name.

Just then, it buzzed. A new message. From Elara. Relief washed over him.

He opened it. It wasn’t a long, apologetic paragraph. It was just two short, devastating sentences.

Elara: I hope you’re enjoying your table. I hear waiting for someone who is never going to show up is an absolutely classic experience. Ask Arthur Dubois.

Thomas stared at the screen. The words didn’t compute at first. He read them again. And a third time.

Ask Arthur Dubois.

The name hit him like a physical blow. Suddenly, he wasn’t in a Michelin-star restaurant. He was back in high school, laughing from a car. He saw a boy standing under the sickly yellow light of a bus station, holding a wilting flower.

The blood drained from his face. The champagne in his mouth turned to acid. The murmuring voices of the other diners seemed to swell, every eye in the room suddenly fixed on him, the foolish, abandoned man at the table for two. The perfect man, publicly, perfectly, humiliated. His phone slipped from his numb fingers, clattering onto the pristine white tablecloth.