Chapter 12: The Private Moment

It didn’t happen all at once.

But people started turning to me before they turned to him.

At dinners, it was my name the staff whispered first, At negotiations, eyes flicked to mine before the final signature, At arrivals, two glasses would be poured, one for Rivière and one for me.

I noticed the shift most at a meeting in Vienna.

We were seated across from a shipping magnate, old money, even older family. Rivière was late, delayed by something unspoken. And when the first question came, it wasn’t a delay tactic. It was direct:

“Will you be speaking on his behalf today?”

I should’ve deferred, Instead, I answered.

And when Rivière finally arrived 37 minutes later, the deal was already done. He just smiled, didn’t correct them, didn’t reclaim the floor.

Later that night, at a rooftop function full of former ministers and future oligarchs, someone I didn’t know said:

“He’s not teaching you anymore.” “He’s clearing the stage.”

And they were right.

He no longer needed to hold the room, Because I already did.

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Later, in Monaco, just the two of us. A terrace. A bottle of something older than either of us admitted.

Rivière watched the city lights for a long time. No theatrics, no setup.

Then, finally:

“What do you know about names?”

I kept my voice even. “Depends whose.”

He didn’t smile. Just poured a second glass, then slid over a small black envelope. Slim. Sealed.

“ARC,” he said. “It was never a company.”

I frowned. He didn’t elaborate.

“You’ve been wearing the signature for a long time,” he added. “Time you learned whose it was.”

He stood, straightened his jacket.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

Then he was gone.

I stayed on the terrace after he left.

Let the weight settle. Let the night stay quiet.

Then I opened the envelope.

No letter.

Just a photograph.

A watch, my watch, on the wrist of a younger man. Standing in front of something state-owned, defiant and too well-dressed for coincidence.

Below the photo, a name:

Anatole René Courvière