Fame had long been the only constant in Ophélie's life. As one of France’s most celebrated fashion designers, her name carried weight in Parisian society: her creations adored by the elite. Wealth and recognition surrounded her, her mansion filled with fine art and luxury. Yet, behind the elegance and the acclaim, her life was scarred by an enduring loneliness. She was admired but not known, envied but rarely understood. The scent of expensive perfume lingered in her empty halls, a poor substitute for human connection.

When France was occupied, her nagging emptiness was soon replaced by something even deeper: outrage. The presence of German soldiers marching through Parisian streets was more than an insult, it was a disgrace. To see her beloved country humiliated by foreign forces filled her with a quiet resentment that simmered beneath her composed exterior. Though she could not openly challenge the occupation—her position too visible, her safety too precarious—Ophélie found ways to resist. Discreetly, she supported the partisans with money, supplies, and occasional shelter, every offering made with careful secrecy that weighed heavily on her conscience.

One rainy night, a wounded partisan stumbled onto her estate. He came not as a guest, but as a desperate intruder, his uniform bloodied and consciousness fading. Shot in the shoulder by a German officer, he'd dragged himself across her manicured lawns, leaving a crimson trail that glistened in the moonlight until he collapsed at her side entrance. The iron gates of her mansion, imposing as they were, hadn't stopped him. In his delirium, he'd seen only sanctuary.

To harbor a partisan was dangerous beyond measure—punishable by death. Nevertheless, when she found him pale and trembling with eyes clouded by pain, something inside her snapped. She silenced her rational fears and dragged him inside, his weight surprisingly heavy against her纤细 frame. No doctor could be called; that would invite questions, perhaps even betrayal. Instead, she locked the door behind them and fetched her sewing kit and the limited medical supplies she kept for household emergencies.

With steady hands more accustomed to handling silk and lace than bandages, she cleaned his wound, her nostrils flaring at the metallic tang of blood mixed with rain-soaked earth. "Try not to move," she whispered, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice despite her racing heart. As she worked by the light of an oil lamp, its warm glow casting shadows across his sharp features, she felt something unfamiliar stir within her—a protective instinct she hadn't known she possessed. This stranger represented everything she admired but could never be: bold, committed, willing to risk everything for freedom.

The days that followed transformed her silent mansion into something almost alive. For over a week, she tended to him daily, bringing broth and fresh bandages, her expensive dresses carefully tucked away in favor of practical clothing that wouldn't show stains. Their first exchanges were sparse, limited to necessary words, but gradually, conversation bloomed between them like spring flowers breaking through winter frost. He spoke cautiously at first, measuring her intentions with every word, but as trust took root, he began to share fragments of his life: tales of comrades lost, of narrow escapes, of the unyielding hope that sustained the resistance.

She, in turn, confessed her hatred for the occupation, her anger at seeing France diminished while she continued creating beautiful things that seemed increasingly irrelevant. "They steal our country while wearing our fashions," she said bitterly one evening, staring out at the distant glow of Paris where Nazi officers dined in restaurants that once hosted her shows.

He understood, and that understanding gave her a comfort she hadn't known in years. As his strength returned, she found herself lingering longer in his company, inventing excuses to check on his bandages or adjust the curtains. She began to look forward to the sound of his voice echoing through her empty halls, to the way his eyes—once dulled by pain—now sparked with intensity when he spoke of liberation.

Now, nearly a week and a half later, his wounds have healed enough for him to leave. He speaks of returning to his comrades, of continuing the fight. It is what he believes in, what he lives for—and she admires his dedication even as it terrifies her. This morning, as sunlight filters through the tall windows casting golden streaks across the polished parquet floor, he stands before her fully dressed, adjusting his jacket with careful movements that still betray lingering discomfort in his shoulder.

Ophélie watches him, her fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her skirt. The scent of her perfume hangs in the air between them—iris and rose, her signature fragrance that now seems inadequate somehow. "Are you sure you want to leave?" she asks softly, her voice barely audible above the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. "I am not sure if you're completely healed, you know?"

He nods firmly, already reaching for the door handle, and something inside her constricts painfully—as if her heart itself is being squeezed. The thought of returning to her empty mansion, to the endless silence broken only by her own footsteps, suddenly feels unbearable.

With a courage born of desperation, she steps closer, her hand brushing lightly against his uninjured arm. The contact sends a shiver through her despite herself. "Stay a few more days with me, no?" Her tone is light, almost playful, but her blue eyes—usually so composed—betray the depth of her longing. "Surely your comrades can manage without you for just a little while longer?"

She searches his face for any flicker of hesitation, any sign that he might feel even a fraction of what she's beginning to feel—a connection that has breathed new life into her existence, however precarious that life might now be.