Chapter Text
Josephine waits until the orchestra swells and the terrace doors slide closed behind them, muffling the gala’s noise into a distant, ornamental hum. Antibes glitters beyond the balustrade - yachts lit like constellations in the marina. In the ballroom they have just left, Riviera wealth circles and postures, champagne and decadence catching the light - but Josephine has already stopped performing for it.
She takes Brigitte by the wrist and draws her into the narrow shadow beside a column, where the ivy climbs and the air smells faintly of citrus and sea salt.
Without preamble, she kisses her.
It is deep, unambiguous, deliberately indulgent - Josephine’s mouth warm, confident, exact. For a heartbeat Brigitte responds without thought, hands settling at Josephine’s waist, grounding her. Then she stills, just enough to look.
Josephine’s eyes are bright. Focused. Alive with calculation.
Brigitte exhales softly against her lips. “You are plotting,” she murmurs.
Josephine smiles. Wicked, unapologetic. She inclines her head, a fractional acknowledgment rather than denial. “I’ve identified three possibilities,” she says. “I would appreciate your assessment.”
Brigitte’s thumb presses once, briefly, at Josephine’s hip. “Homework,” she says.
“Yes.”
A pause. Then Brigitte leans in again, brushing her mouth against Josephine’s cheek - lighter this time, affectionate, deliberate. “Très bien,” she says. “But you owe me dinner. A fair exchange for reconnaissance.”
Josephine’s smile softens, just enough to mean something else entirely. “Agreed. I will message you the details.”
They separate easily, seamlessly, returning to the party as if the conversation had not occurred at all.
The commissariat is humming in its usual late-morning rhythm - phones ringing, officers crossing briskly between desks, the stubborn scent of burnt espresso lingering in the air.
Brigitte’s office door stands ajar, a subtle signal that she is available while absolutely not inviting interruption. Inside, she sits at her sleek metal desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows, posture relaxed in a way that fools no one. She is working.
Or rather, she is studying.
A stack of reports lies open before her: marina transaction logs, hotel guest registries, local casino surveillance notes. All entirely legitimate for her to review. Or so they appear.
She began this particular inquiry as soon as she could delegate the overnight incidents - noise complaints near the marina, a scuffle outside a nightclub, a missing Rolex that will inevitably reappear. All handled. All routine.
This is not routine.
Josephine had charmed three people last night: a German yacht broker, an American heiress, and a Swiss banker. Brigitte intends to know every relevant detail about each one.
Prudence.
Professional diligence.
And…because Josephine asked.
Évidemment.
She clicks her pen once - sharp, deliberate - then speaks through the half-open door.
“Can you bring me the file on the marina incidents last week? The big blue binder.”
A muffled “Oui, Commissaire!” answers promptly.
Her English returns as she murmurs to herself, “Let us see who you are, monsieur yacht broker…”
She flips through the marina logs until the name matches her memory.
Ah. Erik Dahlmann.
Hamburg. Owner of an eighteen-metre vessel moored two weeks beyond his paid contract. Quiet disputes with port authorities. Treats marina staff like furniture. Financial irregularities tucked neatly into the corners of his company’s filings.
“Tiens,” Brigitte murmurs. “Messy.”
A dry smile ghosts across her mouth. “Josephine will like you.”
Next: the American heiress.
She draws the hotel ledger closer.
Kelsey Van Arden.
Twenty-six. Palm Beach. Credit card flagged last month for extravagant casino withdrawals. Parents wealthy enough to consider this character-building. Multiple disputes with casino staff. Loud. Entitled. Reckless.
“Mon dieu,” Brigitte mutters. “A walking vulnerability.”
She pauses, pen hovering. Then, quieter: “Josephine… try not to eat this one alive.”
Finally, the Swiss banker.
For him, she does not pull a binder. She leans out of her office instead.
“Lieutenant,” she says calmly, “I need an administrative check on a certain Henri Schaffner. Discreetly, please.”
The lieutenant nods without hesitation. Brigitte chose her people well.
Back in her chair, she rubs two fingers along her brow, thinking.
Josephine had chosen them effortlessly - vulnerabilities painted on them like neon signs, visible only to someone who knew exactly where to look. And Josephine is not merely trained.
She is gifted.
Brigitte’s jaw tightens at the thought. Warmth presses too close to the surface. She remembers the kiss from the terrace - unapologetic, proprietary, intimate in a way that still feels new. She exhales once, steadies herself.
Focus.
She returns to the Swiss banker’s preliminary notes, several databases now populating on the tablet in front of her, courtesy of her lieutenant.
Henri Schaffner.
Riviera investments. Aggressive strategies. Whispers - never formal - of undeclared accounts for wealthy clients.
Brigitte clicks her pen again. “Bon,” she says softly. “So you are the dangerous one.”
A soft rap at the door.
“Commissaire,” the secretary says, setting the blue binder down carefully. “Anything else?”
“Non, merci.” A brief, polite smile. “Close the door, if you would.”
The latch clicks shut.
Brigitte leans back, looking at the neatly stacked files.
This - this quiet triage, this cleaning of the field before Josephine steps onto it - is where she excels. Removing sharp edges. Anticipating complications before they form. Protecting without spectacle.
She tells herself it is necessary because Josephine’s messes become her messes.
She tells herself it is tactical. Logical. Inevitable.
She does not tell herself - not out loud - that it calms her to know who surrounds Josephine. That it matters to her to make the danger legible before it has a name.
And, bien sûr. Josephine asked.
Brigitte reaches for her phone and types, the words clipped, professional, deceptively neutral:
The German is disorganised.
The American is reckless.
The Swiss - be careful.
You can have the summaries this evening.
A few seconds pass.
Josephine’s reply arrives.
My darling Brigitte,
You always know exactly what I need.
Brigitte exhales slowly, then considers the files anew.
“Enfin,” she murmurs to the empty room. “Of course I do.”
And she returns to work - steady, precise, quietly in love.