Cannes Cutaway

She watches me for one second, then runs her hand through my hair. I push her thighs apart with care and kiss the inside of one, then the other.

“Still yes?” I ask.

“Completely yes.”

I put my mouth on her, and her hand tightens in my hair. I lick her clit slowly, learning the sound she makes when I find the right pressure, learning how her hips move when she wants more. I slide one finger inside her, then a second when she asks for it, keeping my eyes on her face.

“Bastien,” she says.

“I’m here.”

“Don’t stop.”

I do not stop.

Her climax hits hard. She cries out, body tightening around my hand before she collapses back against the mattress, laughing once as she tries to catch herself.

“Show-off,” she says.

“You started it.”

“You have no idea.”

I stand and strip off my shirt. Her attention moves over the scar at my jaw, the bruise forming near my forearm, the parts of me I usually keep locked behind suits and procedures.

She reaches for me.

“Condom,” I say.

“Prepared.”

“Always.”

I find one in my wallet, put it on, then settle over her. I hold myself still.

“Tell me.”

“I want you inside me.”

I enter her slowly. Her hands brace at my hips, guiding me closer, taking what she wants without apology. When I am fully inside her, I stop again.

“Okay?”

“More than okay.” She lifts her hips. “Move.”

I do.

At first, I keep the pace measured. She refuses to let me hide inside restraint, meeting every motion, pulling me down for another kiss, saying my name when I give her what she asks for.

“Faster?” I ask.

“Yes.”

My control goes in pieces after that. I drive into her harder, one hand holding her hip while the other presses against her clit. She comes again with my name breaking from her, and the sight of her taking pleasure without fear drags my own release out of me.

For a while, neither of us speaks.

Then I dispose of the condom, return to the bed, and find her watching me with that same fearless look.

“You set the tempo,” she says.

“That is my line.”

“Tonight, it is mine.”

I laugh once, low and helpless. Then I let her see it: every moment I wanted her, every rule I used to keep my hands still, every time she chose danger and I wanted to choose her instead.

“I have wanted to follow you since you laughed in my face,” I tell her.

“Good.”

She catches my hand and pulls me close.

Outside the bedroom, the release clock keeps moving toward midnight. Inside, I follow where Léa leads.

The release clock reaches zero before either of us sleeps.

Bastien stands at the study monitor in a fresh shirt, phone to his ear, while code scrolls across the screen. The forged-pass trail leads from the Palais reader to an Asterion server in Nice, then to a Caron shell company that paid for “consulting.”

“They kept every key,” he says. “They thought nobody would know what to ask for.”

“Can you give it to investigators?”

“I already did.”

Odette opens the protected broadcast feed at three. Two officers hold the corridor; Bastien clears every device before I sit before the camera. No location data. No live chat. Just my face, Amira’s evidence, and the film Caron tried to bury.

I tell the audience what the numbers mean. I name the crews he cheated, the artists he silenced, the people who kept records because somebody had to. Then Cutaway begins.

At minute twenty-seven, Bastien’s phone lights.

“The financial-crimes unit has the server archive,” he says. “They have payment records, access logs, and the names of the Asterion managers who placed people in Cannes.”

Odette lets out one clean breath. “And Caron?”

“His accounts are frozen. His contractor’s accreditation is revoked. Police have the two men who managed the local operation.”

Before sunrise, the threat has names, evidence, and handcuffs waiting for it.

By premiere time, the Palais has been swept again by people Bastien selected himself. I wear a black suit with a sharp white collar, no borrowed gown, no exposed seams, no costume for anybody’s fantasy. Bastien walks one pace behind my left shoulder until I reach the carpet.

Then he stops.

“You choose the route,” he says.

I look at the cameras, the barricades, the reporters already calling my name. “Inner lane. Four minutes. No fan line.”

“Done.”

A journalist shouts, “Léa, why keep going after everything that happened?”

I turn toward the nearest lens.

“Watch the film before you decide who deserves protecting.”

The cameras take it. This time, they cannot cut around the truth.

Later, I find Bastien beyond the barriers, where the flashes cannot reach him. He has removed his earpiece. His suit is still perfect, which feels unfair after the night we have had.

“I want to stay in your life,” he says. “By choice. Dinner in Paris. Arguments over routes. Whatever you will have from me, ma belle.”

“And the assignment?”

“After I say that, I resign from it. I will not build a future with you because somebody hired me to stand nearby.”

I step closer.

“You set the tempo,” he says. “I keep you breathing.”

I smile at him, because I have never been interested in slowing down for anyone.

“Are you ready to protect a woman who has no intention of slowing down?”