Elliott? Oh God, not him too.

I had to know. And since she was dishing the details, I figured I’d already hit rock bottom, so what’s one more shovelful of dirt? “Elliott too?” The words caught, and I almost couldn’t finish the question. “Was Elliott in on it the whole time??”

Her expression folded, and she seemed to survey her memory. “No, Elliott, like most everyone actually, was kept in the dark intentionally so that the reveal had more pow when it was finally executed. He just filmed what he filmed, and it was up to me to piece together your love story with Bastien with what he provided. But lucky for me, he always managed to focus his attention on you and Bastien, perhaps because there wasn’t much house to film since the reno went sideways. Maybe because the notes we gave him on how great the content was kept him filming much of the same? Or maybe it was because he was smitten with you and just followed you about like a lost puppy? Who knows? Either way, he sent us his material, and I put together the footage to portray a fire brewing between you and Bastien, the way I always knew we could sell your romance as our main storyline. Honestly, I mean, it’s how I designed the whole show from the start. Like I told you when we first met, I was always such a fan of EVERLYday, and I watched like everyone else in America the back and forth between you and Rhys. I felt it along with you. It was great TV drama.”

“No! That was my life, this is my life, Kate,” I bit back.

“C’mon, Plum. You and I both know that when you’re famous, your life is never really your own. It’s the public’s. That’s what you get paid for. So after the release of that sex tape and your breakup, you just fell into one mess after the next, and as a fan of yours and as someone who was ready to make her way as a producer, this story idea was like gold! Heart Restoration Project, get it?” Kate smirked, clearly impressed with the cleverness of her twist, a proud mastermind who’d managed to arrange all the pawns and pieces in order to take down the king. Checkmate.

She continued, in spite of the look of devastation firmly registered on my face, “This has been my baby from the beginning. Even Jack and Claudine have been completely in the dark about the reveal. They believe all the romance between you two is one hundred percent genuine, born out of working so closely together on this project. And let me just say, they have been eating. It. Up!” She clapped her hands on each word, startling me out of the tornado of spiraling thoughts swirling through my head. Barely coming up for breath, Kate continued, “Our test audiences have been eating it up too, and girlfriend, get ready, because we are, without a doubt, going to have a serious hit on our hands.”

I still couldn’t speak. Though it seemed no one else in production had been in on Kate’s twist (at least no one who’d been working directly with me), there were too many pieces for me to try to make sense of.

Kate drew in a breath and then kept on going, as if she was so excited and overcome by her ability to have pulled it off that she was bursting at the seams to share. “Whew!” she exclaimed, “I gotta be honest, a few moments got a liiiiiiiittle dicey, like in Paris when you and Elliott decided to go rogue and take that detour to the museum instead of Coco Chanel’s house. But thankfully, you two made it just in time for the lobby run-in I worked my ass off to orchestrate. Ugh . . . you can’t even imagine what that took. But, whew, so worth it when we got that shot of your face . . . seeing Rhys . . . with Anya. Now that is an episode cliffhanger if ever I saw one!”

The tears that had pooled now fell freely, and I didn’t even bother wiping them away. “I just don’t understand. How could you do this to me? To anyone?” As angry as I felt, and as much as I wanted to scream, my questions came out as a weak whisper.

Kate cocked her head to the side and mock-pouted, as if she was the one hurt by my implication. “Plum, I like you a lot. You’re a nice girl. But this isn’t personal. It’s showbiz. We figured if anyone could understand that, it’s you,” Kate offered casually.

I turned to face her, wanting her to see my anguish, my cheeks wet with hot tears. “Not personal? Not personal? Okay then, why did you pick me?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I mean yes, Plum, we did personally slate you for this role because of your family history with television, but mostly because of your very public relationship with Rhys. It’s a media frenzy whenever you two are at odds—especially ever since that sex tape went viral. And when you confessed to me that day at your family’s bed-and-breakfast that Rhys had been the one who’d sold it to the media?! God, you can’t pay for a nugget of drama that good. We knew we had an opportunity to build an incredibly compelling show around your heartbreak with Rhys and set you up on a course to a mended heart with a sexy Frenchy for a bit. I mean, what’s to be mad about? You had a little fling with a hot guy, and at the end of it all, you get a château in Provence.” She crossed her arms and scoffed, as if offended by my clear misinterpretation of such a fantastic opportunity. “I really don’t see the problem.”

“You don’t see the problem with manipulating the people in my life and deceiving me in the worst possible way, all for television ratings?”

“But isn’t that exactly what reality TV is? What it’s always been? You can’t tell me that your romances on Love Lagoon were any more real or less scripted than what we’re doing here. Or that your chemistry with Viktor on Celebrity Ballroom was one hundred percent genuine. That’s the game, Plum, and I am really shocked that you’re reacting this way, quite frankly. On the long list of reasons why we picked you was the fact that you are a reality TV pro, an institution. The girl who can plaster a smile on her face or manufacture a river of tears as soon as the director calls action. We figured you’d get it more than anyone.”

“Don’t gaslight me like this is my misunderstanding or like this is my fault for not being cool with it. I don’t care how you qualify or justify it, it’s betrayal plain and simple. I thought I was hosting a home improvement show—that’s what I signed on for. The fact that I happened to fall for Bastien along the way, I thought, was an organic by-product of all our time together. Our romance was the cherry on top of this project, never the project!”

“You can’t tell me it never crossed your mind that he was quite possibly a little too good to be true? A cherry indeed—we ‘cherry-picked’ him specifically to play the role we needed, someone who could mend your broken heart, even if we knew he could never mend the broken house in the time we gave him.”

“So you asked Bastien to seduce me? Romance me? Screw with me just enough to get me to fall for him? How much did he know?”

Kate crossed her arms and thought for a moment. “He knew the real premise of the show, but I may have told him you were in on it as well. He was told to play up the romance, both on and off camera, to really develop an authentic chemistry for on-screen, and not worry so much about the renovation. That’s why we hired René, who we can all agree knows a hell of a lot more about construction, but isn’t as easy on the eyes. We figured you’d be more smitten with a Bastien type, and I guess we were right.”

I shook my head, the realization of her words hitting in real time as she spoke them aloud. I hopped off the truck bed and stepped in close to Kate. “I’m done. I’m out. Good luck filming your finale without me.” I turned on my heel and started to make my way toward the cobblestone driveway where Gervais was waiting.

“Not so fast, Ms. Everly.” Kate’s voice was stiffer, more authoritative than her previously amused banter. “You’re still under contract. If you walk away, you get absolutely nothing. No house, no pay, nada. Or should I say ‘rien.’” She drew her pointer finger and thumb together to make a perfectly round O.

I froze in my spot, still facing away from Kate, my back firmly turned on the house, Bastien, and everything that went with it. New thoughts bombarded my consciousness. I quickly tried to weigh my options: the house and the money I’d earn once it sold (which I desperately needed), versus my pride, my ego, my sanity? Additionally, the weight of leaving the Adélaïses’ house abandoned and unfinished after everything we’d learned struck me almost harder than anything else.

I wasn’t prepared to make a decision I was going to regret. I needed some time to think and process all of it. I finally turned to face her. “You know what, Kate, you’re right. Since I am bound by contract to fulfill my obligations in order for me to get the château, I am going to need some time to think about this. I’m going back to the inn, and I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”

Spinning around to leave, I called back to her in a biting tone, “If you’re having any trouble with the rest of the reno, you know where I’ll be, since we’re ride or die and all. Your words, not mine.”

Bleary-eyed through tears I couldn’t keep from falling down my cheeks, I continued to amble down the dirt path to where the van was parked. I took one more glance at the house from over my shoulder as the sun blazed behind it, wondering if it would be the last time I would ever see Château Mirabelle.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Though I felt a little bad for giving Gervais the silent treatment in the van, it was either that or I was going to unleash the fire of a thousand suns upon someone, and he would be the lucky, yet undeserving, recipient. So instead, I stayed quiet and stewed in my anger and hurt for the entire twenty-minute ride back into town.

Gervais stopped the van and let me out in front of the inn. I managed to squeak out a merci before closing the door behind me. Dropping my bag down on the ground, I knelt beside it to fish around for my phone to call my agent, Nancy. While deep down I knew she’d never intentionally set me up, at this moment, I needed a sanity check. I dumped the bag over, shook the contents onto the ground, and sifted through the pile. No phone. I patted my pockets, my hips, my bra. Still nothing. Dammit.

Maybe I left it by the production trailer when I picked up my walkie? Or by the electric kettle when I made the cup of tea? Or on the music stand next to my mic in the recording studio?

“Merde! Merde! Merde!”

Kneeling on all fours, I swept the contents of my tote back inside the bag. I stood up and made direct eye contact with Monsieur Grenouille. He shook his head and mouthed the word “incroyable” before heading back inside his shop.

Seriously? Today was not the day, and I was not the one. What the hell was his problem anyway? He didn’t even know me, didn’t know anything about me. I didn’t care how delicious his hazelnut croissants were, it was time to give Mr. Frogface a piece of my mind.

Adrenaline coursing through me, I slung my bag over my shoulder and stalked toward the patisserie. I pushed open the shop’s double door with all my might, only I overestimated the amount of effort needed and slipped on the freshly mopped floor, taking a nosedive onto the tiled ground and sliding to land just inches from the pastry case.

Monsieur Grenouille rushed over to me, maneuvering around the sign marked ATTENTION: SOL GLISSANT (CAUTION: WET FLOOR). “Mon dieu! Are you okay, Mademoiselle?” he cried.

I sat upright and looked around, embarrassed and confused, and immediately burst into tears.

“Zut! Mademoiselle! Are you hurt? Should I call le médecin?” Monsieur Grenouille’s usual gruff demeanor was quickly replaced by concern that seemed to grow with each gasp of my sobs.

“No, I’m fine. I’m . . . I’m—” I blubbered.

“If you’re not hurt, then let me help you up? Come sit.” He pulled out a chair and then extended his hand to me, which I gratefully accepted. I examined my elbow and bent down again to retrieve some of the contents of my purse, now scattered across the floor of the shop.

“Here,” Monsieur Grenouille said, handing me my phone, which had somehow flown over one of the glass cases to land somewhere behind the counter.

“Are you kidding me?! It was in the bag this whole time?” I said, shoving the phone back into my tote and bursting into a fresh round of tears.

Moments later, Monsieur Grenouille returned with a bag of ice, a glass of water, and a warm pain au chocolat. “Something sweet always helps to calm the nerves. And the ice is for your elbow,” he said, handing both to me and then placing the drink on the table. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Monsieur Grenouille?”

“Oui.”

“Merci.” I nodded, tears still in my eyes.

“Ce n’est rien. It is nothing.”

I held the ice to my throbbing elbow and sipped on the cool water while customers came in and out of the shop ordering fresh baguettes and other meticulously artful treats. Monsieur Grenouille served each of them with a wide smile and some friendly banter, so different from the encounters I’d grown used to with him.

When the shop finally cleared out, Monsieur Grenouille came back over to check on me. I handed him back the now almost completely melted bag of ice and a soggy handful of napkins from the bag’s condensation, and let him know my elbow was feeling better. He cleared away the items as I dabbed the corners of my eyes with the cloth napkin and set it down. “You’ve been more than gracious. I’ll get out of your way soon. In fact, you’ll be happy to know I’m probably leaving Maubec as early as I can get on a flight.”

“You’ve finished your little project, then?” he asked, his condescension clear from the slight upturn of his nose.

“No, not quite. I got taken for a fool, and now all I want to do is go home.”

He squinted, confused. “Taken for a fool? I don’t understand . . .”

“Oh, taken for a fool means when you’re kinda—”