Page 41 of Everything About You

The H?tel Plaza Athénée is, I think, one of the most famous and luxurious hotels in Paris. At least as depicted by a lot of

American media. The five-star hotel is an elegant fixture of the Avenue Montaigne, with red awnings and ruby geraniums garnishing

the iron-wrought windows and terraces.

So it doesn’t feel like the ideal place to surprise Yvette when she’s at lunch with the creative director of Maison Dauphine.

In all my overthinking on the way here, however, it’s become clear there isn’t an ideal place for this to happen. I’ve made

my bed, and now these are the circumstances I am stuck with.

This is one of the more unhinged things I’ve done, without a doubt, but according to Haydée, this is the only chance I have,

so I am taking it. I’d like to believe, after hearing how he wanted me to have the resort show, Rhodes would do the same for

me.

I’ve wanted one-on-one time with Pascal since before I even got this apprenticeship, and now I am jeopardizing any chance

of him ever having a favorable opinion of me. It’s not, after all, considered very sophisticated or well-mannered to waylay

people, much less in a restaurant operated by a Michelin-starred chef.

When I walk through the gold-adorned revolving door, I am overwhelmed with nerves.

This is the type of thing that makes my vision go a bit blurry, my heartbeat get erratic, my pits start to sweat uncontrollably.

.. thank god I’m wearing a sport coat. Sometimes before a big tennis match, I’d panic that the bottoms of my feet would sweat too much and I’d slide around in my shoes.

This never happened, but it didn’t stop me from worrying about it.

Standing in the lobby, I am surely out of my league here. Gorgeous, impossibly tall flower arrangements seem to grow beside

the massive columns, and a grand chandelier anchors the room. Mirrored doors and rich paintings add a distinct feeling of

luxury to the space.

Confidence, Milo. Confidence.

Je suis confiant .

I puff up my chest just a little, and I get into a mindset that doesn’t belong to me.

In my head now, I’m someone more like Rhodes or Ollie. I’m someone who throws on a jacket and tie for lunch without even thinking

anything of it—the tight, restricted range of movement for my arms doesn’t feel limiting, but empowering. In my head, I’m

someone who isn’t going to look at the price when I order. I’ll get one of the nicest bottles of wine without even asking

anything about it, and when the waiter brings it over to taste, I’ll actually taste it and consider whether it’s worthy of my consumption. In my head, I fit in here.

I walk over to the front desk, resting an elbow on the marble. The woman at the computer is probably mid-forties, with black

hair and red lips that match her dress.

“ Bonjour, monsieur ,” she says with a wide smile. “Welcome to the H?tel Plaza Athénée. Are you checking in?”

“Bonjour.” Then, with all the confidence in the world, I shake my head. “No, I’m here to meet someone for lunch. Only I’m not sure how

to find my way. Would you be so kind as to show me to Le Relais Plaza?”

The woman squints a bit, and I think she is evaluating me silently. Probably scanning me for details that would give away

if I belong here or not. Stitching on my lapel or the structure of my shirting. How well-groomed I am, maybe?

It feels like forever that she examines me quietly, and I wonder if this was a terrible idea altogether. It would be humiliating

to be asked more questions and get denied. Or, worse, what if they have some kind of blacklist for people who try to disturb

hotel guests? Pascal Dumas is incredibly famous, after all, and I don’t think they’d take this lightly.

The woman’s face softens. “Of course.”

And just like that, I’m being guided through the hotel to the restaurant. As I follow her, I silently exhale the stress from

moments before. We come to the entrance, which is just as elegant as the rest of the hotel—an arched, lit doorway with gold

lettering that reads LE RELAIS PLAZA in a fancy serif font.

She stops at the door, which I was crossing my fingers for, because if she wanted to show me to the table, things would have

gotten awkward quickly. My backup plan was to thank her for guiding me but to let her know I wanted to use the restroom before

joining my lunch date, which might have given me away.

“Here we are,” she says. “Enjoy your lunch.”

She’s off, and when I walk in, I admire the restaurant. It’s Art Deco, which I’d read when I looked up the reviews and the dress code. Brass lighting, tall palms, and gorgeous gilded artwork that looks carved into stone, spanning the wall behind the bar.

I spot Yvette and Pascal quickly.

They’re both smiling, which is a great sign.

It’s somewhat surreal, seeing Pascal Dumas in the flesh. Obviously, he’s a human, just like us. But I have his coffee table

book and I follow him on Instagram and I’ve read and watched dozens of interviews. He’s a revolutionary in many ways, but

he brings a certain reverence to Renard Florin’s legacy—shown through small acts like paying homage to L’or des Fous and its history. Pascal is revered in the fashion world for bringing Maison Dauphine into the contemporary space

while maintaining its integrity and displaying a deep respect for the fashion house and its roots.

I cannot believe I am about to make a complete ass out of myself in front of this man.

One foot in front of the other. That’s all I can manage to do or even think about as I make my way across the restaurant, over the blue-and-gold fan-patterned

carpeting. I walk as if this isn’t terrifying, because the only way I can do this is if I pretend I’m the type of person who

might bump into Yvette at Le Relais Plaza.

She spots me as I’m approaching their table, and her smile falls immediately, which sends a shock of nervous chills down my

neck and spine. I’m not sure what my first bodily response is—wanting to throw up, wanting to spin and run, or feeling faint

enough to drop to the floor in cold unconsciousness.

“Milo.” She says it in a whisper, hissing like a mother annoyed with her child. “What are you doing here?”

I glance around. “I’m meeting someone for lunch.”

She narrows her eyes. “Who?”

“A friend,” I say. “I just saw you and wanted to come say hello and apologize in person for what happened at the shoot.”

Smoothing the napkin in her lap and pursing her lips, she sits up straight. “I assure you none of this is necessary.”

But Pascal seems intrigued. He turns to me and studies me behind his thick tortoiseshell glasses. He’s wearing a brown tweed

suit, which seems like it’d be excruciatingly warm in the summer, but it fits him perfectly, like it was made just for him.

Which I guess it probably was.

“To whom do we owe the pleasure?” Pascal asks, one corner of his lip quirking up.

“Milo Hawthorne, sir.” I awkwardly nod, which is a million times better than the intrusive urge to bow that just occurred in my mind. God. “I was an apprentice for—”

“Ah.” He places his forearms on the edge of the table. “I know who you are. Indeed.”

Yvette looks displeased, eyes darting from Pascal to me. “It was nice seeing you, Milo.”

Pascal, undeterred, gestures toward me. “Your entry into our apprenticeship program was my favorite. It displayed a deep understanding

of Maison Dauphine. Renard’s signature defiance and elegance wrapped into one.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Or, merci , sorry.”

He barks a laugh that is so loud several people turn to look at us. My cheeks burn. “I like that.” He says. “Very good. What

is this you are apologizing for? At the shoot?”

I couldn’t have asked for a better in, so I draw a deep breath.

“I had a lapse of judgment, unfortunately. I was meant to be responsible for the jewelry and some other items at an accessories shoot and I... well, I stepped away, and left the assets unattended. It was a terrible mistake,” I say this to Yvette.

“And it’s one I am deeply sorry for. I wish I could go back and be more sensible. ”

Yvette nods curtly. “Rather awkward to discuss over lunch.”

Pascal furrows his brow. “And were any pieces missing or stolen?”

“No,” Yvette says. “But the financial liability was too great. We must uphold all employees and individuals affiliated with

the maison to the appropriate standards of responsibility, which is why Milo and Rhodes were, sadly, unable to maintain their

apprenticeships.”

I’m watching the gears turn in Pascal’s mind, the way his brow becomes more pinched and his mouth twitches ever so slightly.

“Seems a bit rash, I suppose. From my perspective, anyway.”

“I’m not here to appeal my termination,” I offer. “Though, if I’m being honest, I don’t think it’s quite fair to Rhodes. He

was, rightfully, a bit offended that day after he found out I was likely going to be working the resort show instead of him.”

Yvette frowns. “And why would he be offended? Again, this is not a personal decision, but one based on merit and responsibility.

His mistake—”

“Mistake?” Pascal asks.

“The Instagram Story.”

“Oh yes.” Pascal grins now. He points to me. “I quite liked that. Very... enjoué , I think. No harm was done.”

Yvette lifts her shoulders, clearly at a loss for what to say next.

“Only the thing is, it wasn’t his mistake. It was mine.”

“Yours?” Yvette, unconvinced, leans back in her seat before gesturing to an iPad on the table. “Milo, I’m afraid we have important

things we must discuss—”

“I will let you get to it,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to tell you the truth. Rhodes didn’t do anything wrong. Either

time. I shouldn’t have let him take the blame for my mistake at the gala, and I shouldn’t have left the accessories unattended.

Rhodes hadn’t been assigned a job at the shoot yet, and it was my fault we got into an argument, and he was upset. It’s quite

understandable given how everything happened.”