Life in Avignon had settled into a comfortable rhythm for Isabelle and Henri. The whirlwind of their courtship and wedding had given way to the gentle predictability of shared breakfasts, afternoon strolls through the flower market, and evenings spent curled up with a book by the crackling fireplace. Isabelle’s flower shop, now bearing the subtle addition of "Moreau Fleurs," was thriving, Henri’s presence a quiet strength that allowed her to truly blossom. He’d helped her source new and exotic varieties, and his understanding of botany was a constant, invaluable resource. She felt, finally, at peace.

The remnants of her heartbreak over Jean-Luc had faded, replaced by the vibrant colours of Henri's love. He was so different. Where Jean-Luc had been obsessed with status and appearances, Henri was grounded, content with the simple pleasures of life. He admired her talent, not her family's (now non-existent) dowry. He saw her, the real Isabelle, and that was all that mattered.

One particularly crisp autumn evening, after a long but rewarding day at the shop, Isabelle found Henri tinkering with the television, trying to coax a better signal from their ancient antenna. "Having trouble, mon amour?" she asked, placing a steaming mug of chamomile tea on the small table beside him.

He glanced up, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a familiar, comforting way. "Just trying to catch the evening news. There's a press conference I wanted to see. Something about Moreau Industries."

Isabelle knew little of Moreau Industries, a luxury conglomerate whose name was synonymous with wealth and power. She vaguely remembered seeing their advertisements in glossy magazines, featuring exquisitely crafted perfumes, high-end fashion, and gleaming automobiles. It was a world removed from her life in Avignon, a world she had no desire to enter.

"Moreau Industries? What's so interesting about them?" she asked, settling onto the sofa beside him, her feet tucked beneath a warm knitted blanket.

Henri shrugged, his attention returning to the flickering screen. "Just curious. They're a major player in the French economy. Worth keeping an eye on."

Finally, after much coaxing and fiddling, the picture cleared, resolving into a scene of controlled chaos. A sleek, modern stage was bathed in the harsh glare of spotlights. A backdrop emblazoned with the Moreau Industries logo – a stylized fleur-de-lis intertwined with a serpent – shimmered behind a podium. A murmur rippled through the assembled journalists, their cameras poised like weapons.

The screen showed a sharply dressed woman, impeccably coiffed and radiating an aura of authority, stepping up to the microphone. Isabelle recognised her as Genevieve Dubois, the matriarch and public face of the Moreau dynasty. Her face was severe, composed in a way that broadcasted steely resolve.

"Good evening," Genevieve Dubois began, her voice crisp and commanding, “I am here today to address several important developments within Moreau Industries. First, I am happy to announce record earnings for the past quarter, a testament to the dedication and innovation of our entire team."

The journalists scribbled furiously, their cameras flashing. Genevieve continued, outlining the company's future plans, expansion into new markets, and commitments to sustainable practices. Isabelle found herself tuning out, her mind drifting back to the day’s floral arrangements, the delicate dance of colours and textures.

Then, Genevieve paused, a slight tightening around her lips, a subtle shift in her carefully crafted composure. "And now, for a more personal announcement. I am delighted to introduce to you the new CEO of Moreau Industries, my son, Alexandre Dubois. He has been working tirelessly behind the scenes for years, preparing to take the helm, and I am confident that he will lead this company to even greater heights."

A collective gasp swept through the room. The cameras whirred to life with renewed intensity. Isabelle felt a prickle of unease, an inexplicable premonition settling over her.

The screen shifted, focusing on a man who stepped confidently onto the stage. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and possessed an air of undeniable charisma. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, the dark fabric accentuating his piercing blue eyes and strong jawline. He smiled, a flash of white teeth against his tanned skin, and a wave of recognition, cold and terrifying, washed over Isabelle.

It was Henri.

No, not Henri. It was Henri, but… different. This man exuded power, authority, a carefully cultivated image of success. The gentle gardener she knew, the man who smelled of roses and earth, seemed to have vanished, replaced by a polished, sophisticated CEO.

Isabelle felt her breath catch in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the room. She reached out, her hand trembling, and touched Henri’s arm. He was staring intently at the screen, his face unreadable.

On the television, Alexandre Dubois was speaking, his voice smooth and confident, echoing the warmth and charm she had come to love in Henri. "Thank you, Mother. I am honoured to be taking on this role, and I am committed to upholding the legacy of Moreau Industries. I am also delighted to announce that I was recently married."

The reporters erupted with questions, a cacophony of voices clamoring for answers. "Who is the lucky woman, Mr. Dubois?" "When was the wedding?" "Will she be joining you in Paris?"

Alexandre raised a hand, silencing the crowd. "My wife prefers to remain out of the public eye for now. We were married in a private ceremony, surrounded by our closest friends and family." He smiled again, a practiced, dazzling smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Isabelle felt the blood drain from her face. The room seemed to spin. The image on the screen blurred, distorted by the tears that were welling up in her eyes. She stared at the man beside her, the man she had sworn to love and cherish, the man she thought she knew.

"Henri?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He didn’t respond, his gaze still fixed on the television. She gripped his arm tighter, her knuckles white. "Henri, is that… is that you?"

Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face her. His expression was a complex mixture of guilt, regret, and something that looked almost like fear. The light in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by a shadow she had never seen before.

"Isabelle…" he began, his voice low and hesitant.

But she didn't need him to say anything. The truth was written all over his face, etched into the lines around his eyes, hidden beneath the carefully constructed facade. He was Alexandre Dubois, the CEO of Moreau Industries, the enigmatic heir to a global empire. And he had lied to her.

The reality crashed down on her with the force of a tidal wave, sweeping away everything she thought she knew, shattering the fragile peace she had found in Avignon. The lavender-scented air suddenly felt thick and suffocating. The cozy warmth of the room turned cold and sterile.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger, betrayal, and disbelief. "Who are you?"

He reached for her, his hand outstretched, but she recoiled, pulling away from his touch. The man she loved, the man she had given her heart to, had vanished before her very eyes, replaced by a stranger, a phantom, a man shrouded in secrets and lies.

The television continued to blare, the reporters still clamoring for answers, but Isabelle heard none of it. All she could hear was the deafening roar of her own shattered dreams.