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Night fell over Château Jonchet.
In a small pavilion in the garden, Hubert de Givenchy and Philippe Venet sat together, enjoying the cool air, the moonlight—and waiting for someone.
Henry arrived late, carrying a bottle of champagne and three flutes. The champagne had been provided by Givenchy's butler; Henry simply played courier, pouring for the two elders first.
Givenchy eyed him with a peculiar expression.
"Judging by the look of you, your girl had quite a few complaints today. Finished venting?"
Henry let out an awkward laugh.
As a "fragile Kryptonian" who had been dragged into a guest room and thoroughly attacked the moment he returned, he could only say—Charlize Theron had been… unusually intense today.
One downside of an old castle: poor sound insulation.
If someone got loud, the echoes might carry through half the building.
Henry tried to smooth things over.
"Seems like Charlize was really provoked by Cruella today. I can kind of understand now why someone so talented isn't exactly well-liked."
"So? Did their collaboration fall apart?"
"No. They actually reached an agreement. Signing tomorrow. They clearly dislike each other, but somehow they've become each other's last lifeline… Still, I'm not optimistic about how it'll go."
Givenchy suddenly asked, seemingly out of nowhere:
"Do you know the difference between being skilled and being professional, Henry?"
Henry shook his head.
Givenchy continued:
"Skill means you're good at something.
Professionalism means you can set aside personal feelings and work with anyone.
"Take Gone with the Wind. Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable reportedly disliked each other so much they ate garlic before kissing scenes—yet on screen, they conveyed perfect romance.
"Cruella has many flaws, but her professionalism is unquestionable. If Charlize can reach that level—and with your help—I believe she'll achieve great things."
She would've made it even without me…
Henry thought so, but still raised his glass with a smile.
Givenchy and Venet drank with him.
---
After a sip, Givenchy gently touched Venet's hand. His partner understood immediately and stepped away, leaving them some distance.
Only then did Givenchy speak again.
"Henry, I asked you here tonight because I have an inheritance I wish to entrust to you."
Henry immediately recoiled half a step, hands up.
"Whoa—Givenchy, you're still very much alive. What kind of 'inheritance' are we talking about?
"If you want to keep working, you don't need to retire at all. Even after selling your brand and leaving LVMH, there are ways to continue designing.
"Look at Karl Lagerfeld—he's running Chanel, his own brand, Fendi, Chloé… and he's only five years younger than you. Honestly, your retirement last year felt a bit rushed."
Givenchy gave a bitter smile.
"I thought you would understand. After 1993… before spring even came, my inspiration felt buried in a grave.
"I held on for two more years. But there was nothing left to draw from. So I stepped away."
…Audrey Hepburn.
Henry's expression softened—tinged with both sadness and nostalgia.
Placing a fist lightly against his chest, he said quietly:
"Yes… that kind of emptiness doesn't just disappear. But the living still have to move forward."
"Indeed," Givenchy nodded. "But I hope some memories can continue on."
He took out a handwritten sheet… and a small, partially filled perfume bottle, placing both on the table.
The bottle looked aged but well-preserved, its seal intact. Smooth, rounded—almost as if polished by years of handling.
The paper, written in French, contained a perfume formula.
Givenchy pushed them toward Henry.
"This is what I want you to have."
---
Since it was explicitly meant for him, Henry didn't hesitate.
He picked up the bottle, gave it a gentle shake, then brought it closer and inhaled.
The moment he did—
His expression changed.
"This is…?"
Givenchy's voice turned firm.
"As long as I don't acknowledge it, it isn't."
But Henry's enhanced senses left no room for doubt.
This was Audrey Hepburn's perfume.
Her true perfume.
Back in 1954, during a visit to Givenchy's lab, she had fallen in love with a scent. Givenchy gifted it to her—never releasing it publicly.
Years later, with her permission, a version was commercialized under the name L'Interdit.
But—
Henry knew the truth.
The commercial version and Audrey's personal one were not the same.
The difference was subtle—so subtle most people would never notice.
But it existed.
And the bottle before him… was the original.
The real "forbidden" fragrance.
A secret shared between two masters, quietly hidden from the world.
---
Givenchy gently caressed the formula sheet, his gaze soft.
"Audrey is gone. I haven't made this perfume in years.
"The bottle you hold is all I have left. And this formula… the only copy. I destroyed the rest.
"I once thought of taking it with me to the grave.
"But Audrey once told me—you could tell the difference between this and the commercial version.
"If someone still remembers this scent… then perhaps it shouldn't disappear with me.
"I want someone to remember her as she was—bathed in this fragrance.
"Not just anyone. It must be someone we both knew. Someone who understands what she meant.
"That person… is you.
"If you refuse, then this will go with me into the ground."
---
Henry carefully placed the formula back on the table.
Givenchy added quietly:
"It's yours now. Do with it as you wish.
"Only one request—if you ever make it public, do so after I'm gone.
"Until then… let it remain Audrey's alone."
---
Henry picked up both the bottle and the formula.
"I understand. I'll accept this as your legacy.
"But I won't use it for profit. I'll preserve it—nothing more—until the day I'm gone as well."
Givenchy smiled faintly.
"Thank you."
Henry then asked, "Does Mr. Venet know?"
Relieved, Givenchy leaned back, lighter now.
"He does. I told him. But I've already left him plenty. He won't lack for anything."
The night grew quieter.
Only the scent—faint, precious, and irreplaceable—remained between them.
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