If I hadn’t smudged my mascara in the airport bathroom, I might never have gotten lost in Paris.
That’s the thought that won’t leave my head as the taxi pulls away from Charles de Gaulle and the city I’ve only ever seen in movies rises on the horizon like a dare.
“Première fois à Paris?” the driver asks, catching my eyes in the rearview mirror.
My French extends to croissant and merci. “Yes,” I say, fingers flexing around the handle of my tote. “First time anywhere, really.”
He laughs softly, turns the radio up just enough that French pop swirls around us like carbonation. Outside, gray clouds hang low over pale stone buildings. Everything looks washed in light, even with the overcast sky—like someone turned the saturation up on real life.
I should be excited. Normal people would be excited.
Instead there’s this tight, humming knot under my ribs. I keep thinking someone at work will realize they made a mistake, that Clara meant to send literally anyone else to support the Paris meeting. Not Lily-who-never-takes-a-sick-day, who has never left her tiny hometown except for college forty minutes away.
My phone buzzes. Harper: Send pics or I’ll assume you got kidnapped by a mime.
I huff out a laugh, snap a crooked photo of the blurred city and my own wide eyes in the window and text it back. Then the taxi turns, and suddenly the Seine is there—steel-gray, threaded with boats and framed by bridges that look like lace in stone.
My throat goes weird. “Wow,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
The driver smiles like he’s seen that look a thousand times.
The hotel lobby smells like lemon polish and something floral I can’t name. Marble gleams under my scuffed flats; every heel click echoes like it belongs here in a way I never will.
“Bienvenue, mademoiselle,” the receptionist says, perfectly put together in a navy blazer. Her English is smooth. “Checking in?”
“Yes. Um, Lily Cole. With Jennings & Hartley.” I push my passport across the counter and try not to think about how my hands look next to her manicured nails.
She types, then her eyes flicker with recognition. “Ah, for the Marlowe meeting tomorrow.”
The name skitters across my skin like static. Marlowe Industries. A whole different world. The reason I’m here, technically—to handle notes, slides, whatever Clara needs while she negotiates with a man whose face I only know from business magazines.
Edward Marlowe, the legend. And his son, the heir, whose photos look like they’ve been lit by their own private sun.
I’ll be in the back of the room, invisible. That’s the plan. Stay small, do a good job, fly home, go back to my desk, and never again cross an ocean.
The receptionist slides my keycard over. “We’ve upgraded you to a river view,” she says. “Compliments of Marlowe Industries.”
Oh.
My cheeks heat. “That’s—wow. Thank you.”
The room is bigger than my entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Seine, the water glinting between passing clouds. A tiny Eiffel Tower stands on the desk like a joke.
I drop my tote and stand there, watching the river. Cars move, people cross bridges, a boat slices the surface, leaving ripples that change everything and nothing at once.
I should review the presentation.
