VERA

_

I FEEL AS IF I'VE SOLD MY SOUL AWAY.

Timothée's a demon disguised by all good things, but at this point I've already let him clip my wings and draw me into his burning hell-fire plans. He'd left the room to grab something from the kitchen, barely even a minute after I accepted his offer, and I could hear the sounds of cupboards opening and closing from through the thin walls.

I couldn't help but wonder if I made a mistake.

I had felt so sure in the moment, yet now I feel like I've been tied to an anchor and left to sink into the ocean of doubt. He said it himself—he'd only stolen apples, butter, and insignificant things—so whatever plan he had cooked up to retrieve stolen money couldn't be too bad.

Or illegal.

Right?

I'm a complete idiot, my brain chided, what the hell did I just get myself into? I have so much riding on whatever explanation he's about to tell me, and if it ends up being horrible, I'm not so sure he'll let me back out so easily. He wanted something, he needed me to get it, and he didn't seem like the kind of person to let his plans fall through just because I chickened out.

"You'll need this," Timothée said, walking back into the room.

In his hand was a small shot glass, a honey-brown liquid sloshing around the rims as he dangled it in front of my face. My stomach dropped at the sight of it, and my tongue suddenly felt a lot dryer—but I knew better.

"What is it?" I questioned, taking it from his hands hesitantly.

He held up his own shot glass, taking a small sip. "Brandy."

"I'm not old enough to drink this."

Timothée furrowed his brows in confusion, before realization hit him like a truck speeding down a highway. He nearly spat out his own sip, plucking the glass back from my hand, and shaking his head. "Merde, I forgot you were American."

I laughed weakly, amused that he'd let the cultural differences slip his mind (I was nineteen, and even though the legal drinking age was eighteen here, it was twenty-one back in the US. I preferred to wait till then). Fumbling back into the kitchen, Timothée returned shortly after with a large glass of...

...milk.

"There," he said proudly, downing the rest of his brandy, "just drink that, you'll need something to keep you sane before I explain things."

I eyed the light brown milk in my hands now, noting that Timothée preferred chocolate milk than plain. That made me feel warm inside. Why? I don't know, but I was too busy preparing to deal with my future to dwell on it any longer.

As the boy carefully lowered himself on the bed, I shifted backwards at the sudden incline in the mattress. The empty shot glass was twirling lazily in his fingers, and he let out a stressed exhale, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

"I'm about to tell you something important," he mumbled, almost to himself, "it might sound confusing, or crazy, but you have to promise to keep it between us."

I nodded my head, taking a sip out of the cold milk he gave me. I had a feeling I'd be needing it.

"Here's something you don't know about Paris," he continued, "you know it for the art, the culture, and the food, but here's where things get tricky. When you're a Parisian with wealth—copious amounts of it, might I add—you get a little ticket into this club, of sorts."

"Club?" I interrupted.

"Society," he added for good measure, "they call themselves The Elite. Anyone who's in that group is set for life, because they get access to political connections, social connections, inside dirt, and whatever the hell they want, since they're part of the most prestigious underground group in all of France."

I didn't like where this was going.

At first, when he said 'get my money back from my Uncle' I assumed it was just a couple hundred euros. Now that I knew some group of incredibly rich people were involved, I felt a little less confident on this plan being legal. Or morally right. Both were pretty bad options.

"The Elite..." I repeated to myself, memorizing it, "but what does this have to do with your Uncle?"

"Because my Uncle is in the Elite," Timothée scowled.

"Oh, damn."

"And do you want to know how he got there?"

"How?"

"Murder, Lies, and a little help from his friends," he said, sitting up a little straighter, "here's where it gets messy. My parents were part of the Elite—mother married into the Chalamet title, her father died, and she was left with enough money to send them straight into a fancy little seat on the Elite table—and all that good stuff."

Timothée paused, a heavy feeling settling over the room and between us. The glass in his hand was almost about to slip through his fingers and onto the comforter, and I could tell he wouldn't care. Whatever he was about to say was difficult, this I knew. I could feel it.

Reaching over the bed, I plucked the shot glass from his hands, placing it on the table beside me. Hopefully that would put him at ease. It seemed to work, because Timothée's eyes lit up briefly, and he continued.

"Things were good for them," he said breathily, "things were good for us. But I was twelve when they died, and even then, I didn't need to be a genius to know how it happened."

The Uncle.

I felt like I was being pulled into the plot of an action movie, left with information about hidden organizations, elites, wealthy people, and murder conspiracies. I didn't want to openly make my accusations, but Timothée was making it pretty obvious.

"Your Uncle killed them," I said, trying to ease into it slowly, "didn't he?"

Timothée flashed me a look. "Without a doubt."

"But how do you know?"

"My parents rarely left the house, and the one time they did, they were on their way to see him," he hissed, his eyes darkening, "halfway there, someone sent a car to intercept them, and neither of them made it out alive. Everyone played it off as an accident, but when their will disappeared, things got a little questionable. They said the will was misplaced. They said it was an unfortunate coincidence. I had to sit back and watch as my Uncle took everything from me in the span of a month before I could even process that my parents were gone."

I had to catch my breath after that.

It was like he dumped a bucket of ice cold information on top of my head, and I was left shivering with all of this new information.

"Timothée, I'm so sorry..." I said softly, letting the words slip out. He pursed his lips, shaking his head to cast away my apologies—to say I didn't need to make them—and kept staring at his hands. It was awkward in the room now, and I didn't want to sound foolish, but I couldn't help but prod for more information. Even asking the most ridiculous question would give me an answer. So I mumbled, "why can't you go to the police?"

Timothée raised a brow slightly. "My uncle is now one of the most powerful people in Paris. You can't go accusing him without proof."

"Do you have proof?" I said.

"Yeah," he nodded, "that's what I need to steal."

It was beginning to fall together in my mind. Timothée needed whatever proof there was to take his inheritance back from his Uncle, who he believes killed his parents in a plan to take their spot on the Elite. It made sense in its own twisted way.

"Right," I nodded, setting my glass down, "do you know what the proof is?"

"The Will," he said.

"I thought you said the Will went missing?"

"That's what they said. They did an investigation, and they couldn't find evidence of the Will being tampered with or destroyed—"

"—which means it might still exist," I finished for him, my eyes lighting up.

Timothée's eyes flickered with pride. "Exactly."

"But why didn't your uncle just destroy it?"

"Because my uncle is a sick person," he began to explain, "he loves keeping little reminders of his 'victories' like they're his trophies. He probably keeps the stolen will in a frame above his desk so he can look at it and feel proud that he got away with killing my parents and taking everything from them."

"So you know where he keeps it? You lived with him growing up, after your parents died, right?"

"Oh, no, darling, as if he'd ever keep a reminder of his actions around," Timothée scoffed under his breath, "as soon as he got placed in the Elite, he sent me to live with my aunt, never spending another cent or thought on me."

"Is your aunt as horrible as him?"

Timothée looked at me blankly, scanning me for any signs of jest, before erupting into a fit of laughter. His hair fell over his eyes as he nearly fell off the bed himself, and I sank into the mattress in confusion. Did I say something wrong?

"Don't tell me you haven't figured it out by now," he laughed, straightening himself upright, "do you really not know who my Aunt is?"

I winced. "No."

"It's Bella," he grinned, "why do you think she lets me steal things from her basement?"

Oh...

I wasn't sure if that was something easily noticed, or something I just failed to think about. It made sense—the familiarity, the knowledge of where Timothée spent his time, the climbing through basement windows without questions—and I guess I'm the idiot in the situation. Per the usual.

Desperate to change the situation, I prodded the boy with other questions.

"But what about the lawyer?" I asked, "don't they make two copies of Wills?"

"Lawyer's his business associate," Timothée noted, rolling his eyes, "just as slimy as my Uncle, and after a while, I began to suspect they were both in on it since they both want in on the Elite. If he could rep a member of the group, he'd be set for life."

I filled in the rest. "So, you want to get the will back from your Uncle, use it as proof to get your money back, and basically avenge your parent's death?"

"Simple, right?"

"No, Timothée, that's not simple at all."

"I know, which is why I need you."

He spent the next half an hour telling me about his observations, and explaining the second half of the plan. Apparently, his Uncle would be hosting a gala at his (actually Timothée's) house for the Mayor of Paris, politicians, celebrities, and the rest of the Elite, so it would be the perfect way to slip in and out without being noticed. More people, more distractions. From there, he'd be able to break into his Uncle's (actually Timothée's) office, and find the Will.

Get the proof, get the evidence, and get Timothée's inheritance back.

"So you need an invite," I said, pacing along the wooden floorboards of his room.

Timothée fell back onto the bed. "Yep."

"But how do you get one? If he's your Uncle, why won't he give you one?"

"Same reason why he left me to fend for myself," the boy shrugged, "I'm a reminder of the family he tried to get rid of. He knows I'm onto him, and letting me into that house is a dead giveaway."

"So how do you expect to do it?"

"I've got a plan."

"Will you tell me this plan?"

"Later," he threw out carelessly, batting his eyelashes at me, "but I promised you this deal was for the both of us, so I'd rather get to helping you with your little novel right now."

I smiled. "Really?"

"Do you have a plot?"

"No."

"A genre?"

"Yes."

"Tell it to me."

I winced. "You'll laugh."

"If you can't tell me the genre, I don't see how you expect anyone else to read it," Timothée sighed, "I've read every genre there is, Vera, no shame in good literature."

He held out his hand, beckoning for me to come back over to the bed and sit beside him. I stopped pacing, doing as he said. I didn't have the plot of my book yet, but I had the general idea—and I hoped he liked it.

"It's Romance," I said, resisting the urge to crumble into dust, "a European love story."

"And you need help with the plot," Timothée finished.

"Yep."

There was a pause, where he thought things through briefly, but a glint appeared in his eyes and he sat upright. I barely had time to notice him grab my hand, tugging me closer to him so he could whisper something under his breath. I tensed up, holding my breath out of anxiousness—and because I had just had milk—since a part of me still couldn't handle being in close proximity to the boy.

He was like a double-sided magnet. One side kept drawing me in—the part of me that still couldn't get over my measly crush—and the other side pushed me away. That was because he pushed me away when he admitted he was a thief.

But now he was drawing me back.

"How about this," he grinned devilishly, unblinking as he stared me down. "Write about us."

"Us?"

"This. Our plans, our deal, and our story."

I felt my body freeze up. "It's supposed to be a love story, though."

"And?"

"We aren't in love."

"We can pretend to be," he smirked, letting go of my hand to brush it against my cheek. "I can show you what being loved feels like, and you can spin it into a pretty, little novel for your readers to die for."

For my readers to die for?

I felt like I was dying already. The way he offered it made it clear he was only doing this to further along my writing process, but I wanted to believe he was offering it for a different reason. I wanted to think he wanted to show me what it felt like, not just my novel.

But love was a strong word.

"I don't know," I mumbled, inching away from him, "won't it be fake?"

Timothée shrugged. "Figure that part out for yourself."

He pushed himself off the bed, making his way over to the dresser across the room. Sliding his fingers underneath the chain around his neck, he pulled off the glass necklace he usually wore, gently placing it on the hanger resting in front of him. Then off went his glass ring, only to sit by the mirror on his left. He turned to look at me.

"Chapter one," he stated, holding up his hands to measure it out, "So, American."

I blinked. "That's the title?"

"Came up with it on the spot," he shrugged, "now that you know the plot and the title of the first chapter, all you have to do is write it."

"You make it sound like it's easy."

"That's because it is easy," he said, "you're just unsure."

I hesitated, looking at him in disbelief. Writer's block was something I struggled with for a long time, and it was so severe it mentally hurt me. To hear him say it was simple made me feel foolish. This whole time, all the minutes spent worrying, all the panic attacks and breakdowns, could be solved in a matter of a few minutes with him?

Reaching over the bed, I fumbled around for my backpack, waiting till I grabbed the handle and dragged it onto the mattress. I took out my laptop, setting it up as Timothée watched silently.

So, American, I typed into the header.

That was the title. He wanted me to write about our story, not about us, but I didn't know where to begin. I froze, staring at the bright glow of my computer screen, my hands hovering over the keyboard again. Déjà vu in its purest form.

But instead of being alone in an apartment, left to battle my mind alone, I felt Timothée's presence hover over me, reaching over my shoulders to lightly grab my wrists. He gently pushed them down onto the keyboard, letting the pads of my fingers align perfectly onto the keys.

"Write," he said calmly, "whatever comes to your mind."

And something did come to mind.

Inhaling sharply, I began to type out a question that had been lingering in the depth of my brain for so long. I knew he was watching the words type out, but suddenly I finally had a sense of what to say. What to ask. Where to begin writing a story that had no purpose until now, until I landed myself in the middle of a mess with a boy I was still falling for.

So, chapter one.

Why the hell am I in Paris?