Small trigger warning! Mention of blood.

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VERA

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'BEAUTIFUL' WASN'T ENOUGH TO DESCRIBE IT.

I don't think I could take enough of it in to reiterate just how strange it made me feel. There was something so calming about the room; an endless spiral of mirrors staring at both me and my own reflection.

Piled upon dark green walls, mirrors of all different shapes and sizes were stacked against each other, bearing foggy screens and crystal clear glass. Frames of silver and gold, or even mirrors without a frame at all—it was like walking into both chaos and clarity at the same time.

Shutting the door behind me, I couldn't take my eyes off the view, trying to read it for some kind of explanation. Who could ever love glass this much? Was it a sign of vanity or a sign of desperate understanding? I felt only Timothée knew, and yet I didn't want to ask.

He seemed to be lost in his memories again.

"She loved this room," he whispered, hesitant to take another step, "some days she barely left it."

Vanity, I wanted to say, but the distant look in the boy's eyes begged me not to think about it. There was more to it. More to a room of pure fragility. I questioned my ability to even understand it.

"Hold this," he said, handing me the paper folded neatly in his hands, "I just need to look around for a bit."

I nodded, taking the Will from his hands and tucking it into the seam of my dress. It felt risky lingering around this room, more so than the thought of breaking the glass, because while time ceased for us, I knew it kept going outside of these walls. I wondered what Sam and Avery would think if they knew we stopped to observe.

I watched in slight amusement as the boy traipsed around, often stopping in front of a peculiar mirror and bending down to look into it. It was almost as if he was looking for something hidden in the glass. Maybe it was for any traces left of his Mother, or maybe it was anything left in himself. I didn't doubt his habit of deep thought.

"She used to call these portals to another world," he muttered in remembrance, "almost like looking through someone else's eyes."

I glanced at my own reflection. "Who's eyes?"

"Anybody's, I suppose."

There was a brief pause in time, where I wondered if our thoughts would hang in the air with the rest of the glimmers bouncing off the reflective walls.

"Like your novel," he said, turning to look at me, "what you write gives others a look into the story you create. These mirrors give you a look into the way others see you."

I paused, glancing away. "I'd forgotten about it."

"Forgotten about what?"

"My novel," I smiled weakly, "I've been so caught up in this Heist, that I almost forgot to finish it."

It was true. All this excitement left me to forget many things about my past, too stuck in the current to care. It had happened with Toni, and it had happened with my book, and I wasn't sure if I'd ever go back to it once this all was over.

Timothée was an imprint in my life that would never wash away. I wondered how I'd grow to perceive that in the future.

"Maybe you don't have to finish it," he said after a while.

I blinked.

"But that's what I came here to do," I sighed, "I'll have no future if I give up now."

There was a pause, where he was almost searching my eyes for something. When I said the word 'future' words threatened to jump out of his mouth and fall into the air, but he caught them. Did he care about my future? I wanted to say he wanted to be a part of mine, but I didn't want to be a fool.

He opened his mouth to speak. "Vera, I—"

But he cut himself off. It was almost as if he didn't like his own words and feared I wouldn't like them either.

"We should go," he said instead, "I've seen what I needed to see."

But he didn't say what he needed to say.

Unfortunately, my curiosity wasn't as strong as my humility, so I refrained myself from questioning him further. Maybe I was reading it all wrong—I was never any good at that. I'd rather keep my pride than pretend everything was about me.

Timothée left the room, gracing it with a brief final glance of sympathy, before waiting for me to follow after him. Neither of us said a word. He shut the door as soon as I had stepped back into the hallway, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me into the side of his chest as we began to walk.

It should have been simple after that.

We should have left out the back door, hopped in the getaway car, and drove off towards the city with a Will in our hands and celebration in the air. But I should have known life was never that simple. I should have known, because my stay in Paris was full of twists and turns, waiting for everything to go wrong at every bound.

We turned the corner, and three men met our path at the end of the dark hallway.

One of the tall figures was the guard from downstairs, who I managed to get away from the back door nearly an hour ago. The other two were unfamiliar, but they were just as burly, angry, and keen to staring us down like madmen.

"Hey!" The man on the left barked, "American!"

My heart dropped into my stomach at those words, and even more so when I watched them begin to stalk towards us, faces dimmed in the candle-lit hallway.

As if out of habit, Timothée placed his hand in front of me, pushing me behind him like he was guarding my very soul with his own. I knew he was little to no match for these men, so I prayed they wanted nothing more than to have a civil conversation. Fools thoughts, I'll admit.

"Que veux-tu?" Timothée snapped.

The guards came to a stop, towering over the two of us.

"The American," one of them spat out, "she's to come with us."

"Pourquoi?" Timothée shot back, "she doesn't have to go with you anywhere."

"Monsieur Gagnon has asked to see her," the tallest man said.

"Then tell him his request has been denied."

"Move out of the way, now."

There wasn't any room for another retort, before a large arm brushed Timothée out from in front of me like paper, sending him stumbling off to my left like a rag-doll. My upper arm was immediately seized as well, tugging me towards the end of the hallway.

"Let go of me!" I spat out, trying to wriggle my way out.

They didn't listen.

"I said let go of me!"

I was being manhandled, of course, for whatever reason they deemed more important than my own rights. They didn't even expect me to put up a fight.

However, the difference was that I didn't have to.

Almost seconds after I had been wrenched along with the guards against my will. the sound of knuckles hitting skin erupted out of the space, and I turned my head to see Timothée with his fists splayed out in attack.

He had sucker-punched one of the men straight in the jaw.

No one knew how exactly he had managed to do it, leaving a brief moment where the hand gripping my arm loosened in surprise. I didn't hesitate to make my escape, shoving myself away and towards freedom.

"Vera, let's go," Timothée said quickly, grabbing my hand, "to Hell with them."

Given the fact that our only means of escape to the ground floor were barricaded by three now unpleasant men, there was a state of panic as the two of us scanned the walls for any place to go. A spark twinkled in Timothée's eye's when he caught sight of a narrow door.

Kicking it open with his foot, he pulled me through swiftly, shutting the door as if it would stall the guards from catching us. Their flustered shouting was enough to tell me they had no intention of letting us run freely.

"Where does this lead?" I asked, coming face-to-face with a dark stairwell.

Timothée was already pulling me up the steps. "To the roof."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

In actuality, 'to the roof' meant 'there's nowhere left to go'. It was a dead end, and once the guards followed us up there, we'd be trapped. Neither of us were insane enough to jump off either, and none of us possessed the ability to fly. Damn.

Balling the silk of my dress up into my fist, I tried not to trip on it as we raced to the top of the stairwell, out the wilting door of the rooftop, and into the chilly night air. From this far out from the city, we could see the stars. They didn't seem to shine as brightly for us.

"Watch your step," Timothée said quickly.

I nearly gasped when I saw exactly where we had run to. The skylight I had noticed when I first walked in was sitting like a pit in the center of the roof. Curved in with glass, beautiful, but obviously weathered and unfixed with the years gone by. From this close-up, I could see the cracks already starting to stitch their way into the panes.

A warm orange glow shone up from below, where people dancing were shadowed by the Navy streamers hoisted from each end of the balconies. It was almost like looking into a dollhouse beneath our very feet.

But before I had a chance to express my surprise, the door to the stairwell was thrown open, and the three guards ran out.

"Reste où tu es!" One of them yelled, "stay where you are!"

Timothée squeezed my hand, but I couldn't tell what he was trying to say.

I knew why we were running. He had heard what his Uncle had said in his office, and he made me aware of the fact too. If I was to go with the guards, they'd take me straight to him, where his vulgar plans would most likely be attempted—and I'd have no chance to escape then.

And while I dreamed of possessing an inner strength to defend myself, I would be a fool to say I had that power. I only had my words, and unfortunately sick men stomp on them like they're nothing but leaves in the wind.

"I'm not going with you," I spat out, "you can tell your boss to shove it."

My American slang confused them, but my distasteful tone seems to get the point across. But, like I said, my words meant nothing to them. They laughed, crossing the roof like giants, looking down upon us like we were mere mortals to their ambiguity.

They were close to us now, and I felt as if I was running out of air.

Timothée squeezed my hand again.

But this time I felt something pressed into my palm.

"Don't look," he whispered under his breath, "don't let them know you have this."

I could feel the rigid cracks digging into my skin, the cool surface of a glass shard tucked neatly between my fingers. I hadn't seen him take it off. Doing as he said, I nodded my head, keeping my eyes in front of me as I felt him let go of my hand.

"Run," he whispered.

Before I had a chance to let it click into my mind, the boy's figure leapt from beside me, running straight at the three burly men on a hopeless mission. It wasn't for his sake of defense, it was for mine. I knew it, because as soon as he swung the first punch, I caught a glimmer of acceptance in his eyes.

Run, he had said.

But I wasn't going to leave him.

I felt more foolish than ever, but there was no doubt in my mind that this was the right choice. If I was to leave him now, he'd have no chance of making it out of this Villa unharmed. He'd get taken in, confronted by the Uncle, and any chance of getting his inheritance would be stripped away.

He deserved better than that.

He deserved at least a chance, even if it involved a clueless girl running blindly into a fight she knew she wouldn't win.

"Vera, I told you to run!" Timothée yelled, "go!"

But he was cut off by a punch to the gut, and he stumbled backwards, back hitting the surface of the roof. It made me angry to see that. It made me want to scream, and curse out every single flaw in the world, just because they dared to lay their hands on someone I loved.

So I didn't even think before I whipped out the glass shard in my hand, slicing a deep cut into the side of one of the guard's cheek. They went reeling back in pain, clutching their face as blood dripped out and into their hands.

"Stay away from him," I spat out, my eyes dark, "you hear me?"

What had I done?

Was it pure self-defense, or was it outright anger?

It wasn't as if I had killed him, but I felt as if I had blood on my hands. Maybe I did. It didn't matter in the moment, because all I could see was the fury blinding me from seeing clearly.

I tried to stop my hands from shaking as I held up the glass shard, now tainted red with traces of dark liquid dripping off the edges.

"Vera?" Timothée said from behind me.

His eyes were full of something I couldn't recognize. It wasn't fear or hatred, but it wasn't pride. Maybe it was a shock. My timid behavior seemed like an act compared to how I felt in the present moment.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

I wasn't sure who I was saying it to.

But my apologies made no difference. After seeing what I had done, one of the guards—the man who had grabbed my arm earlier—yelled something in French, rushing towards me and grabbing the glass shard with his outstretched hand

He tried to wrench it out of my grip, but I pulled back, desperate to cling onto the last piece of defense we had. Without it we would be lost. Helpless. Left without any sense of chance in the world.

But looking at it now, I should have just let him take it.

Angry at my stubbornness, the guard raised his hand, slapping me across the face with the callused skin of his palm. I felt like my face was on fire, burning with pain and trickling into my eyes with tears. Yet that wasn't the worst of it.

Seeing what happened, Timothée yelled something I couldn't quite hear, grabbing the man by the collar and sending his own fist into his face. A fight broke out from that very moment, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.

It was happening too quickly.

Fists in the air, words shot like daggers through the chilly sky, I couldn't keep track of every move that was made. All I could see was that with each hit, Timothée took a step back, growing closer, and closer, and closer to the glass pit behind him.

But it was too late.

"Timothée, wait!" I yelled.

And in that moment, he stopped, turning to look at me with panic. I only wanted to warn him. I wanted to tell him there was nowhere left to move if he took one more false step, but in the end, I only ended up distracting him entirely.

Seizing his chance, the guard raised his hand, sending a blow straight into Timothée's jaw, sending him flying backwards from where he stood. His shoes skid against the ledge of the pit, and the last thing I saw was the fear in his eyes as he realized what was happening.

And then he began to fall.

I couldn't tell who was screaming. Was it the people dancing below, was it him, was it my own voice? I couldn't even feel my own breath, because all I could see in that moment was him; arms stretched out towards the velvet sky, eyes wide and full of fear.

And the glass around him broke into tiny shards, mimicking splashes of water as he drowned in the night air.

I wanted to reach after him, but he was too far out of my reach. I couldn't catch him if I tried, and even if I could, I'd just end up falling with him. Maybe that's what I wanted. Everything was happening so fast, and everything was going wrong, and all I wanted to do was rewind time and live without the fear of him being gone.

And life seemed to lie to me.

Why wasn't time slowing down? Where was the moment where the world stopped turning, just so I could have more seconds seeing him? This could be the end of it all, and I wasn't even prepared. No one could have prepared for this. It wasn't supposed to happen. We were supposed to get the Will and leave, not dance with death and shards of glass without caring.

But in the dark of that velvet night in Paris, a miracle happened.

As Timothée fell towards the ground, he managed to tumble through the navy fabric that was strung from both sides of the balcony below, disappearing momentarily into folds of silk. I heard screams from the ballroom below us, people staring up in horror at the scene unfolding before their eyes, or people running from the glass that came shooting down like meteors.

All I could focus on was Timothée.

The weight of his figure snagged the knot of one of the streamer's ends, slipping from the balcony and falling towards the ground. Timothée managed to grab onto the fabric, instead using it as a swing to come crashing towards the tables below, feet skidding over table cloths and knocking over plates and glasses.

It was like watching the most glorious image in the history of escapes.

And it reminded me to make my own.

All three of the guards had been frozen in their spots, watching the chaos unfold just as I had been, but I decided to dash towards the stairwell and head straight towards the ballroom. I'd seen enough—Timothée was alive, and that's all that mattered.

Running through the hallways, I stumbled down another flight of stairs before finding myself mingled into the crowd of bystanders. Timothée had somehow managed to get himself into more trouble in the time it had taken me to make it downstairs.

"Admet le!" He yelled, "tu as assassiné mes parents!"

He was hoisting his Uncle up by the collar of his suit, eyes narrowed and nose flared as if he was going to kill him. Pierre looked petrified. Everyone did. No one knew if they were able to take a single breath in fear they might miss something. The crowd was whispering amongst themselves in unified horror.

"What did he say?" Someone whispered.

"Monsieur Gagnon has just been accused of killing that man's parents."

"Dear God, what?"

Guards were closing in from all sides now, watching the commotion happen. Timothée was still shouting a mess of things in French, shaking his Uncle like a rag-doll in front of all of his devastated guests. I could almost feel years of pent up anger being released into the room at that very second.

But even with all the emotions rushing to the boy's head, he seemed to notice the men approaching him with their arms outstretched. It was like a game of cat and mouse—they all wanted to catch him.

So, he shoved the Uncle out of his hands, turning on his heels and making a mad dash towards the entrance to the Villa. He wasn't forgotten, because a handful of men began to chase after him, and a surge of fear rose into my chest.

Taking a step forward, I tried to make the brash decision to run after him. I didn't want to leave him.

But someone grabbed my wrist, holding me back.

Sam.

I didn't realize he was still here. I was almost shocked to remember what the plan was before it took a turn for the worst. For a moment, it was just Timothée and I against the world, and now it was down to just me—worried sick.

"We have what we came here for," he whispered, beginning to drag me away from the crowd, "let's not lose it."

I pulled him to a stop. "But what if they catch him?"

The air was heavy in the ballroom, every breath cut short to make room for the growing tension that drowned us all. Maybe it was a worry. Maybe it was guilt. I looked to my right to see Sam shaking his head, but the unfairness in his eyes made his next words untrue.

"They won't."

But I didn't believe him.