XV.

D E V I L ' S  E D G E

—aka, wondrous, terrible thing being in love,

INT— A MOVING VEHICLE.

PARIS, FRANCE — NIGHT.

CONT. SCENE III.

MY EYES FLUTTERED shut.

Usually, I'd be ecstatic to be in Paris.

People can say its cliche, but Paris was like an old lover you just always know. You spot each other's gaze from across a busy room, almost as if you were looking for them but haven't actually seen them; a knee jerk reaction— a rancid thought telling you that what you had with them was a magical night unable to to be repeated, a beautiful dream meant to linger in your memories and nothing more — attracted by the deja vu that held both of you by that single memory.

There's a recognition, a smile, a nod. And like deja vu, you knew how the end was going to play. In the comforts of the familiar Once Upon a Dream ago, in the ocean memory of the sighs and kisses you'll bury just where you kept them.

That was Paris to me.

But I had just escaped from Paris, and was still using the goddamn name I used to escape.

And used in a con.

I groaned. Loudly.

My head counted probability, my statistical analysis of personal success and failure when it came to situations and jobs had been one of my best abilities as a con woman.

Still using a name (1) you used in a con, you used in this particular city (2), with not a smidge of difference in your physical appearance (3)?

The chances heighten. In fact, the chances is enough to keep even the most calm motherfucker tip-tap-tapping away.

And what was the con? A public affair that involved a big soiree, a big lady, and a very prominent object that was kept under heavy guard.

That was now missing of course, hello, and said name, face and character I had embodied as one of the most prominent suspect for the entire affair I was still using.

The chances of getting caught rose to a laughable level. That's why I had the perfect plan, hiding away in Russia, life moved on, all's well that ends well. I'd come to Paris in a year or two, with how big the loot was— and how high the mark was in terms of success in attempts to find me, maybe a few more months in between that year or two.

If I calculated correctly with my current predicament, the person I stole from could find me within days.

A hand, warm and alive, touched my leg.

I smiled despite myself, voice pitched to a teasing murmur. "I do think wanton activities should be kept in privacy, but if you don't mind Archie's glaring, I think we could make it work."

"I think your mind is too clouded for that right now," Kristoff replied just as lowly.

We weren't alone by any count; Archie was on the other side of the town car, talking to someone. And beyond the partition was an unnamed driver who had picked us up with nothing but a formal nod at Archie, an employee to an employer, and a regarded one to Kristoff and I. KC had broke off as soon as the plane landed, about to do god knows what to god knows who in god knows where.

Right now, I envy even his camo pants.

"Mmh. You must remember my last job, before your sister zeroed me out, was in Paris, yes?"

"Yes." He leaned his head back, gaze still straight. "Will this pose as a problem?"

I smiled again. Always such a clever boy. "Highly likely. If I'm recognise." I scooted closer and brushed a hand across his shoulder. "They were very big pearls from a somewhat important woman."

He mulled this over, I could physically see his brain moving in thought and planning.

"It wouldn't matter. Not in the end." He took my hand that was on my leg and laced it between his. He was warm. I stared at our interlocked fingers with no less amusement. There's something about a woman's hand between a man's that made it all strange a flutter.

"Why is that?"

"Because you would be with me. Like I promised, no one would dare anything as long as you're by my side." He twisted our hands together, marvelling at something. Maybe human contact. "I need you just as you need me. Right now, Antonina, you're the safest, most cared for woman in the world."

He met my gaze then, only then. There was no smile, no smugness, not even assurance. Not really.

"Relish it."

SCENE IV.

If I was the swooning type— or rather the normal type if we're being honest — I probably would've been knee-deep in heart eyes and a sigh. And truly, how can you react to that? It felt like a lesser known confession; one with a matter of fact, apathetic in a way, but stern. Solid. Something to tether you and make you believe.

It was comforting, but I had never put my whole faith, my life, in a man's hands.

Especially one who had threatened me once or twice, and especially someone I had made dangerous plays at. I knew where I stand. Always on the devil's edge.

I think I'm allowed to be suspicious by that degree.

I sighed, shaking my head as I dunk the rest of the champagne I had popped down my throat and settled deeper into the tub. Just like in Italy, I had my own room in this Parisian hotel, completed with a fluffy bed and a claw-footed bathtub with a view so beautiful I decided all my problems could wait and baths were nice.

A lot of things were up in the air.

As far as Kristoff's plans so far— that Archie shared with a meticulous care at his words — there was an aunt, Natasha Kim, who resided here in the heart of city. She's one of Kristoff's strongest allies, and definitely favoured than the other, Soo Yang, who's in Seoul. Her name was generic, and not even sifting through my memories of high society socialites with that name generated anything. I could ask another favour from my caller in the shadows, but I have a strong feeling it would be unwanted and his information is important enough for me to behave as best as I could.

So I was relying solely on Archie's words, which wasn't great. It felt like going blind and trying to clasp a thin-chained necklace.

With the confused stagnancy, and with every ball in the air right now, it was making anxious.

Apart from the very petty grudge of the person I stole from the last time I was here, the memory of Madame Moreau's red face and scream that felt thrillingly similar to how I pictured the aristocracy sounded like when the poor had broken through their gilded windows.

The pearls. The heavy, heavy pearls with the pinkish-turquoise glint that silkily shined in every light. I remember the weight of them in my palms, on my neck. Shadows of that feeling, of the cool diamonds of the sea.

But you can't remember every prize without remembering everything you sacrificed to get it.

His smile was always the first thing I remember. It was always followed by that laugh that looks so surprised that it happened, that it came out, and so affectionate after. It melts into a soft smile that could rattle and thaw any cold, dead heart to beating.

"Nina..."

I sighed. Long and languid. "This is not relaxing. Stop thinking, Nins."

Of course, talking to yourself to stop thinking never works, so instead we're going to get drunk enough to actually be able to stop thinking. I settled the glass down, dainty as it is, and reached for the full bottle I had swiped from the welcome basket. I'm sure none of the boys would mind, seeing as KC was still AWOL, and beloved Archie and Kristoff were in a meeting where I was decidedly not invited.

"Relevant plans doesn't include actual business," Archie had said snottily, closing the door to Kristoff's en-suite with a firm click and a barely controlled smug grin.

Getting giggly drunk was the right course of action.

That is until the doorknob of the very locked bathroom jiggled.

I stared at it, a two point three seconds of comprehension with the bottle of Moet & Chandon still in my mouth, the champagne down its way to the journey in my belly.

And then the jiggle became a click and it swung, meanly, quietly, to a figure I most certainly did not recognise.

"Antonina La Verne?" came out of a raspy murmur the same time I finally swallowed, like a perfect comedic timing.

"Yes," I said dumbly, letting out a little echo with my mouth still pressed on the bottle's lip. "Yes, I'm she. But I don't know you, and I'm naked, so this is a little awkward."

That burst of faux confidence was to hide the way I gripped the bottle tighter, mind steadily blank and sending foghorns of panic. I wanted to scream. I couldn't. I wanted to fight, and I will, but a surprise attack now would be useless. I would get my throat slit before I reach the door and that ghost feeling settled uneasily in my own throat. A cancer of fear right on my oesophagus.

He was dressed in all black, masked, and the only features I could distinguish were colourless eyes and slim peak of olive skin hidden between a cap and a mask. His built was too big for a coincidence, and his movements too sly for an indoctrinated newbie.

There was no mistaking the precision.

I watched, smiling so hollowly, entranced by fear and audacity of knowing my death could come in mere seconds, as he pulled the chair from the beautiful vanity that reminded me of French aristocrats and Roman princesses, and settled it in front of the bathtub. Even sat down and hunkered, with me lying down horizontally on the bathtub, he was still towering.

"May at least have the name of my killer?"

"I'm not here to kill you." His voice was smooth, quiet. An accented French. "Est-ce que tu parles français?"

"Yes," I said in fluent French, smirking slightly. "Doesn't La Verne tell you as much?"

"What is your relationship with Kristoff Park?"

"Fiancé without the ring."

His eyes narrowed. "Is this ego or honesty?"

I laughed. "Why can't it be both?"

"Please be honest." His eyes gleamed. Grey. He had grey eyes. They looked like storm clouds. "I don't want to be here as unnecessarily longer than I have to be."

"So just your usual interrogation den?"

He blinked. He might've smiled but he still has his mask on and I was in a state, so that could just be me.

"Are you working for somebody I know?" I asked before he could continue. Maybe I could live. If I kept talking. That sounded so bleak in my head, but hope is in the little weeds in cracked sidewalks. "Yuna maybe?"

Storm clouds cleared. I bit my lip. "So you know Yuna?"

His eyes narrowed. "Are you a soldier?"

"Good God, no. I'm a con artist."

"Are you conning Kristoff Park?"

I smiled. "Do you think anyone can con Kristoff Park?"

Just at the corner of my shaky vision— Shadow. Movement. I tried to tamper my relief as best as I could. I took another swig to hide it, just in case.

"Then why are you here, Miss La Verne?"

"Chance. Foolhardy chance." I put the bottle down and attempted to stand. He froze, already standing up and alarmed, but it was a circus act to plant both feet in a full bathtub, and his panic was enough.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, turning back to the door he had left partially open as the movement is so brief it could disappear in a blink, but I had caught it. And that was enough.

Stood up and gloriously naked, I nearly laughed when his eyes couldn't focus on one part too long. "A distraction," I said right before his eyes cleared meaning, and I slammed the bottle on the tiles by his feet.

The door flew open with KC coming out of it not a second later.

Then I slipped.

French Translations.

Est-ce que tu parles français? = Can you speak French?

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Edited a little bit better. Hope you enjoyed, and constant apologies for the delay~