[LOVEY]

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SOMEONE'S FOLLOWING ME.

It's a courageous thing to leave the country on your own, but it's quintessentially terrible to be on your own all together. Bravery is only applauded when you disregard the things that are out of your control. Someone following me is exactly that.

There are many things running through my mind, but I can't distract myself from the shadow trailing my footsteps. A thin, unidentifiable stranger was a few steps behind me, intentions unknown but unwelcome.

I noticed them only a few minutes after I entered St Pancras International, shaded by the large, glass dome overhead. Anything else in my frantic life should have been clouding my thoughts—not the idea that I could be kidnapped or murdered if I made the wrong move.

Gripping my hand around the handle of my suitcase, I glanced down at the pavement beneath me, taking note that the shadow was still there. I was too afraid to turn around—perhaps I was too afraid of what I might see. Growing up a woman made me cautious of being alone, even in crowded spaces like this one.

It wasn't the first time I had been followed, but most of the occurrences had to do with swarms of paparazzi or cat-callers. My privacy diminished after my relationship with Percy had been announced; his title as the Duke of Allerton was worth quite a few articles in the papers. I had no idea why I was being followed this time, but I had a feeling it wasn't for an autograph.

I exhaled in relief when I saw my train sitting promptly on the tracks. I was to be engaged—\Percy was photographed in a Swarovski shop a few weeks ago, and few days later he asked me to meet him in Paris. All a woman has to do is put two-and-two together, really—assuming I can make it that far. This stranger was making me question that.

As I trailed my suitcase towards the doors of the train, I turned my head, catching the first glimpse of my follower. The tinted windows of the carriages it hard to depict them clearly, but I saw what I needed.

A man. Dark brown hair. Mustache, beard, and cigarette hanging on his lips like a toothpick set aflame. He was unfamiliar and he wasn't carrying any luggage; clearly he wasn't here for a train ride.

He was here for me.

"Terribly sorry," I said, approaching one of the Station Guards outside of my car, "but may I ask you a favour?"

I would have consulted an officer sooner, but my fear of missing my transit was too great to bear. At least I was only a few steps away from the train doors, and could hop on when the final whistle blew.

The station guard, whose name tag read 'Brian', adjusted his checkered cap and furrowed his brows. "Everything alright, Miss?"

"I think I'm being followed," I said under my breath.

Under the bustling noise of the terminal, I was surprised he heard what I said. Pursing his lips, he straightened himself, scanning the area around me for anyone of great suspicion. I looked back to where I came from, searching for the mysterious follower in the hopes to point him out.

But he was gone.

"Mind describing them to me, Miss?" The station guard asked, "I'll need the most accurate description you've got."

My eyes were still trained on the crowded platform, searching for traces of cigarette smoke. I'd seen my follower with the cigar in his mouth, and yet, as soon as I went to report him he vanished from sight. He must have known my plan, and escaped before he could be exposed.

Shaking my head, I took hold of my suitcase again. "It seems he's gone now."

Just my luck.

"No worries, Ma'am," the guard nodded, "please have a safe trip."

I appreciated his sentiment, but at this rate, I doubted my safety was carved in stone. Casting a final glance around the busy station, I rolled my luggage towards the entrance to my train-car, heaving it on with me with a heavy tug.

Percy paid for my tickets—first class, a flare of his wealth—so I made my way to the front of the train. I ignored any stares sent my way. I never liked being in the public eye, but it was something I had gotten used to when dating a Duke. The British press were bloodhounds when it came to an interesting story.

The inside of my train car was packed with eager travelers—both unafraid to show their affluence and full of disposition at our still postponed departure. Being constantly secluded from those in Economy made them snobby. I hardly think they could endure the sound of a baby crying for more than five minutes—then again, we were heading to Paris, the epitome of Old-Money wealth.

While there were more than enough seating options to choose from, there was only one chair I felt comfortable enough to take. I'd learned to be selective about who I'd want to be with for a long journey. Rich, old women who'd scoff at me when they thought I wasn't looking, a Playboy bachelor who'd endlessly flirt on whim—none were my area of comfort.

I settled at the very middle of the train-car instead, sitting in the open seat across from a man. There wasn't much to assume about him; a chestnut cardigan pulled over a grey turtleneck, brown hair that he'd pushed back on the sides (with the exception of a stray curl over his forehead), and a handsome face that made me question his relationship status. None of those attributes were why I chose him, however.

I chose him, because he was reading a book.

He had the spine pressed against the plastic table, hiding the title from view, but it seemed to captivate his attention entirely. He didn't acknowledge me when I slid my luggage onto the overhead cart and sat in the chair across from him.

People who had a book to entertain them, hardly ever bothered me. They were

immersed in their story, and that's how I liked it—most of my own reading was done on trains.

His eyes were still scanning his pages when I pulled out my own book, flipping towards my beaten-up bookmark. The Curo Society, by Olivia Clarke. I'd read it about four times in my life, and each time I found myself still surprised by the ending.

I recounted the tale, unaware of the fact that the train had started moving. Paris was inbound. The Curo Society was a novel detailing the lives of five university students—Edmund, Arthur, James, Henry, and Lucas—all who found themselves in the middle of a murder mystery.

A thrilling tale of the senses, taking me through rollercoasters of emotion, just to find out the killer was one of the boys all along. Betrayal, such a broken subject. I felt lucky not to know it.

An hour had passed by the time I was snapped out of my reading. The man in front of me had shifted his position, leaning his shoulder against the window of the train and propping his book into his right palm. A shimmer of light flickering from the sun danced onto the table, causing me to glance towards his hand.

The book he was reading was oddly familiar, although his copy seemed far more worn than how it should have been. The yellow cover, the maroon lettering, the engraving of flowers on the spine—it mirrored the exact appearance of the book I had in my own hands.

Almost in disbelief, I tilted my novel slightly closed, checking to make sure I wasn't seeing things. Yellow, Maroon, Flowers.

He was reading The Curo Society and so was I.

This stranger was reading the same book as I was, and neither of us had seemed to notice.

I'd never been a social person, but the rarity of finding someone with the same taste of literature was compelling. A spark lit inside my chest at how wonderful of a coincidence it was. Of all places, of all times, and of all books, he happened to choose the same as me.

I begged myself to say something, just for the satisfaction of knowing I tried. It was a unique thing, and I wanted to see what would become of it.

"Excuse me?" I said hesitantly, tapping the part of the table in front of him, "Sir?"

His eyes flickered up to meet mine, flashes of blue piercing my gaze in silent questioning. I had a better look at his face now, and perhaps I failed to assume enough about him earlier—a narrow face, pursed lips, and furrowed brows. It seemed he was a man who often kept a frown upon his face. What was most interesting was the scar under his left eye.

He wasn't born with it, I knew for sure, but it alarmed me to wonder how he received it.

He didn't respond, staring at me with an unreadable expression. I decided to continue, as to not seem like I was wasting his time.

"Your book," I nodded, glancing at the yellow spine, "are you enjoying it?"

Just as before, he didn't respond. He only nodded, eyes flickering back down to his page. There was no exchange of words, nor an attempt for conversation. Perhaps he didn't realize we had the same book in our hands, but I was filled with a sudden distaste.

"You're not a talkative one," I muttered under my breath, sinking into my chair.

He appeared to have heard my retort, lips parting as if he was about to correct me. It seemed he decided against it. The silence continued once more, and I decided to give up—it was awfully hypocritical of me to pry, given that I previously mentioned I didn't like being bothered when traveling.

'Forget him,' Edmund's dialogue read from the page in my book, 'he was a waste of our time, anyway.'

I held back a smug smile. How wise of you, Edmund, I thought to myself. He was addressing Arthur in this chapter, but it was greatly relevant to my situation.

We went back to ignoring each other.

As we neared Paris, I thought only of the boys in my book, and the idea that I might be engaged in a matter of days. The man never spoke another word and neither did I.

The train kept moving.