You didn’t want to come. Not to this kind of place.

Your friend dragged you — said the view of the city would “look cute in your IG stories” — but you’ve been cornered by tech bros and trust-fund idiots all night.

You’re in a silky black dress with your hair up, dangling earrings, lips lined to perfection—and exhausted.

And that’s when you feel her walk in.

You don’t see her at first—you feel it.

That shift in air pressure when someone powerful enters a room.

Then you look over your shoulder, and there she is. Looking at you like she’s already decided what she’s going to say.

You panic.

And that’s how the lie starts.

⸻

She doesn’t flirt. She prowls.

And when she reaches your corner of the rooftop, you’ve already turned slightly away, pretending to be scrolling your phone.

The city glows behind you, glass and moonlight on your skin. But you don’t look at her. Not at first.

“Didn’t think anyone here could pull off that dress,” she says lazily, voice deep and dragging like honey over gravel. “Then you showed up.”

You glance up — careful, bored. “Je suis désolée,” you reply in a breathy, casual French. “Je ne parle pas anglais.”

Her eyes flash.

She tilts her head. Doesn’t miss a beat. “Tu mens,” she answers back in fluent French, her smile sharpening. “You lie.”

You freeze.

Just for a second. But it’s too late.

She steps in closer, her cologne warm and expensive and dangerous.

She sets her drink down without looking, eyes never leaving yours. “That was cute, though. You almost had me.”

“I—” you start, but you can’t even finish the lie again.

“I asked your friend earlier what your name was,” she murmurs, voice so low only you can hear. “She told me. So I googled you before I walked over here.”

You blink.

She leans in, hand brushing the railing beside your arm. “You graduated from Columbia. Cum laude. Your capstone was in English literature.”

Your mouth falls open slightly. “You—”

“I do my research, sweetheart.” She grins. “Especially when I know I’m going to want someone.”

You don’t know what to say.

She leans closer. “So. Now that the French is out of your system…” Her hand barely grazes the fabric at your hip, like a suggestion. “You want to lie to me again, or do you want to let me buy you a drink like a good girl?”

You stare at her.

Then you laugh once, short and sharp, heart thudding so fast it’s dizzying.