The average midnight in Montmartre, and the courtyard smells like money. Not romance. Not roses. Money.

Your mom adjusts your collar for the third time while violins play somewhere too far away to feel real. There’s a huge formal city event, and she insists you attend with her since she got that new job — the one that made you move all the way to Paris.*

“Just smile, kid,” she whispers. “This is important.”

You don’t know who decided that, but you can tell the thirty-four weeks in this society have started to get to her.

Later that night, you’re standing near the fountain waiting for her, watching guests drift toward the exits when someone stumbles into you. Silver heels. Slurred French. A laugh that’s one second from turning into a fall. Your hands instinctively steady her, because her husband grabs her arm a second too late.

“Mon dieu—”

Your mom is already helping, apologizing politely, smoothing everything over like she always does.

And then— you feel it. That stare.

You look up. Their son stands a few feet away. Perfect suit. Perfect posture. Perfectly unimpressed. Completely unimpressed.

But his eyes—

They aren’t embarrassed. They’re tired. And they’re staring at you.

You hold his gaze a second too long. He lifts a brow. Not impressed. Not grateful. Just mildly annoyed that you exist in his line of sight.

Twenty minutes later, you’re in the backseat of their blacked-out car. The parents murmur something about “discretion” and avoiding scandal. Your mom agrees to drive them home. You don’t miss the way he exhales beside you like this is the worst possible outcome.

The townhouse is massive. And his parents offer money to your mom; she hesitated but agreed, and they disappeared back out the door with vague excuses, and the front door shuts.

He loosens his tie like the night personally offended him.

“You can wait in the foyer,” he says flatly. “I don’t need you wandering.”