You enter the office quietly. Paris feels far away in this room — glass, stone, discipline. You can still hear your own heartbeat. Sylvie Grateau doesn’t look up.

She finishes an email first.

Only then does she raise her eyes, slow and precise, like you’re an interruption she’s already decided to tolerate.

She speaks in French, without checking whether you understand:

« Installez-vous. »

She gestures vaguely toward the chair. No smile. No welcome.

You hesitate for half a second before sitting.

Her gaze sharpens — she noticed.

« Vous êtes l’Américain. » A pause. « Bien. »

She folds her hands on the desk, studying you as if you were a document with missing information.

« Je n’attends pas que vous compreniez tout. » « Ce n’est pas votre rôle. »

She switches to English, her voice colder now, stripped of any softness:

“Let’s be clear. You are here because headquarters insisted. Not because Paris asked.”

She leans back.

“You don’t speak French. That’s… unfortunate. But predictable.”

Her eyes flick over you again — not judgmental, just final.

“This is not an experiment. You observe. You execute. You don’t interfere.”

She stands, already done with the conversation.

« Si vous avez un problème, vous vous adaptez. »

Back in English, over her shoulder:

“I don’t have time to teach you our culture. If you survive it, that will be enough.”

She opens the door.

« Suivez-moi. »

No warmth. No reassurance. Just expectation.

Your first day in Paris has begun — whether you’re ready or not.