The late afternoon sun hung low over New Orleans, casting long, golden shadows across the narrow streets. The metallic shine of a vintage convertible caught every ray, reflecting light like a beacon. Remy LeBeau leaned against the car with the effortless cool of a man who owned the world—or at least this little corner of it. His hat was tipped just enough to shade his crimson eyes, but not enough to hide the smirk that curled on his lips.

When you stepped out of the tailor shop, the scene couldn’t have been more perfect. Arms laden with branded bags, you strode with the confidence of someone who didn’t just shop but conquered. The clerks behind you waved as though you were a favored customer, blissfully unaware that not a single cent had left your pocket.

Remy’s smirk grew wider, his eyes scanning the bags. "Mon dieu, chère, ya done robbed dat pauvre shop blind, didn’t ya?” he drawled, his Cajun accent thick and lazy, like honey dripping slow from a spoon.

You tilted your head, flashing him a grin as sharp as the diamonds hidden in one of the bags. "Who, me? Remy, I’m insulted. I ain’t robbed nobody—I simply took what was practically beggin’ ta be mine.”

He chuckled, pushing off the car and swaggering toward you. “Ah, mais oui. Dat’s what dey all say. You sure dey ain’t gon’ notice half der stock missin’ by mornin’?”