Killing Me Softly

Everything went fine until she stepped outside to catch some air before dinner and bumped into the only Richard well-deserving of the common nickname, Dick. Literally. He dodged the sloshing of his drink and she managed to avoid ruining her dress but he moved with her when she tried to go around him.

"The Savior of Paris graces us with her presence," a voice drawled, a little too free with his American accent. "Our host has a sense of humor."

"Or wishes one of us dead," Sophia retorted, clutching her phone so hard her knuckles turned white.

Not tonight. Please just not tonight.

"Always such a good sense of humor, kitten."

"Don't."

Richard blinked before an easy smile crossed his lips.

"What does he call you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your lowlife criminal husband.”

She was going to snap her phone if she held it any harder. It was impossible to keep up a calm façade around him. As if the last shred of her dignity begged her to fight for all the times she didn’t, couldn’t. She spent so much of her life being polite and aloof. It was what her image was built on. No one caught her flipping tables and screaming in public.

So, as much as she wanted to, she withheld.

“You act as if a politician is of a higher caliber than the owner of a self-made empire.”

“He’s a felon.”

“So are you. The only difference is his job is not dependent on the opinion of the people.”

Sophia tried again to get away only to find her upper arm gripped tight by a free hand. She glared, wondering just where the hell the security at this party was, if she was being touched by someone who…

“Let go of me.”

When he gripped her arm tighter, she felt panic welling in her chest.

“I said, let me fucking go, Richard.”

“We’re not done here.”

She was going to trip if she moved the wrong way and probably at least twist her bad ankle, if not break it (again). The less she moved, the better. But as much as she tried to steady her thoughts and her breathing, the fear in her won out. Words spilled from her lips, her filter gone; she once would have let pleas and cries and efforts to appease fall from her mind to her tongue. But now, it was simply rapid fire thoughts in hopes of catching someone else’s attention.

“My life is none of your business. It stopped being your business when you decided to sleep around behind my back rather than break off our engagement. When you stopped coming back to the apartment. When you would tell me I didn’t believe in your cause after a day of blood and blisters from canvassing. I couldn’t smile for years without feeling you gripping my neck like a goddamn dog. Pick any instance you want, but what my husband calls me, what my life is like without you, is not your concern.”

In her fervor, she did exactly what she hadn’t wanted to and shifted her weight. Her ankle buckled and she fell into someone else as she tried to put distance between her and Richard. Familiar hands, ones she knew to be both kind and cruel, caught her before she tumbled to the ground.

Sophia registered the soft French in her ear, spoken only to her. So many found the timber of his voice terrifying. Not her. Never her.

“Tu es en sécurité maintenant.”

It took her longer than she liked to admit to look up at him, to see his eyes instead of Richard’s.

“Tu es en sécurité avec moi.”

He righted her, his gaze immediately falling to her injured foot and muttering under his breath. Many would have drawn the comparison to a broken purchase but many would have just as easily missed the way Vincent shifted his hold on her. He could bear the brunt of her weight with no issue and she could elevate her ankle for the moment.

“Do you make a habit of grabbing women when they want to be left alone, Monsieur Ingram?” Vincent crooned, fixing Sophia’s hair as if Richard wasn’t a foot away, unsure of his options. “I believe Sophia made it quite clear some time ago that she wished to not be near you.”

Eugene appeared and took Vincent’s place, ice wrapped in a cloth napkin. The sounds of the dinner party inside bled out from open windows, a beautiful swell of music mixing with the sounds of glasses clinking, conversation, and cutlery on plates.

The valet tried to lead her away but she shook her head, almost entranced.

“I didn’t want her to fall, she can be like a baby deer. You know how she is.”

Richard had the gall to laugh. Vincent did not join in. Instead, his eyes narrowed in amusement, lingering on parts of the other man’s suit, sizing him up as he did anyone else he ever crossed paths with. Sophia could only compare it to her first meeting with him, and then the first time she saw him in action working with those he funded.

Somehow, this was worse.

Especially considering Vincent had long-standing plans that may or may not have included cinder blocks and hungry sharks when it came to Richard. He broke a wine glass when she finally told him. And Vincent made it no secret how displeased he was when he heard the other man was in Paris.

“No, actually, the comparison isn’t quite as apt as you think it is.”

Vincent’s words were shockingly soft. He picked a piece of lint off of Richard’s shoulder and brushed the fabric down again.

“You see,” he continued, “Sophia is much more self-sufficient than a baby deer. She doesn’t need you, or me, or even Paris itself and all of its glamoured legacy. She is not a fawn lost without a leader to cross a busy street. But you know that, don’t you?”

Richard shifted his weight, casting a skeptical look at Vincent, but didn’t make a move otherwise.

“That's why you ripped her away from her family, isn’t it? Isolated her?”

Vincent continued to adjust the other man’s suit, fixing his collar.

“What is the saying, ‘It takes one to know one’?” Vincent asked, taking the other man’s tie in his hands and tightening the knot, pressing it into the other man’s Adam’s apple.

Sophia inhaled sharply. She didn’t think he truly meant the jabs about ending Richard. Or rather, that he would act on them. She cast a look at Eugene, who shared her concern, but the valet held her back.

“He never gets his hands dirty,” was all Eugene said to her.

“I know what you are and I know what you seek,” Vincent said as he dropped the other man’s tie and instead reached for the back of Richard’s neck. “Control. Power. Recognition. But you don’t need to abuse your partner, now do you?”

Sophia could feel what that grip was like, how her muscles were pinched to the point of bruising. She bristled but she couldn’t turn her gaze away. This was the Vincent from the catacombs, the one let his pride take root, and swallow everything in its path.

“How does it feel, to be treated like a misbehaved dog, Richard?” Vincent hissed.

Richard swung wildly, fist tight, but Vincent’s other hand was quicker, grabbing his wrist. Security finally saw fit to interrupt and Vincent was swift to grab the narrative, that Sophia was wronged, and injured to boot. She finally found a seat on the terrace and took the ice from Eugene, pressing it against her bare ankle after testing movement. A few days of rest and it would be fine.

Vincent knelt in front of her, carefully replacing her hands with his around the cold compress.

“You’re terrifying,” she said after a beat.

“Knowledge you’ve had for a long time, Sophia. Except I'm never terrifying to you. I’m sorry you had to see that.” Vincent examined her ankle and moved the ice to another part of her injury. “Shall we head home or would you prefer to stay?”

Sit and let the other guests ask about what happened and endure more stares and whispers? Or curl up into bed after throwing her heels back into the closet, wrapping her ankle, and taking ibuprofen? The choices were so difficult.

“Home sounds good,” Sophia replied, resting a hand on his cheek.

The view of Sacré-Cœur from her apartment window was always a welcome sight to come back to after a long day at work. Especially when that view was accompanied by a large bottle of wine, as it was tonight. And god did she need it.

Ever since Vincent Karm had located and stolen the essence, her days at the City of Love office had been strained and miserable. In addition to trying to find a way to outsmart the cunning CEO, she was still being tasked to write stupid articles for the magazine under the guidance of Louise Paquier, whose mood and attitude had only seemed to decline at the obvious misery of her boss. And said boss was too busy moping in his office every day to take charge of the situation so that Isabelle might have some time to scheme in the first place.

“They’ve even started sending work home with me,” she thought as she eyed the stack of papers on the coffee table with a barely masked look of disdain before taking a long swig from the bottle of cabernet she was currently nursing. She didn’t care much about the consequences of drinking, knowing that she had the next few days off, and Kat had gone to Montpellier for the weekend, meaning she wouldn’t be bothering anyone directly through her attempts to block out the previous week. She was totally alone to spend her time however she wanted, bad decisions and all.

She lowered herself onto the couch by the window, watching the twinkling lights of the city below her as she continued to drink, blissfully aware of how her thoughts began to muddle with each passing sip. She took another long swig, nearly finishing off the bottle before setting it down onto the table with a satisfying clink.

She couldn’t understand how she had even gotten into this situation in the first place.

Being offered an interview at City of Love had been a dream she’d chased for years. Paris had been a far away land of mystery and love that she was dying to be a part of. She remembered Kat recalling stories of the city to her over the phone, recounting them with such passion that it was impossible for the journalist to not have fallen in love with the city from afar. After receiving a call from their office, she had booked a plane ticket in less than a day, eagerly calling Kat to figure out some kind of living arrangements.

Paris had lived up to it’s name for a month. She loved her job, and the chance to utilize her investigative side when Raphael introduced her to the search for the essence was intoxicating. She had felt like she was really a part of something. But that had all gone pear shaped as soon as a certain billionaire caught wind of the investigation, stepping in to seize any profit for himself and leaving her and Rapahel with nothing. The mood shift in the office had been immediate, and they were all constantly anxious, waiting to see what the devil would do now that he had ripped their prize right from under their noses.

Vincent Karm.

The name tasted bitter on her inebriated tongue.

How could she have stood a chance with a man of his caliber and resources against her? Even he had known it was a fruitless endeavor, trying to save her the trouble by offering her a job within a week of her arrival, guaranteeing her spot on the winning team. She had denied it, hoping that her moral compass would point her in the right direction, but even her tenacity to do the right thing couldn’t have stopped him, a powerful man on a mission. It seemed that fate didn’t care if the right thing was being done after all. It fell to the same rules as everything else in life; the rich and powerful would always have the advantage, no matter how close she got, he’d always be one step ahead.

That stupid, narsicissitic asshole.

Vincent Karm was truly a man to behold. His stature radiated confidence and charisma, and as much as she wanted to remain unattached, even she couldn’t deny that he had a certain appeal to him. He was practiced in the art of convincing others to sell their souls. Why had she thought he’d be any different with her?

It’s those stupid eyes of his. Green and piercing. All they do is draw you in, close enough that you just want him to hold you close and whisper sweet nothings into your ear.

Absolutely not. Where had that thought come from? She certainly wasn’t into him and she never would be. He was cocky and arrogant. As stereotypically attractive as he might be, she could never enjoy the company of a man who made a game out of collecting people like art pieces for his private collection.

No, she hated the man. He was nothing but an overrated bully who used his power and influence to force others into unfair agreements they could never deny all for the purpose of inflating his already enormous ego. Someone needed to stand up to him and take him down a notch, and it might have been the liquid courage running through her veins, but she suddenly felt very sure that, in this moment, she was exactly the right person for the job.

She sat up on the couch, wincing at how the room spun around her and blinked until it settled. Her hand searched the coffee table clumsily until she located her phone. She squinted and logged in, scrolling through her contacts until her finger settled on the one she was looking for. She snorted and hit the edit contact button. He didn’t deserve to have a name like that. Fancy and cool sounding. He much more deserved the name she was typing in now.

Le tyran de Paris.

She accompanied the name with a number of evil looking emojis before hitting save and opening a text chat between the two of them.

The first message was simple.

Hey.

She waited for a few minutes without any response and she stared at the phone in indignance. Did he consider himself above text conversations?

Hey.

Answer me.

Why aren’t you answering me?

Do you think you’re better than me?

I hate you and your stupid bloody cheekbones.

You should’ve just let me win.

One message after the other was sent; blue bubbles unable to be deleted.

Another few minutes passed with no response and she sighed, setting the phone back onto the table and reaching for the wine bottle instead.

Maybe it was a mistake to be texting him like this, this late in the evening, but at the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care. He wasn’t texting back anyways. She’d just wake up in the morning and pass it off for what it was, a few badly-timed drunk texts. It wasn’t like she cared what he thought about her anyways. He had already drained her of all she was worth. It was hard to imagine he could do anything else to embarrass her further.

A moment later, she jumped as her phone began to vibrate from the table. Her eyes immediately widened and she reached for it, hitting the answer button just as the bottle slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor, the remaining wine quickly beginning to seep across her carpet.

“Shit! No! Nonononono!”

She lowered herself to the floor quickly, trying rather stupidly but very drunkenly to scoop the wine back up with her hands. A shard from the bottle immediately cut into her hand and she retracted her hands, letting out a soft hiss as she attempted to cover the wound with a napkin from the table.

“Miss Prince?”

She froze as she realized whose voice was on the other side of the phone. He couldn’t be calling her now, surely he had noticed the state of her texts. Any normal man would have disregarded her, but then again she supposed he was the farthest thing from normal.

“Vincent… I… hello…”

Her words felt heavy on her tongue, the alcohol still coursing through her system reducing her thought process to a snail’s pace and her words to a jumble in her brain.

She could hear an exasperated breath escape his nose from the other side before he responded.

“Hello, Miss Prince.” He paused and she could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “I called in regards to your latest texts, but it’s obvious to me now what motivated you to send them.”

“I… don’t know what you’re talking… about,” she said, eyeing the spill on the floor that had finally stopped seeping it’s way into her roommate’s area rug, but he was quick to interrupt.

“Save me the lies, Miss Prince. Even under the influence I know you’re aware of how much I detest subterfuge,” he said firmly.

What had she gotten herself into? He didn’t know the journalist in every facet, but a late-night drunken call was something he would have never expected from a woman like her. She couldn’t have been in a good situation. He was the last person he could think of for her to call, and it put him slightly on edge to know that she could have been sending texts like those to anyone on her contact list, including her boss, the man he loathed so deeply, who clearly had more than just a professional interest in her.

He sighed and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth softly, almost regretting the words before he said them.

“Are you alone right now, Miss Prince?”

He heard more shuffling from the other side, the sound of glass hitting glass and fabric being rubbed against fabric. She muttered under her breath a few times, clearly frustrated, before she answered.

“Why should I tell you?”

She was alone then. If her roommate had been home he was sure he would have heard her voice by now, coming to aid her with whatever problem she was currently facing, and encouraging her to get off the phone with the man who seemed to have a personal agenda of making her his mortal enemy.

Damn his conscience.

He was sure she would be mortified in the morning to find out that not only had she drunk texted the man she had been competing against for the last month, but that he had, in fact, come to check on her, but he couldn’t push aside his worry and curiosity over the situation. After all, she wouldn’t be a very worthy adversary if she got herself killed.

“Stay there. And don’t drink anything else. Whatever you’re doing, it can wait.”

He hung up the phone immediately after and summoned Eugene to ready the car and bring his cleaning supplies with him.

Arriving at her apartment building, he made his way up the staircase to the front door, instructing Eugene to stay behind while he assessed the situation.

He knocked once. Twice.

Shuffling came from within and he heard bumps and curses from the other side of the door, Isabelle no doubt making more of a mess as she tried to traverse the length of her apartment on her own while the room itself refused to stay still in her vision.

The door opened with a squeak, and she found herself gazing up at the man she had been on the phone with just thirty minutes prior.

He was dressed in his normal three piece suit, which strangely disappointed her. She had been hoping that she had caught him in a casual moment, and that he would arrive in his pajamas, but she realized it was foolish for her to expect anything less from a man who probably refused to eat breakfast without the proper table setting.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response, but only received a tilt of the head before she took a step back, wordlessly allowing him into the apartment and closing the door behind him.

Entering the apartment, he scanned his surroundings. Papers were strewn around the table, some nearing so close to the edge he was afraid they might fall to their deaths into the burgundy stain he could see sweeping across her carpet.

That must have been what she was cursing at earlier.

He sighed, noticing the shards of glass within the mess. She had managed to wrap up her hand already, but if the mess wasn’t taken care of shortly, she would no doubt find a way to hurt herself again. He pulled his phone out, quickly sending a text to the ginger man waiting outside in the car before tucking the phone back into his pocket.

“This is quite the situation, Miss Prince.” He watched her with a raised eyebrow, observing her every move.

“It’s not that bad… I’ve seen worse messes…” She rolled her eyes softly, holding onto the edge of the hall table for balance. He chuckled at the sight. It seemed that even drunkenness wasn’t powerful enough to dull her need for backtalk.

“That’s not the situation I’m referring to, ma cherie.” He purred and approached her, hoping to guide her back to the living room so that he could try and clean up the glass on her carpet without having to worry about her falling and breaking her head.

She prickled as he got nearer, her posture straightening ever so slightly as she went on guard against him.

“I didn’t ask you… I didn’t need you to come,” she stated with a glare. “I don’t… I don’t need your help!”

He watched her for a moment before rolling his own eyes and offering her his hand.

“I’m well aware of that,” he paused, raising an eyebrow as he continued to watch her teeter for balance. “But it seemed to me that you were causing quite a commotion. And I couldn’t stand to stand by and watch you kill yourself in such a stupid manner.”

She snorted, slowly reaching out to take his hand and let him guide her back on shaky legs.

“Does the great Vincent Karm suddenly have a conscience?”

He frowned slightly. What kind of a question was that? Here he was trying to help her and she just had to berate him. He wasn’t a brute. Of course he had a conscience.

Especially when it came to her.

His mind wandered to that night in the catacombs. How the air around them seemed to shimmer as the light from the torches danced across her face. He remembered how she had gazed at him, the look in her eyes almost convincing enough to make him believe what she was saying. The scent of her hair intoxicating him, drawing him so close to the edge that for a moment, he had almost wanted to give in. After the fact, he had hypothesised that it was the essence heightening his emotions, but he couldn’t dismiss the small voice in the back of his head suggesting that maybe, just maybe, there was something more between them.

He sat her on the couch, sending her a look firm enough to keep her in place before moving to the kitchen and seeking out her dustpan. He would let Eugene in later, after she had passed out for the night, to handle the rest of the details, but he at least needed to gather the glass before she could slip and impale herself any further.

He came back over and kneeled down, turning his focus to the mess in front of him, electively choosing to ignore her presence on the couch beside him until he felt soft fingers brushing against his forehead as they sought their way into his hair. His eyes went wide and he turned his head to look up at her in genuine confusion.

“Miss Prince--”

“Shhhhh,” she silenced him with a finger over her lips before it wagged in his face gently.

He stayed still for a moment before his surprised look melted into a displeased frown. She wasn’t in her right mind, that was certain, but the man still had reservations about his appearance being mussed, even at an hour as late as this one.

“Miss Prince, please,” he sighed, reaching up to gently grasp her wrist as he moved her curious fingers away from his head. Letting her go, he sat the dustpan down and quickly straightened his hair back into its familiar coiff. After he was content with his hair, he returned to his efforts at cleaning, standing up to throw the glass shards away in the kitchen. Upon his return, he found her watching him with a look that seemed tied between pouting and indignance. He raised an eyebrow curiously and crossed his arms.

“What now?”

She watched him for another minute before tilting her head.

“Why are you here?”

If his eyebrow could have raised any higher, he was sure it would have been at his hairline by now.

He rolled his eyes softly. “Despite our little feud, I’m not so cruel as to want you to be in this state without supervision. I don’t want you to kill yourself.”

Her eyes narrowed in on him and she raised a finger, slightly askew, to point at him.

“You wanted to kill me.”

He opened his mouth to respond but had to close it with a frown. She wasn’t wrong. Even as electrifying as he found her company to be from their first meeting, she still presented a large problem for him on his quest for the essence. That night he had found her in the catacombs, he had been very close to giving the order. So why did he care now whether or not she got hurt?

“You were a nuisance at the time,” he frowned. He supposed that was true enough. He had no need to exert his power over her anymore now that he had gotten what he wanted. That’s all it was.

She scoffed and crossed her own arms, mirroring his pose.

“That doesn’t give you the right to kill people you know.” She stared him down with a glare that was slightly less than intimidating, given her state of being. “You can’t just… off people you don’t like.”

His eyebrow quirked again and a sly smirk eased its way across his lips as he eyed her with amusement.

“It’s never stopped me before, ma chère.”

Another scoff.

He moved to sit in the plush chair opposite the couch, only pausing to unbutton his blazer before he sat. Crossing his ankle over his knee and leaning back, his gaze rose to her once more, finding her staring out the window at the city around them.

“You know… when I came to this city… you know what I wanted most?”

“Well that’s a change of pace,” he thought.

“Tell me, Miss Prince.”

She paused, puffing out her cheeks momentarily as a frustrated child would, before continuing, “I wanted to… to make something… for myself… I wanted to be someone.”

He frowned softly as he watched her. Where was she going with this?

“I found it… I found where I wanted to be. A job… friends… culture…” The expression on her face turned dark when she looked over to him, making him feel as if a spotlight had suddenly been placed on him. “And you took it away from me.”

He suddenly remembered the text messages from earlier. Is this what those had been about? Had she, in her drunken ramblings, made him the sole subject of her disdain? She wouldn’t be incorrect. His own greed had buried her, but those were the rules of the game. She knew that when she chose to play. He sighed deeply, ready to refute her.

“Miss Prince, I--”

“Shut up.”

His eyes went wide as she snapped at him. When was the last time someone had disrespected him like this? He knew that clients often left meetings with him, waiting until they were outside of range before they began their assault on his character, but to be insulted directly? No one would dare.

His own expression went firm. He certainly hadn’t come here, with the intention to help her, just for her to insult him.

“Miss Prince, I beg of you--”

“And I said shut up.”

Scanning her face, he noticed that her cheeks had a soft flush to them that wasn’t there before. He watched her warily as she rose, starting to move, albeit not steadily, in his direction. He opened his mouth to interject, still slightly cross from her previous comment, but she beat him to the punch.

“You really think you’re all that…” She trailed off, crossing the floor until she stood in front of him. He wasn’t used to her looking down on him, given their obvious height difference, but he watched her curiously, uncrossing his legs just in case he needed to jump into action.

“You know… I’m really tired…” She watched him for a moment before leaning her weight forwards, using the armrests on the chair as a leverage point, her own legs between his knees. “I’m really tired… of people like you… using their power to get what they want… and screwing others over in the process.”

Leaning back in the chair, he kept some distance between them, but she had fully cornered him. He wasn’t sure exactly what was running through her mind--she was hard to read even when she wasn’t drunk---but there was no way of telling what she was thinking about now.

“Miss Prince, I’d advise you to be careful with your next words.” He sent her a soft warning look, his poker-faced expression concealing whatever nervousness he was feeling in the moment. “You don’t want to do anything you’re going to regret tomorrow morning. Trust me.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes softly.

“That’s another thing! You… you keep calling me Miss Prince! Miss Prince this… Miss Prince that…!”

She made a move to stand up quickly in her fit of passion and began to topple, not used to her center of balance being off kilter, and let out a squeak as she prepared to feel hard wood against her skull. Instead, however, her hands grasped onto soft fabric as a firm grip found her waist, pulling her forwards into the lap of the man in front of her. She didn’t respond for a moment, her eyes still squeezed shut like she hadn’t registered what had happened, but eventually they peeked open with a squint, finding green eyes watching her with an exasperated expression.

God those stupid eyes.

Did he have to have such striking eyes?

Her focus turned entirely to his face, their last discussion all but forgotten. She settled further into his arms, resting her weight onto him entirely instead of pulling away, and his eyes widened momentarily when he realized she had no plans of moving away.

“Isabelle, I don’t think--”

“Stop interrupting me,” she pouted softly, despite the fact that she was doing most of the interrupting. She studied his face for a moment before bringing up a finger to brush it against his right cheekbone. Looking over her finger, she sighed and mumbled under her breath, “didn’t even cut…”

He watched her with a confused look. Did she just run her finger over his cheekbone to see if it would cut her? He stifled a laugh. This was a side of the journalist he had never seen before, and the sadistic side of himself hoped she remembered every moment. He might have worried about the spunky American journalist who had suddenly settled into his lap, but at the end of the day, he still deeply enjoyed watching her squirm. Getting a leverage point over her was nearly impossible without force, and he would be remembering this night for a long time.

His breath caught in his throat suddenly when he felt her head lowering to nuzzle against him, lodging itself in the crook of his neck. This was entirely too intimate, even for them. He could deal with flirty remarks, a fun game in the midst of them competing against each other, but this? She was crossing a line that a sober her wouldn’t have touched with a ten foot pole.

“I hate you,” her voice came out muffled, but he felt the air from her lips dusting against his skin gently, a shiver crossing his body. “I hate your… your stupid cheekbones… and your stupid eyes…” she sighed, raising a hand to draw little circular patterns on his opposite shoulder. “It’s not fair…”

He found it hard to relax with her resting against him like this. He was far from unfamiliar with intimate contact, even quite enjoyed it on many occasions, but the woman in his lap was far from his typical intimate company. He usually had the control in scenarios like these, as he often did over many aspects in his life, but true to fashion, the journalist had found a way to throw him off his rhythm. He found himself frozen for a minute before he allowed himself to accept what was happening, his arms finally winding around her to secure her from falling, seeing as she didn’t have any plans to move anytime soon. He sighed softly in response, slightly annoyed at the situation but strangely comfortable with their position.

“What’s not fair, Miss Prince?”

She let out a long sigh, her hands turning their attention instead to his tie, running the silk gently through her fingers.

“You… You’re not fair….” She glanced up at him finally with a pitiful expression, her hazel eyes large and reflective in the light. “You do… all these evil things… take away the essence… almost kill people…” She puffed her cheeks out again, her brow furrowing as her grip on his tie tightened, causing him to swallow hard, his own hand moving up to pry her fingers away. “If… if you’re so mean… all the time… how can you be so attractive?”

If he had been drinking at that moment, he would have done a spit take.

His hand flew to his mouth to cover whatever laugh was rising in his chest, and he watched her in total amusement.

He should be recording this for later.

“I mean… what do you even need cheekbones like that for…?” She stared up at him in genuine confusion. “You can’t even open letters with them… so what’s the point?” A pout crossed her face once again, clearly upset at the revelation she was currently having about his appearance. “Super Villains aren’t supposed to be hot… you’re supposed to hate them… not… not want to fuck them!”

His grip tightened slightly, a plethora of emotions running through his mind before he settled into his usual facade. A sly grin crossed his face as he cocked his head ever so slightly to watch her, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

“Are you speaking from experience?”

She watched him with a dissatisfied expression, sitting up suddenly, his arms the only thing keeping her from toppling to the floor once more.

“Don’t get so cocky about it. I don’t want to stroke your ego any further.” She crossed her arms with a huff. “It’s already big enough as is.”

He watched her with a raised eyebrow and a look of amusement flashed in his eyes.

“You’re certainly spirited to be insulting the person holding you. I have half a mind to drop you, Miss Prince.”

She mirrored his expression, her trademark stubbornness clear on her face.

“You won’t. I know you won’t,” she grinned tipsily.

He watched her for a moment, eyes narrowing at the challenge, but eventually sighed and rolled his eyes.

“You’re just lucky I don’t want you to get any more hurt than you already are. I would consider it a failure if I had come all the way over just to be unsuccessful in my supervision.”

She rolled her eyes.

“And you don’t do failures…” she frowned suddenly. “That’s another thing I hate about you! You… you’re so good at everything…! Y… You just… look at things with those… stupid… striking green eyes… and show up in those… stupid well-fitting suits… and things just get done perfectly! None of it is fair!”

He chuckled after a minute and watched her in amusement.

“You certainly have a myriad of thoughts about my appearance, ma cherie. Are you so sure you really want to see me as the villain in your story? It appears your mind has wandered elsewhere,” he purred softly, bringing a hand up to brush against her jaw lightly, directing her gaze back to him.

She watched him for a minute and her gaze fell. Looking over her face, his playful attitude began to dissipate. She seemed genuinely upset, longing even, as her eyes roamed his face. He worried for a moment that he had pushed too far. She was drunk, sure, playing with her in this state was unavoidable, but that didn’t mean he wanted to rub salt in her wounds.

“No… I… I don’t want to see you as the villain,” she sighed, taking a moment to lean back against him, one hand resting gently on his chest while the other rose to his cheek, softly outlining the contrast of his face. “That’s the most frustrating thing… we could’ve been… so good together… you know?” Her eyes scanned his face tenderly, pulling at every heartstring in his dark and hidden heart.

His stomach sank, his own gaze softening at her words. He sighed and brushed her cheek softly with his finger, his other hand pulling her in a little tighter.

“I gave you the opportunity, Isabelle. All you had to do was take it.”

She shook her head softly, her gaze rising to meet his.

“You know I could’ve never agreed to that.”

He watched her for another minute before sighing, a bittersweet smile crossing his lips. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

“I know, ma cherie.”

They sat in silence for a moment. She had returned her attention back to his tie, playing with it gently while he stared out the window, entirely too sober to be the vulnerable one in this conversation.

“You know…” she said, breaking the silence, “We don’t have to… completely deny… what we feel…”

He looked down at her suddenly, a hint of concern tainting his expression.

“Isabelle, I’m not sure this is a conversation you want to be having right now--”

Her hand covered his mouth, silencing him as she leaned in, their faces only inches apart.

“If I didn’t want to have it… then why would I be saying… the words?” She sent a look insinuating his stupidity, unaware of the fact that her own words weren’t capable of forming a fully coherent sentence.

His warning gaze didn’t waver at that. She was clearly too tipsy to be having this conversation with him right now, but he couldn’t deny that he was curious at least. If this topic had truly bothered him, he would have removed her from his lap ten minutes ago and set that boundary, but it was impossible for him to say now that he didn’t enjoy her touch, her company. He wouldn’t let this go for too much longer, but he at least wanted to hear what she was really thinking before she sobered up in the morning and he might never get his answer.

She removed her hand from his mouth and instead wound her arms gently around his neck, her weight now fully resting against him as she pushed her body closer to his. He felt her nose brush against his gently and his breath caught in his throat, unsure of how to react to her obvious advances.

“Don’t say… don’t say you can’t feel this…” she spoke softly, her hazel eyes meeting his green ones. “You have… no idea… how many times I’ve imagined this…” she sighed and let her eyes close as she recalled the memories to her mind’s eyes. “You… between my legs… my hands in your hair,” she sighed, “I’d love to mess up all that work you put into it…”

A choked sound left his lips as she sighed. He couldn’t recall how many times he had seen the same scene play in his head. It was almost like a dream, having her here in his arms, admitting her attraction to him and divulging her secret fantasies to him. To know that the spark between them was real, that it wasn’t something he had imagined in a moment of seclusion, was something so satisfying he never wanted to let it go, but the chances were she wouldn’t even remember any of this in the morning. It was better if he just let it go now.

“Isabelle…” he said, trying to put some space between them reluctantly, “we can’t…”

She couldn’t help herself as she moved in, pressing her lips to his firmly and throwing him off yet again. His eyes went wide for a moment before he closed them and released into the kiss, wholly intoxicated by the woman on top of him. She pulled away after a long minute, leaving him in a momentary stupor.

“This is a different game than we were playing before… we can do… whatever we want....”

She pulled him in, ready to kiss him again, but he stopped her, pulling his head away and resting a hand softly on her shoulder.

“Miss Prince, as much as I’d like to continue this exchange, you are far too incapacitated to know what you’re doing right now.” His eyes scanned over her face before he sighed, training his gaze elsewhere so he didn’t have to see the betrayed look in her eyes before she yawned, frowning and resting her head back into the crook of his neck. He sighed and glanced down at her.

“Come on, ma cherie. I think it’s about time you settled in for the night. We can discuss this another time.”

He moved swiftly, standing from the chair and pulling her up against his chest. She protested lightly, but sighed and resigned after a moment, settling into his arms.

“I’m not tired…” she trailed off, pausing to let out a big yawn before tugging on his tie gently with a lazy smile. “You’re stronger than you look.”

He rolled his eyes and carried her down the hall, glancing into the rooms on either side to discern which one was hers. Carrying her in, he moved over to the bed and pulled the sheets back before lowering her down gently. He pulled the sheets up, covering her, and tried to pull away, only to notice that her hand was still wrapped firmly around his tie. He raised an eyebrow and sent her a firm look.

“Isabelle…” he started.

“Please don’t leave. Not yet,” she pleaded, a tender expression crossing her face.

He found her once again pulling at his nearly nonexistent heartstrings. He wasn’t in any position to be denying her requests, especially not after what had just occurred between them.

He sighed and resigned with a soft nod, waiting for him to release his tie before sitting on the edge of the bed next to her. She settled into the covers, watching him over the edge of her duvet with a sleepy glance, afraid to close her eyes because he might be gone when she opened them again. He chuckled softly at the sight, lifting his hand to gently brush the hair back from her flushed face.

“I’ll still be in the city when you wake up, waiting patiently for you to come and throw another wrench in my plans.” He smiled softly. “Get some rest, ma cherie.”

She sighed softly, melting at his touch and letting her eyes drift closed with a soft murmur that he couldn’t quite catch. He watched her for a minute, not wanting to look away or leave her side.

‘In the morning,’ he thought bittersweetly, ‘we’ll be right back to the way we were.’

He waited a moment for her breath to even before leaning forwards, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and whispering, “Je t’attendrai, ma cherie.”

He pulled away slowly, watching her for another moment before standing up from the bed and heading out of her room. He paused to write a note, leaving it beside a glass of water and a tylenol by her bedside, and left the apartment.

-----------------------------

Isabelle woke to a pounding headache and a sensitivity to light that she was vaguely familiar with from her time at university.

She tried to remember what had happened the night before, but found that after she began drinking, all her memories had become increasingly fuzzy. She could recall shapes, voices. Had someone come over? She wasn’t sure what was real and what was a dream. A soft voice echoed in her head, a gentle French lilt gracing her ears, but she couldn’t put a face to the sound.

Sitting up with a groan, her head still in her hands, she glances around the room, finding at first no evidence that anyone had been here. She sighed in relief. The last thing she needed to find out was that she had accidentally invited her boss over while she was drunk, who was, while sweet, interested in her in a way she couldn’t reciprocate.

She reached over to the nightstand, fingers searching for her phone so that she could know what time of day it was, but she quickly pried her eyes back open when, instead of cold metal, her hand found a small piece of paper, partially tucked underneath a glass of water.

Oh no.

Someone had been over. But who?

She groaned and rubbed her eyes again, building her courage to pull out the note and read it. Whoever it was, she hoped it could all be passed off as one big misunderstanding. After all, she was hardly the first person to drunkenly call a friend, and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. Best case scenario, it would be a funny story they could recount on in the future.

The note left from under the glass with some tension, and she raised it closer to her face, squinting to make out the words while her other hand helped her partially block the sun from her straining eyes. She froze in fear when she realized exactly whose handwriting was scrawled across the sticky note, silently cursing herself for making possibly the biggest mistake of her life.

“Call me when you’re sober.

We have much to discuss.

Bien à vous,

Le Tyran de Paris.”

She stared at the note in horror, letting the realization set in as she began to recall exactly what had transpired last night.

She had kissed him.

No, it was worse than that.

She had kissed him and told him that she wanted him between her legs, and he hadn’t pushed her away.

The boundary between them had always been fuzzy, but now it seemed nonexistent.

Eventually, she found the strength to pull herself out of bed, making her way into the living room to survey the damage, but instead she found her apartment looking neater than she remembered it looking before her drunken rampage. The spill on the carpet had completely disappeared, and she was sure that he must have had something to do with it.

She found her phone sitting on the kitchen counter, no doubt moved from her reach in an attempt to stop her from contacting anyone else by mistake and further increasing her embarrassment.

At least he was caring enough to look out for her in that regard.

She sighed and picked up her phone, scrolling through her contact list until she settled on his card, altered slightly since the last time she had seen it. His name was the same, but she found another note attached to the contact.

“J’imagine que c’est une autre conséquence du vin. Je suppose que je peux être un peu tyrannique, mais j’aurais préféré quelque chose de plus affectueux.”

She flushed softly in embarrassment.

That cheeky bastard.

Sighing softly, her finger hovered over the call button. It would be better to handle this now rather than later, so taking a deep breath, she pressed downwards, lifting the phone to her ear as it began to ring.

The engagement party was already shaping up to be better than her previous one, although she kept that to herself (and Vincent). His parents outdid themselves and were far more welcoming than she expected. She tried her best to ignore the quips about how it was about time their son “settled down and did the right thing” and the raised eyebrows at her age.

They were old-fashioned, to some extent, but nothing she couldn’t deal with.

“One branch of my family is British. Everyone gets along well enough,” Vincent prefaced. “It is the cousins you need to be aware of. One in particular. Bincent .”

Sophia almost dropped the glass she was holding. Had she misheard?

“ I’m sorry ?”

“His actual name is Reginald but we call him Bincent.”

“That’s not really an explanation, you know.”

“You’ll understand when you see him.”

______________________________________________

She did understand.

If they stood side by side. The eyebrows, maybe the hairline. From the back, they could pass as one another.

Cousin Reginald (she refused to call him Bincent to his face, although it seemed to be used among the cousins all around the same age) held otherwise little resemblance to her fiance. Blue eyes, a little older, and a nose that seemed to be recessive among the family traits.

He almost kissed her on the lips. And it was impossible to miss the look Vincent gave after a whispered conversation. She’d caught most of the words and she did her best not to look as though she knew precisely what had transpired; it was the same conversation she imagined people called “locker talk”. Sophia thought Vincent was going to gut him like a fish and yet Reginald took it in stride, as if this was par for the course.

When the couple was left alone again, Sophia turned to find Vincent red in the face.

“I forget how utterly awful his French is,” Vincent muttered. “Do not speak English if you don’t need to. He will become a leech.”

His cousin’s French was worse than Audrey’s. Which was saying something, considering the journalist had the worst grammar and pronunciation. Sophia tried not to wince.

“So…why the nickname?”

“British Vincent. I hated it. I couldn’t stop it. But the uncles and aunts couldn’t tell us apart and I almost ended up on a train headed towards London because no one knew green eyes from blue ones. But it also means botched–”

They were interrupted by Cousin Reginald, bearing a small photo album.

“I believe your mother wants to see you, Vinny boy.”

Vincent arched a brow and looked across the room. Sure enough, expectant eyes waited. Before he stepped away, he bent down slightly and murmured to Sophia, “Remember what I said. And if he tries anything, may as well make use of your heels, ma chérie .”

The faint touch of his fingers holding hers lingered a moment longer before he walked away. Vincent’s departure wasn’t without a warning glance.

“I’m sure you probably feel out of place, surrounded by all these frogs,” Reginald said in English after Vincent was out of earshot. “Then again, Paris is pretty cosmopolitan, no?”

“ Actually, I’m pretty at home by now. I’ve been in Paris for years.”

He stared at her before he smiled awkwardly and said, “My French is shit, I’m afraid. Vinny no doubt told you, in case it wasn’t obvious.”

Sophia smiled, torn between being polite and listening to Vincent. Considering how close he’d come to immediately breaking boundaries, she opted to, for once, take Vincent’s advice.

“I’m anglophobic,” Sophia said before taking a sip of champagne.

“You’re afraid of fishing?”

Without missing a beat, she said, “Fuck off, Bincent.”

He did just that, only to turn and almost bump into Vincent.

“She’s got some bite , Vinny,” Reginald said, looking pleased. “You damn lucky bastard.”

“I am lucky, aren’t I?”

______________________________________________

After lunch and dessert, they were bombarded again, this time by Bincent carrying a photo album. He shouldn’t smile so wide, Sophia thought. It always seemed to make his face crease unnaturally.

“Has he shown you some–”

Sophia knew the glare Vincent bore. Thin ice. Thinner than a bug’s wing. She placed a hand on Vincent’s arm casually and smiled.

“He hasn’t, although I’m sure there’ll be time–”

She was soon shown pictures of summer family gatherings, names she would vaguely remember.

“You were cute,” Sophia murmured in French.

Vincent looked offended, mirth dancing across his lips.

“Were?”

“You’re more handsome than cute now, mon coeur.”

And then she came across a picture and the words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. No wonder the parents had trouble keeping track of who was who. Although there were a few years between them, the two boys looked almost identical.

“How the hell–”

“I’m the finer specimen, clearly,” Reginald teased in English.

“You could have been handsome if it wasn't for the accident.”

“Stop telling people I had an accident. It was a face lift.”

“They certainly used the jaws of life to do the work, Bincent. ”

Reginald laughed and lifted the glass he held in his other hand ever so slightly. Vincent’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes, she noted, but perhaps this was just…their thing.

When the party finally wound down, and they were rid of guests and niceties, officially alone, Sophia reached up and began to undo Vincent’s tie. As she did, she looked up at him, eyes tracing the lines of his face.

“Vincent, promise me something?”

“Of course, ma chérie.”