It was just one night. It wasn’t meant to be more than that. Even if neither of them could entirely forget the other. She wasn’t expecting to see those piercing eyes again, especially at the other end of her desk. And he didn’t make a habit of sleeping with colleagues. Also on AO3.
She expected the car. It was, after all, the same vehicle Vincent took her home in.
But she didn’t expect it to show up at her building’s curb and draw the attention of her roommate and their neighbors. The driver stepped out and after a minute, the buzzer sounded, the tone harsh and intrusive.
“Goddamn it,” Sophia muttered as she caught sight of the sleek car.
“Oh, yeah, he definitely still wants to bone you,” Kat teased as she peered down, toothbrush poking out of her mouth. “Wants to make himself known to the people nearby.”
“Shut up,” Sophia threw back as she darted into her bedroom and gathered her bag.
She was going to have to lay down that boundary. He probably found her address from her personnel file, granted, but she would have met him in front of the office. In fact, that was agreed upon yesterday.
So much for that.
Sophia tried to soothe the last of her stray flyaways as she made her way down the stairs, chastising herself when she realized what she was doing. It was just her boss. She needed to be presentable, not perfect.
The driver opened the building door for her before she got a chance to do it herself and managed to open the car door as well in a smooth, fluid and anticipatory movement. Vincent was already inside, of course, his seat reclined to make room for his tall form as he scanned the tablet in his hand.
She had no idea that backseats could recline.
He offered a cordial good morning as she settled in, and as she returned the words, she tried not to think about how those were the only set of words they never said to each other in private.
When they pulled away from the curb, Sophia said, “I would have met you at the office. There was no need to pick me up.”
“We have to head north anyway,” Vincent replied. “I recalled you mentioned you lived in the 18th and it made more sense to save the time.”
He sounded so earnest when he said it. Somehow that made the ache in her chest all the worse.
After a moment of silence, Vincent said, “However, I suppose I can see how that assumption gives the wrong impression and crosses a line.”
He plucked a cup of coffee from the large armrest between them and held it out to her. Sophia took it, trying to ignore the jolt that ran up her arm as their fingers brushed.
Was it ever going to get easier?
“I don’t think it qualifies as appropriate for our circumstances. But I appreciate the thought.”
Vincent pulled away first, carefully avoiding her fingers again, and turned his attention back to the tablet to continue reading.
“Duly noted.”
The silence that passed between them felt more like a wall than absence of sound. How did one build such a barrier of propriety when it didn’t exist to begin with?
Sophia pulled out the folder she began reading last night and carefully made her way through the contents again. It wasn’t just information on this one painting in particular; a record of all created works, press clippings and praise, letters, eventually early emails, sketches…
She didn’t want to ask. Asking such a thing felt invasive, personal. The very thing she was trying to avoid to begin with.
But if there were dynamics or minutia she needed to be aware of…she would look a fool in front of everyone if she didn’t.
She didn’t want to fail.
And the idea of failing Vincent felt even worse.
After a few sips of coffee (so much better than the sludge Kat made this morning), she found the courage to let the words fall from her lips.
“For the sake of transparency and so I’m not stumbling over details with the owners, this painting is by Paul Géroux, right?”
“Correct.”
“The same Paul Géroux who also founded the magazine?”
Vincent turned his head to her so quickly she thought he gave himself whiplash. He hadn’t expected her to know; it was clear in the way his brows furled together and the firm line of his lips. She kept her expression neutral in return and swallowed the desire to defend her line of thinking. If it was as personal as it seemed, it was important to allow the person to speak and set the boundary, not the other way around.
After a soft exhale, Vincent turned away and directed his gaze on the road. Knowingly, he asked, “Mathias?”
Sophia winced but admitted, “He mentioned Paul at lunch yesterday; I filled in the rest with a few quick searches online.”
Vincent was quiet. He sipped his own drink once, twice, and then, before he could speak, his phone chimed. He pulled the device out of his inside jacket pocket to take a glance.
“Insufferable bastard,” he muttered, thumb making quick work of a response. “By all means, just throw off my schedule for the sake of your lack of foresight…”
Sophia averted her gaze to give him at least the semblance of privacy. Today didn’t seem to be going as he’d planned.
“My apologies for my language and my reaction.”
She turned her attention back to him to find Vincent leaning back with his eyes closed and his free hand on the bridge of his nose.
“Laurent has a whimsical tendency and has decided to take the more scenic route. It’s inefficient and inconvenient for the owners, nevermind us, but he never quite thinks that far ahead.”
He caught himself and clarified, “Not us in the…” Vincent’s hand left his nose to gesture vaguely to the space between them. “Rather, in the sense that both of us have separate schedules that should have been considered.”
“I knew what you meant, Vincent.”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded like, Glad one of us did.
“To continue your question, yes, the very same Paul. And the owners we’ll be seeing are his parents. The fact that Laurent has decided to dally makes this all the harder.”
“Is he…usually this difficult?” Sophia asked.
“Yes, so I should have anticipated such antics but alas. I despise nothing more than a lack of consideration.”
Vincent tapped his cup, finished what little was left, and then gestured for the folder in Sophia’s lap. She obliged and he pulled out two photographs; each depicting a different name but a similar flourish.
“Paul only signed one set of paintings under his legal name; the rest are under a pseudonym, under which he was rather well-known. The family wishes for discretion but that the painting is signed under his actual name makes it all the more valuable.”
The G’s and the R’s were the same shape and size and the brushstroke for the signatures was smooth. Very likely the same person and if there was record of both names being attributed to Paul, the only option was that it was him.
Something about this just seemed…odd. Why would they be selling their son’s painting? Especially one that had his personal signature, a mark of intimate knowledge, rather than his more well-known moniker?
She wasn’t sure it was a question she wanted to ask aloud; the line she was walking for this assignment was more narrow than fishing wire and far more tenuous.
When she looked out the window again, the city had given way to suburbs as they headed into the outskirts of Paris and beyond. Eventually, houses faded away into countryside, green landscapes and distant rolling hills. Idyllic and lush and vibrant under the stunning blue sky; it was much more beautiful at this level than it was in the plane. She couldn’t help but wonder where, precisely, they were going, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
Vincent fractured her thoughts by saying her name and she looked at him again to find the folder neatly arranged and held out, a silent offering.
“I hope you can understand now why, precisely, I wanted someone dedicated to discretion and without the legacy that others have to work on this. I need tact, consideration for the living and the dead, and a fresh eye.”
She took the folder silently and nodded her understanding. He’d said yesterday that privacy was paramount and now she knew, precisely, why. He and the rest of the parties involved would have nothing less than her utmost dedication to keep names out, if that was the approach desired.
So much of this was as intimate as their weekend together, if not more so.
Didn’t that defeat the purpose of their agreement?
She wanted to stay in Paris; Vincent Karm wanted to reinvent his image. A mere business arrangement in the form of “I do” and a set of rings. The last thing either of them expected was for the line to blur, for the lie and façade to fall somewhere along the way, and leave them facing an unspoken truth.
AO3 || Chapter 34
The ride to Geneva from Paris had been a quick affair, in that the flight was only an hour between the cities and they were finished with transaction records by the late afternoon. Not without hiccups, of course; despite having been added to his accounts, she was treated with more scrutiny than when they went to obtain their wedding license.
They left Geneva and within another hour were in Zermatt, surrounded by mountains and snow and the typical vacationers looking to get away.
Disappointment knotted her stomach despite previously asserting all of this was a practical and necessary trip. She wanted to see the city that held so much sway over European history and political affairs and actually enjoy being away from the metropolis that was Paris; neither would happen. Not until everything was done.
The banks would be the easy part. It was swaying the few board members who weren’t already in the Knights’ pocket that would be difficult; more difficult still would be getting authorities involved in the proper way.
For now, this would have to be enough. If they succeeded, they would be able to proceed with the rest of the plan.
And if that worked, the rest would follow.
The plan would hold.
It had to.
___________________
Sophia heard the front door to the suite close as she began laying out an outfit for dinner. She peered out of the bedroom to find Vincent brushing off his coat before hanging it carefully, the wool glimmering with melted snow.
The detour to the mountains was so Vincent could wrangle one board member himself. A long-standing business relationship that he was certain would stand the test of everything he had to lay out. Someone he expected pushback from not out of the fear for their own skin but out of respect.
They shared a look that said everything; it went better than expected but more work was needed.
Sophia’s shoulders sank and she returned to the closet to pluck a hanger from the closet. She draped the fabric over the bed and then smoothed a hand over the dress. It wrinkled in her bag despite her best efforts. Normally, she wouldn’t care about such a thing but the more meetings she endured and the longer this plan was laid down, the more self-conscious she felt.
Vincent crossed the threshold of the bedroom and wrapped his arms around her, one hand pulling hers away from the dress to give her fingers something else to do.
Ever since their reunion, as she thought of it, he was surprisingly more affectionate than before. Which wasn’t saying much , since he never truly could keep his hands off of her after their final barriers broke. The weight of his chin on her shoulder, arms around her waist, and hips against her own were familiar, expected, and very much welcomed. It couldn’t be comfortable for him, given their height difference, but he never seemed to mind.
“Remald hardly looked shocked, let alone convinced,” he said quietly. “But she made a good point; replacing that much of the board won’t be easy when it’s not an election cycle. We’ll figure it out.”
He let out a breath through his nose, tickling her skin.
“I did pitch your idea of a press conference and she seemed to take to that. It would make everything more legitimate,” Vincent mused. “Harder to disprove in the moment. But Morean operates as if he’s in the courtroom all the time and there will be pushback.”
“Let them fight. Their victims didn’t get to.”
The words were sharp and hard in her mouth and she uttered an apology under her breath.
“It gets to me. How easily this cycle is fed. How many lives it destroys,” Sophia elaborated.
Revealing everything to him, Louise, and Raphael simultaneously felt like a burden lifted from her shoulders and then replaced it with the entire world. Kat’s death had taken so much precedence that all this felt...long overdue.
Had Morean not come into the picture at all, how would she even have approached this?
It went unspoken that she longed for the cycle to break entirely. Both of them knew that wouldn’t be possible. Not in their lifetime, at the very least.
“We can stay in, ma cherie ,” Vincent whispered.
“No, no, we only have a small window of time here. I want us to enjoy what we can.”
Sophia wriggled and turned in his arms, her hands now resting against his chest. She watched as his shoulders straightened ever so slightly at her words.
“The royal we. I’m quite honored.”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much, otherwise your head won’t fit through the door.”
“Who says I need to leave? I have all I need.”
Her face grew hot when she realized where, exactly, his hands were (when had they fallen that low?) and when she tried to break free, her hips were pressed harder against his and he squeezed. Sophia gave him a look and he feigned innocence, one hand returning to her hip and the other coming between them to cup her face.
“It’s quite true. In more than just physicality. I thought you knew this, Sophia.”
“As if I could ever doubt it,” she replied. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”
She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand, his touch far warmer than any source of heating in the lodge’s elaborate space.
“If there’s time, can we stop for hot chocolate at some point before our flight?” Sophia found herself asking. “Or at least order it from room service? It seems a waste to come here and not be able to at least experience that when we’re in the Alps. It’ll make for a nice feel-good piece and I can put the recommendation in my next column.”
Vincent pressed a kiss to her forehead and she felt his lips curl into a smile. “Whatever you’d like, ma cherie .”
In the back of her mind, she had to admit; the Essence did wonders in the end. With the final walls between them gone, they could simply... be . She didn’t have to hide her affection and her worries, or rather, she didn’t have to hold them back.
City of Love: Paris AU. Vincent Karm notices an incongruity with a painting and realizes there must be some truth to the rumors he hears about forgeries. He hires an American with a background in art history and the art market to look into the situation, leading to the discovery of a plot that would prove devastating for Paris. Vincent KarmxOC.
AO3 | Wattpad | Chapter 48
As she approached the penthouse door, she noticed that the hallway between the elevator and the main door looked…off. A table was pushed ever so slightly further down the corridor, the soft custom runner had the occasional large booted footprint. No signs of forced entry around the hinges or the lock.
Yet the door was ajar.
She hoped the man from earlier was true to his word if she found anyone other than the intended party across the threshold.
Sophia entered, closed the door behind her and turned the deadbolt, a resounding click echoing as it slid into place. Excited whimpers and barks echoed throughout the large and open living space as the two dogs skittered across the shining floor. She knelt carefully, mindlessly petting both of them as her eyes roamed for signs of anyone else in the space. It looked exactly as she left it. Esteban huffed as he sniffed her ankle brace, shaking his head as he did whenever he didn't like what was in his bowl for dinner. Theodora was busy snuffling the small red stain on Sophia's side and she reprimanded her before she could get the true scent of blood.
The sound of something shattering off to her right broke her from the moment and, despite her injuries, Sophia scrambled to her feet, waiting. A few small thuds followed the initial smash, accompanied by a growl of frustration.
The dogs were alert but not scared or suspicious, although Theodora was naturally more guarded. If it was an intruder, they would be far more vocal and aggressive…
Strange.
She padded down the hall and through the double doors of the library, partially closed, and found Vincent, hammer in hand, examining a now-broken phone. Nearby, she caught a glimpse of the documents she previously saw in the safe. Passports stacked atop of a few folders, the currencies that had been nestled into the cash drawer were in a neat pile, arranged by size.
"Whenever I laud technology, I find a new grievance with it," Vincent said, bypassing a greeting with another swing of the hammer. "Burner phones are far easier to get rid of."
There was more than one device waiting to be smacked but it looked like the hard disk was still intact, despite his efforts. It was impossible to miss his eyes flickering to her face and then her side, his gaze never far from the many tasks ahead of them.
Slowly but surely, the pain from before was beginning to creep back in the longer all of this took. Relief mingled with the looming anxiety that kept reminding her this wasn't the end and she felt like a puppet with half of her strings snipped. She already missed the adrenaline that had kept her running for the past few hours.
Even if Kingsley succeeded in stopping the water, everything was far from over.
"Tell that to Nokia," she said as she approached, dropping her backpack onto a chair by the fire as she tried to stand straight and walk properly.
The trek to the Eighth had been harder than navigating the underworld of Paris. The uneven flooding already made for a difficult journey on foot but it was increasingly difficult to hide the fact that she clearly needed medical attention. That her face was circulating besides Vincent's was a different matter entirely. It was amazing what people missed when they were too worried about more immediate dangers.
Vincent put down the hammer as she nestled under his arm, leaning into him. This was one of their last moments together but there would, in this instance, be no last meal together, no gentleness, no walking to the gate with him.
But there would be no fight, either. Considering their last parting before he walked right into a trap, this was a marked improvement.
Vincent sighed heavily; the motion was far less calming than it normally was and only served to remind her of their temporary freedom together.
"We don't have much time," he said softly, hand tugging at his hair as he pushed wayward locks back. "Do you have your passport and ID cards? Your American license?"
"Rescued from my soaked jacket, they're in my bag. I'll take care of the phones. The sooner we start burning the documents, the sooner any traces of your old plans are gone."
She felt him nod before pressing his lips to the top of her head, hesitantly pulling away. Smashing something would tire her further but if she was tired, she wouldn't be able to focus on the intrusive thoughts that clawed at her. Like how every breath felt as if it was borrowed, forever threatening to leave her for good. There wasn't time for grief to strangle her, not at the moment.
The hammer felt familiar in her hand and she turned it in her palm once, gauging its weight. She was vaguely aware of Vincent gathering the papers from the table and striking several matches as she lined up the head of the hammer with the hard disk once, then twice for accuracy, before swinging hard. She took the time to make sure the pieces were fragmented enough that nothing could be recovered from it before moving onto the next one.
Behind her, the fire crackled and popped as the comforting smell of a log burning mingled with the less pleasant scent of ink and plastic.
As she separated the second phone's pieces, she heard Vincent say, "As skilled with a hammer as you are with a level."
She couldn’t help but laugh softly at the reference to a different night, when he found her correcting mistakes that weren’t hers in the first place. It was one of the few moments from ‘before’ that she felt like she truly saw the man behind the facade, the one who had done everything himself to not only claw his way to the top, but to stay there.
"I'm glad years of lining up nails for siding and shingles and then smashing my fingers has paid off. What kind of gallery owner would I be if I couldn't use one of these with proper force?"
She struck the hard drive, imagining it was Alia's face, plastic shattering across the table. Everything felt a little lighter by the time she started the third and final one, the pain in her side and leg slipping away for a few moments as she kept going, pulverizing the parts until they resembled nothing but a mangled mess of computer chips, glass, and tiny wires. It looked like how she felt inside and for once, it was nice to see that reflected back at her instead of pity and reassurance. Her breaths were shaky and the very things she didn't have the luxury of time for snared her, unsatisfied by the catharsis she tried to provide.
A hand caught hers as she was about to swing again, tugging gently on the tool and pulling it out of her hand.
"I think that's more than enough 'proper force', ma chérie."
She focused on the warmth of his fingers, the slight hint of his pulse running so closely to hers. A reminder that not everyone she knew was dead or gone. That as long as she would have him, he would stay.
He was struggling with his words, judging by the way the corner of his lip twitched and how hesitant he was in letting go of her. Not that she minded. An anchor was good. Necessary, even. Vincent’s hand slid from her wrist, up her arm, and to her shoulder, as he instead opted for silence and pulled her close.
The one thing they hadn’t been able to do hours ago, even in a room separated from everyone else. She buried herself against him, lost in the scents she missed over the past two years, grounding herself. There was so little everything that even this felt frivolous, unnecessary; how could she take up the time they had just trying to keep herself together?
It must have been easier to comfort her when Catherine died, she realized. Remind her that her emotions couldn't rule over her. They had nothing back then, the morning after the murder; nothing but a contract and a job to be done. He only cared that she was functional and able to do what he asked. He never wasted his time or his money on a lost cause.
This time, he offered no platitudes, no reassurances; what could be said when neither of them believed in anything beyond life? What comfort would she find in words that were no match for the warm splatter of blood, for the spark behind someone's eyes fading before they stared back, unseeing, only to be further faced with malice and a lack of remorse?
The helplessness was a cruel reminder that, try as they had, the worst still happened.
"You've done your part, that's all they would have ever asked of you," Vincent pulled back just enough and brushed stray hairs from her forehead, tucking them back into the loose style she’d pulled her hair into.
His eyes burned her and if she were well, she was certain she would have become a pile of smoldering ashes with the degree of intensity of his gaze. Tracing every inch of her, no doubt, in preparation for long days and even longer nights.
Before he could continue, she asked, "And what do you ask of me?"
The words carried more weight than she anticipated and he looked away, he pulled at his tie, straightening the knot as his gaze burned holes into the wide window behind her.
"A great many things I have no right to," he said softly, eyes finding hers as he placed a warm hand on her cheek. "And most of them I won't ask. Not now, at least."
"Since when did you grow a conscience?"
“When I thought I was going to lose you for good.”
The deflection of her humor drew a wry smile from her that fell as quickly as it came.
His thumb traced her lip before he kissed the corners of her mouth, her cheeks, and then her forehead. He brushed his nose against hers, their breaths mingling before kiss after gentle kiss closed the distance between them. She forgot, momentarily, where they were and the pain searing through her body slipped away as the last twenty-four hours seemed to melt. The touches between them were charged, yet chaste, expecting nothing but giving everything.
Both of them failed to realize the noises coming from the entryway until Theodora's sharp barks and Esteban's high-pitched yowling reached the library. Vincent pulled away to glance at the intruders, but not before reveling in what she looked like after his devoted attention. She gave a playful glare in return; normally, she wouldn't have minded, but she was already a mess to begin with.
Sophia, too, drew her attention to the doorway to find Eugene soothing the dogs.
"You'll be expected at Clinique du Trocadero, sir. Staff is already aware of the…sensitive nature of the request," Eugene said, standing and brushing away stray hairs on his sleeves. "Insurance companies have been notified and claims have already filed as well, for the house on Avenue Charles Floquet. A team is barricading the property and beginning to drain the basement."
“Wait, what…?” Sophia looked at Vincent and then back at the valet, momentarily stunned. Of course, being so close to the Seine, and on ground level, it shouldn’t have been surprising. Yet it hadn’t even occurred to her at all that the house would be touched. “Is anything ruined? How bad is it?”
“Bad enough,” Vincent muttered, his tone lightening as he amended, “Nothing valuable was touched and the seals on the pool door seemed to have held entirely, preventing any chemical contamination. It can be fixed. Gives me a good excuse to build out my evil lair.”
“Your what?” her head snapped up, gazing at him with disbelief. He was already plotting when he still had a sentence to serve?
“Hmm?”
She wanted to wipe that smug grin off of his face but she shifted her weight and winced, her ankle and foot far more tender than before. The arms holding her tightened, keeping her straight, and a quick glance up told her she got exactly what she wanted; the grin was gone, replaced with a crease of worry knitted between his brows and a soft, silent plea in his eyes.
"Thank you for your hard work, Eugene," she said the words before Vincent could, letting his distraction work in her favor, "Could I ask for two final things?"
"Of course, madam."
Her cheeks grew hot at the title, both because it was unclear where she and Vincent stood in that territory and because it made her feel far more powerful than she really was. She recovered from her momentary shock quickly, her favors rolling from her lips as though they were water.
"Call my family, please. I'm sure they're more than worried at this point. And if they don't have flights booked, please arrange for them to be in Paris by the end of the week."
Eugene gave a slight bend at his waist and ushered the dogs back into the hallway. He paused as he was closing the double doors, something clearly nagging him as he kept looking between the table, the fire, and his employer. Employer s , Sophia reminded herself. He had served her as loyally as he had Vincent, even if that loyalty came at the price of omniscience for the man currently holding her.
"Out with it, Eugene," Vincent pressed. "There are still papers to burn."
"I'm glad you're safe. Both of you."
"You were one of the only individuals to make that possible, Eugene. Thank you for your continued service."
Sophia wondered if there was more he wanted to say but the man nodded and left without another word. She watched the doors after his departure but was pulled back into more important matters when Vincent pressed another kiss to her forehead.
"Come, help me with these. The faster these are destroyed, the better."
__________
The boat ride this time was far more pleasant than the previous one. Not only were the accommodations far easier to navigate with one good leg but the relief was finally hitting her full-force.
Despite all of the pain, physically and emotionally, it was over. Done. There would be no more forgeries, no more lies, no more trips to the underbelly of the city. No more constant threat sitting in the shadows. Or so she could hope.
Vincent was, for once, silent as he steered towards the Sixteenth, jacket abandoned and sleeves crisply rolled to his elbows. Although his eyes were covered with a pair of sunglasses, it was impossible to not notice the way his shoulders sat straight, tension gone, or that he let his gaze wander to the sights they passed, drinking in everything around them. The wind ruffled his hair and a grin, almost boy-ish, broke out across his face when they finally picked up speed in a deserted section of the Seine.
Seeing him like this, relaxed and enjoying himself, drove another stake through her already-aching heart.
It was bad enough they were parting again after the lengths he went through to get out of his cage. Worse yet was the uncertainty if they would ever have this again, if she would ever see true joy ebb through him at something as innocuous as the wind through his hair.
They docked at Port Debilly, not far from Pont de Bir-Hakeim, and met a car to take them the rest of the way to the hospital. The streets were better here, marginally; less water, more traffic.
It wasn't until they were walking up the steps to the hospital that Vincent's ease finally disappeared. His hand tightened around hers and he spoke to the receptionist and the nurse in a clipped, but albeit polite, tone. Vincent's eyes never settled on one spot too long during their short stint in the waiting room, either, which did nothing for her own nerves. He was hardly any better once she was brought up to a room, changed, and given an IV with morphine after an initial exam; he rarely sat still, his attention laser-focused when she made any noise of discomfort or pain.
If she wasn’t so frustrated about being bedridden and waiting for the surgeon to arrive, she would be envious that he had the use of his legs. The room spun occasionally of its own free will, something the nurse said could happen from the morphine they added to her IV.
She had almost declined it until it slipped out that she couldn’t remember her last full night of sleep. The look the nurse shot her way made her cave almost instantly. She needed sleep if she wanted to heal.
When they were alone again, Sophia asked, "Is this what you did earlier? When I was getting stitches?"
She shook out her tangled hair and ran her fingers through it before tying it back again. Moving her head made the nausea from the morphine worse and she laid back against the bed when she was done, swallowing hard.
Vincent turned his head and raised a brow appraisingly in her direction but didn’t stop his pacing. Was he counting his steps? It seemed as if his strides were always in the same place, of the same length.
"Pace like a 17th century lord awaiting the news of whether his wife gave him a son.”
She immediately regretted the words, the tips of his ears growing pink despite the echo of agony she caught cross his face for a split second. A hospital was the last place he wanted to be on a good day, let alone when actual medical attention was needed. Uncomfortable was putting it lightly. He was on edge, try as he might to hide it. No amount of sleepiness and double vision could prevent her from noticing that. She held out a hand, the one without the needle in it, silently beckoning him away from the foot of her bed.
His fingers brushed hers carefully before a firmer grip took her hand.
"I'll be fine," Sophia amended, turning her head to him when he approached the side of the bed. The room seemed to spin a little and she breathed deeply a few more times before she continued. "There's no bullet lodged anywhere. And it's only been a few hours-any traces of infection would be caught early."
"There's more ahead of you than just more stitches and antibiotics, Sophia," Vincent replied, his eyes watching her IV drips as his hand found hers absently before he peered down at her. "You're forgetting your ankle, the healing, the physical therapy, not to mention all of the legal repercussions. And I won't… be there for any of it."
"But you're here now. Shouldn't that be enough?"
Can't it be enough?
Despite the dizziness and the nausea, the pain medication worked wonders. It was as if someone had undone every knot in her body. Her eyes felt leaden, slow to opening and constantly closing of their own accord. For the first time in twenty-four hours, all she could think about was sleep. How good closing her eyes would be.
Vincent didn't answer her and instead, she felt warm lips on her forehead again, then her cheeks, and finally her lips.
"Sleep, ma chérie. I'll be here when you wake up."
It was a lie, and they both knew it. But it was enough to lull her to let go for now, to let someone else pick up the pieces she left behind.
City of Love: Paris AU. Vincent Karm notices an incongruity with a painting and realizes there must be some truth to the rumors he hears about forgeries. He hires an American with a background in art history and the art market to look into the situation, leading to the discovery of a plot that would prove devastating for Paris. Vincent KarmxOC.
AO3 | Wattpad | Chapter 47
Despite the higher than usual levels of water, the canal and the Seine were only choppy when they passed other watercraft, which made the trip all the more tolerable. Here and there, as she looked around the stern, she noticed little things that Vincent's boat was often deprived of (having had little use or purpose in his absence). Extra towels, some bright and colorful, Bluetooth speakers, extra wires for who-knew-what wrapped up neatly, a mix of dark clothes with shocks of bright color too bold for the politician to wear.
Sophia preferred this, the peace and short, quiet, look into someone else's life, over the few times she'd been forced to attend summer parties on yachts back in the States, either for Richard or for work, in which she was expected to be impressed and coy and clever. As much freedom as she'd had in New York, her old boss hadn't been above leveraging her to get something sold, be it her mind or her appearance. But if not for that very practice, she would never have been snared by Vincent to begin with.
You can never just enjoy something, can you? She chastised, pushing the stray thoughts from her mind.
Sarah, who had been occupied with a deep discussion with Henri, finally stepped out of the small booth housing the wheel and controls and absently made her way to the back of the boat. Her dark eyes were fixed on Notre Dame as they passed, the island surprisingly dry. She leaned against the railing, breeze playing with her hair, but her posture was tense. Sophia reminded herself that Sarah was always tense but she got the feeling it would be the curator, not the Commander, who would be her Spanish Inquisition.
"He's really dead?"
The words were barely audible over the engine but when Sophia caught the other woman looking expectantly at her, she knew they hadn't been a hallucination from the pain. She nodded and Sarah looked away, pointing a glare towards a point in the distance before directing it back at Sophia.
"And you just…what, exactly? Stood there and played dumb? You watched him die and instead of going to the police-"
Sophia cut her off. "In case you missed the memo, even if I did, the police wouldn't believe me anyway because I'm wanted for hiding Vincent away after he escaped. It might work to get me an insanity plea but no one outside of this good ol' boys club would have taken a word I said and looked into it." She stopped to catch her breath before she continued with, "I know you hate Vincent, and therefore hate me. Fine. But you and Audrey could have done the same and just dropped me off at a hospital. But you didn't and here we are."
She had just gotten out of a room full of inane bickering and for once, her head was finally feeling like it was screwed on right. She gestured to her leg and her ribs, pulling at the button down where a small patch of blood was blossoming through the packing and the thin fabric.
After everything, it didn't surprise her that Sarah still carried the grudge. Ever since she found out who was coming to pick up Vincent's collection at Orsay, the curator had nothing but disdain for her, over mere relationships. In this case, Sarah had every right to be angry but it was tiresome. But surely the fact that she told Sarah about the paintings, helped point Kat in the right direction, meant something. Would Sarah have even mentioned her name to Audrey if her efforts to do something right had fallen on deaf ears?
"He told me. About the paintings," Sarah said at last. "I got a voicemail late last night, explaining everything. And after that, a courier dropped off an envelope with a list of every painting ever replaced, in Orsay and otherwise. I take it you know where the real ones are?"
Sophia nodded, recalling the free port and the facility in Le Verdon, a long drive away from Paris. "Safe and sound."
"He was going to give a lecture about all of it, you know. Gather them up, stick them side by side, and throw doubt on the very institution he spent his life upholding. Come clean about all of it"
A pang of remorse stabbed her in the wound, as though the bullet was grazing her skin all over again. That was news to her, Alexandre's intentions. But if all had gone accordingly, the flood wouldn't have had to occur at all, Alia likely would have been handled silently, and the man driving the boat would have been already elected into office.
"I'll get you the paintings and provide what I can about the process. He clearly felt you were the right person to do what he wouldn't be able to," Sophia said, meeting Sarah's burning glare unflinchingly. "He won't go unrecognized when the dust settles."
After a beat, Sarah sniped, a small smile tugging at her mouth "That's the first thing out of your mouth all day that I actually believe without physical evidence."
__________
Every ten minutes or so, her fingers flew across her keyboard in an attempt to not only keep herself occupied but also maintain her facade. The first time she checked her phone once they sat down at the cafe, she had a photo from Eugene, a candid shot of Vincent enjoying the freedom of his boat. Just within frame, Raphael was doubled over the railing, clearly without sea legs.
What she wouldn't give to have been with them instead.
They had arrived at Alia's just after the three of them sat down. And in-between her grumpy texts were pictures of the strangest things found at Alia's boudoir.
You're so fractured that you have no idea who you're meeting and whether or not they can be of any help, Sophia mentally snapped, her ankle throbbing in the confines of the brace. So much for those painkillers. And the Knights of Lutetia are supposed to be the pillars of Parisian protection…
Her phone buzzed, revealing a text that wasn't a picture.
Why am I always a vulture? A carrion? Why does no one ever compare me to peregrine or a golden eagle?
I wouldn't compare you to a bird at all, really. Who said that?
In reality, he was more peacock than he wanted to admit, she knew.
A certain American designer who seems to have fallen deeper than he can handle despite his public rise to fame.
Sophia bit her cheek, knowing full well what he was referring to. TJ hadn't hidden the bruises very well and she imagined he hadn't hidden anything else entirely, either. Or, perhaps, that was the dynamic they preferred. Either way, it was more than she ever needed to know about Catherine and Alexandre's murderer.
Sarah, in a fit of impatience, decided to see if there was anything else available beside drinks.
Despite their earlier moment, Sophia was thankful for the reprieve; they'd been playing a silent game of glares and kind smiles every time her phone went off. Which left her alone with the mayor-to-be.
There was the small matter of the sandwich bag she tucked away and its bloodstained contents. It needed to be done now, before the three of them were deep in conversation again. Henri was known to become aggressive with any mention of the name of his wife, let alone actually speaking of her; he couldn't make much of a scene if he needed to also be mindful of his public image.
Sophia hoped Catherine would forgive her for not following instructions just this once and dug through the backpack.
"Before we meet with whoever it is we're meeting, I need to talk to you," Sophia said, laying the clear plastic bag in front of Henri. "About a topic you openly shun."
Henri's eyes flicked to the letter and he tensed, his knuckles turning white and his breathing clearly forced to remain even. No open protests…yet.
"She was very talented, incredibly effervescent, sharp and cautious." She recalled the first night the three of them met, Catherine more protective than cautious, cutting in her words and actions. It wasn't until much later that the older woman warmed to her, taught her, trusted her. Only giving what she thought was deserved. "I understand she left with no notice several years ago-"
The man opened his mouth and Sophia held up a hand.
"Which is none of my business and not the focus of this discussion."
That earned her a glare. "Then what is? Because that's her handwriting, I'd know it anywhere."
"She came back to Paris at the behest of your commanders to begin painting the forgeries a few years. They needed someone with skill but someone who wouldn't be noticed, who also knew what the organization was."
She ignored the overwhelming feeling of regret and the skin-crawling anxiety that came with reliving that day. She couldn't stop, not until the whole truth was out.
"It wasn't well-known that she painted," Henri said softly. "Only close family friends knew. She grew up hiding her creativity, a side effect of growing up surrounded by constant conflict. She channeled it by being the perfect host after she finished school and we married but I knew that was never quite enough…there was never enough time for her to paint and be the image she was expected to be."
"I knew her for less than a year but she taught me. When I wasn't working with Alexandre on arranging for paintings being swapped and planning which ones to replace. She missed you both very much, especially your daughter."
"The use of past tense isn't very comforting, Ms. Cousland. I urge you to get to the point if you would like for this conversation to end before we have company."
"When I went to visit her one day, I found her a total mess. She'd…coughed up a lot of blood. It was poison, and in the moment, I didn't think much of two cups being out. She told me to gather some letters," Sophia pointed to the one in front of him, "and to give you yours when the time was right. I called Alex, watched her pass. Got attacked by the killer. My ankle and my psyche have never been quite the same."
"If I'm supposed to be assured by any of this-"
"Alia killed her. She confessed to it after she killed Alexandre. Or rather, she confirmed my accusation. Her voice has haunted me for years and I could never place it."
Henri closed his eyes, some of the tension leaving his face, as though he was reliving a memory.
"I just thought you should know. It's likely the commander we're meeting will be aware of her role and you deserve to be on equal footing. And she deserves to be remembered. Don't let them erase her sacrifice just because the plan didn't go as intended."
"You're quite earnest, Ms. Cousland. You and Ms. Kingsley have been the disruptions this city sorely needed. Thank you."
To emphasize his point, he held up the letter, before tucking it away and rearranging the blue scarf that peeked out from underneath his wine colored sports coat.
Well, at least he was beginning to realize that change was, as always, inevitable.
Sarah returned, carrying a few small plates of pastries, offering one to Sophia last. As they sat and speculated among themselves, constantly checking their phones, someone took the seat near Henri, at the table next to them. The two man began conversing quietly, in the way she imagined Cold War spies used to. Sarah was attempting to look as though she wasn't listening but the more she tried, the more forced it looked.
Her phone hummed and Sophia caught a glance of a map, along with, Now we know how she knew her way around. Looks like there's a record number on it…
Henri cleared his throat, holding out his hand expectantly, his focus still on the man behind him. He had the letter, what else…
Sophia reached into her pocket and pulled out the coin, happy to be rid of it, at least for now. It was handed back to her after a hiss of whispers, neither of them appearing all too happy about the topic of conversation. The commander finally spoke in something other than a whisper and said, "My only knowledge is a riddle passed down from my mentor. The answer, spoken at Île de la Cité, after the valves have been set, will close the Sisters simultaneously. So, I must ask, 'What is broken when not held?'"
"What is broken unless held…" Sarah muttered. "Is the keyword in French or English?"
"Latin," Henri and Sophia responded simultaneously, throwing a skeptical look at one another before Henri continued, "It's spoken between most members…old habits."
Sophia typed out a text to Vincent with the riddle, but as she did, she received a picture of Audrey Kingsley whispering conspiratorially in Raphael Laurent's ear. The red-haired man looked not only shocked but distraught at what was being told to him, as though his soul was leaving his body.
I've never wanted to know another couple's safe-word but yet…Laurent's face is priceless.
She couldn't help but agree and was almost certain Vincent had been grinning madly when he took the shot.
Safe-word? Who's bringing up bedroom activities?
The same one who insists I'm a vulture. We certainly found more information about Alia by coming here…he does a poor job of covering his bruises…
A second message appeared but she hardly paid attention, trying to focus on the conversation around her. Sarah and Henri were going back and forth with ideas, all of them…failing to hit the mark.
"Broken when not held…" she muttered. It didn't have to be literal…it likely wasn't literal holding.
If she had learned one thing from the past few years, it was that more often than not, the meaning wasn't obvious and direct. It involved mental gymnastics unless one knew their art history and the symbolism in paintings.
Alex would have had this figured out in two seconds…
She held her head in her hands as she closed her eyes and tried to think . She was too tired and in far too much pain to continue much longer. But she had to push on, had to help come up with a solution, or at attempt to. She had promised him that and she would never break her word…
"Promise me…" she muttered, recalling the urgency with which the words were uttered.
Why else would Alexandre have repeated it so many times? He wasn't one for emotional moments, for displaying the fact that he was truly panicked. And yet, as he laid dying…he asked for a promise …
The two heads snapped to her and louder, she repeated, "Promise," like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Henri began working the word over and over, searching for the Latin counterpart or roots he knew.
Sophia's fingers went for Vincent's number; texting would be too slow. He picked up on the second ring and without preamble, Sophia said, "The riddle. A promise is broken unless held. The keyword is the Latin word for promise."
"That makes these pieces of paper a lot easier to assemble, then," Audrey replied, echoing in the background. "TJ gave us a clue and we found a note with a single word on it… promissum."
He had her on speakerphone? Seriously? What was he doing, raiding Alia's shelves for rare books to sell?
"Also an extinct genus of conodonts…" Raphael chirped, sounding as though he finally recovered from his shock.
"I'm heading to Notre Dame," Audrey continued, much to everyone's protest. "According to Alia's map, that's where the last switch is. Or whatever. This is absolutely bat-shit; closing and opening valves and sluice gates makes a lot more sense than some random old password…"
Audrey's voice faded and other background noise faded as Vincent took the call off speaker. They arranged a meeting place and an agreement on a private hospital before ending the call.
The commander rose from the adjacent table, slipping on the jacket he brought with him and nodding to Henri. It must have been a cue because the politician stood and mentioned checking on his daughter, that Sarah should probably get back to staff before more artwork was lost. Goodbyes were brief but curt, like a fine nail file dragged across a finger pad; their words were just polite enough to hide the discomfort they all shared for one another.
The stranger turned, but paused, and then looked to Sophia. Few people made her fidget nowadays but under his gaze, she squirmed ever so slightly. His features were sharp but his eyes were sharper, thin blonde hair slicked back, and he continued to watch her as he pulled out a cigarette, taking a long drag before he spoke again.
"You were chosen under dire circumstances, mademoiselle, but you were chosen nonetheless. And as such, we will need to convene to…discuss what can be done. The laws around heirs chosen on a deathbed are our oldest and require deliberation. I cannot confidently say you will be able to simply walk away, not without finding an heir of your own."
"Like the mob," Sophia folded her hands under her chin and leaned on them, politely smiling. "How quaint. Surely you're aware of how I even came across this entire system, that I was hired to expose it?"
"Your employer and lover is no longer of any prominence and holds nothing over us any more. In return for your cooperation, as well as restitution for your injuries, the leniency in his prison environment and visitation will remain, and we can sway a court in your favor. Lower charges of conspiracy and aiding and abetting, an ankle bracelet instead of a cell. But only if you decide to, the very least, honor our rules and legacy."
"You're standing here, bargaining with me, when the city is flooding?"
Stealing Alexandre's words felt hollow. Correct, but meaningless.
She looked pointedly at the street, in the direction of the river; the flooding here was minuscule, rivulets of water trickling down the street as though someone was running a hose to wash their car, rather than the gushing volumes elsewhere. Another long inhale, one that made the end of the cigarette glow a bright orange.
"Fine. I'll play a little longer," Sophia gave a sigh. "Satisfied?"
The commander finished his cigarette and flicked it, a trail of smoke arcing as it went, before a curt response that someone would be in touch.
MC moves to Paris to run a bookstore inherited from a distant relative.All of the characters are regulars and come in for their orders.
They start giving her advice and comments on how she can improve the space, etc. Most of them warn her against Vincent; he’s had his eye on the place for years and he owns the rest of the property surrounding the bookstore.
Despite clear plans to turn the entire street into high end retail for his own brands, Vincent leaves the bookstore alone. He claims he loves the “classic Parisian kitsch” of the building. In reality, he’s waiting for the American to fail so he can swoop in and “help”. Joke’s on him; she never does and it’s the busiest shop on the street.
Cue a lot of fingers brushing and stolen glances between her and any love interest The occasional “Hey, I saw this book and I thought of you, here, please read it.”
Leo plans the poetry reading events, Tristan picks the musicians. Louise brings in baked treats when she isn’t trying to run the place.
Doctors AU:
Vincent and Raphael are rival donors/administrators and are always changing policies that apply to the other’s department with no notice. Constant one-upping and ass-kissing is incredibly common. No one is happy and somehow the hospital still functions because Henri overrules all of their nonsense.
MC is a surgeon, skilled and precise. She trusts no one but Kat at her side during long surgeries.
Leo is the ray of sunshine he always is and visits everyone in the permanent wards, especially the kids. He always brings in things for the staff, too; no one knows where he gets the money for it but Wednesdays are the best when he’s around. Eugene is the equivalent of the Janitor in Scrubs, except no one sees his face, ever. Always imparting weird lines of wisdom. Sarah’s an art therapist. Alia is the strange woman who lingers around the memorial wall but never talks about which plaque is her loved one.
Lunch hour gossiping and trying to push each other through another long shift; despite the bureaucratic BS, MC’s team of doctors and nurses is strong and works together to make sure every patient is well cared for.
Surgery goes wrong one day, the patient doesn’t make it. Fourteen hours in surgery. The odds were good but the surgery was still risky, the only option the family had left to try. Immense guilt and failure. Fear to try again. But when something happens to the person she loves the most, she’s the only one capable of saving them.
She wanted to stay in Paris; Vincent Karm wanted to reinvent his image. A mere business arrangement in the form of “I do” and a set of rings. The last thing either of them expected was for the line to blur, for the lie and façade to fall somewhere along the way, and leave them facing an unspoken truth. MC is named.
AO3 | Chapter 16 (Lemon) is here
When she woke up the next morning, it was to arms around her waist and a nose pressed against the curve of her neck, a warm body behind hers. The only sounds were Vincent’s breathing and Esteban’s soft snores from his bed nearby.
She silently lamented that she was’t facing him. Sophia couldn’t help but wonder if his brow was creased, if he was having a less peaceful sleep than his body led on. The only time he was ever seemingly relaxed was when he was asleep, except for moments of dark dreams or stress. She was attuned to it ever since their ride home weeks ago. Parts of his past lingered in ways no one else truly saw. She wasn’t the only one who struggled with the occasional dream where waking up meant reliving the pain of loss, where reality caught up dreams. Sometimes she pressed her lips to the knit between his brows lightly in an attempt to ease the tension there. Occasionally it helped.
Not that she needed to help. He didn’t ask her to.
She shifted slightly and felt Vincent’s arms adjust to her. For a moment she thought he was awake but when his breathing stayed even, she let herself relax again.
Last night was unexpected. She anticipated dessert, conversation, but not necessarily initiation. She only wanted to thank him and have some kind of small celebration. Without him, nothing would have gone as it did. Returning his gesture from a few weeks ago seemed the perfect way to thank him.
Something sparked to life within her as soon as his lips touched her finger.
But that wasn’t quite true, Sophia thought as she traced feather light patterns over his knuckles, careful not to wake him. It didn’t come to life as much fuel an already existing fire smoldering deep within her. All he’d done was add kindling, just enough for her to be consumed. It was a need deeper than carnal fulfillment. She’d needed him, yes, but it wasn’t about reaching that blissful peak, frantic though it had been.
They were still clothed but, with the exception of their first night together, they’d never been closer than they were last night.
Something was different. Something in the way he kissed her, in the way he’d held her.
Usually their intimate moments were talked about, acted on only after both agreed. Their night in his office was spontaneous, an innocent gesture turned not-so-innocent.
It was no longer a simple arrangement. Not for her. The air between them changed the second she tried to say something meaningful. She should have said nothing, or at the most, thanked him and left it at that. Talking about it would make it weird. It meant having to admit she could spend the rest of her life with him and be happy.
And what if he didn’t feel that way? What if he didn’t want to stay with her?
He didn’t have to. He didn’t have to hold her while he slept either.
Sophia let out a breath through her nose. That was her doing too, at least a few hours ago. She woke up before the sun came up, awake only enough to move, and burrowed into him. Something she’d done plenty of times, especially whenever a thunderstorm passed, but that too felt different. Vincent resisted her a little, growing tense unless he was the one reaching to comfort her or be with her. She expected some pushback but he simply let her fold herself against him, almost as if welcoming her into his arms. Hadn’t he said something, too?
A soft thump and a familiar trill broke her train of thought. Whiskey sauntered up Sophia’s side of the bed, bunted her cheek, and then curled up nearby. There was, after all, plenty of room to spare in a king sized bed. The cat’s eyes shut slowly and she was left alone in her consciousness again.
Sophia took one of Vincent’s hands carefully. He stirred behind her for a moment, a sleepy murmur of French against her ear as she adjusted his arm so it rested against her breastbone and she could lock her fingers with his. When he stilled again, she let her lips graze his knuckles as she whispered, “I love you. That scares me. But I love you all the same.”
Silence greeted her but her chest felt a little lighter all the same. She closed her eyes and fell back asleep with little difficulty. At least in her dreams she could pretend not all of this was an act.
