Paris shimmered beneath a curtain of rain. The streets reflected the golden glow of streetlamps, and the air was thick with perfume, promises, and the quiet sound of footsteps trying to disappear.
Aurélie Fontaine didn't belong here—not in this dress, not in these heels, and certainly not in this world.
Her fingers clutched the folds of her champagne-colored gown, lifting the hem just enough to avoid the growing puddles as she fled the gala. Behind her, the elegant hall echoed with laughter and violins. Ahead, only the sound of rain and her own breath.
Her heart was pounding—less from fear, more from exhaustion. From pretending. From smiling. From being the perfect daughter of Laurent Fontaine, a man who saw her as nothing more than an extension of his social ambition.
Aurélie murmured to herself, "It's just one night, Papa said. Smile for the cameras. Be polite to the Marchands."
She let out a dry laugh, brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek. "As if that family would even remember my name."
She turned down a quiet alley in the 7th arrondissement, breathing a little easier as the sounds of wealth faded into the rhythm of Paris at night. Her heels slowed on the cobblestones. She looked up.
There it was—the Eiffel Tower. Glowing through the fog like a lighthouse for lost souls.
And she was lost. Utterly, beautifully lost.
"Stupid," Aurélie whispered. "Running off in a Dior gown. That'll go well in tomorrow's tabloids."
A voice cut through the rain, low and almost amused.
"You dropped something."
Startled, Aurélie turned around quickly. A man stood under the narrow glow of a wall lamp. He was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it belonged on a Milan runway but was soaked through the shoulders. In his hand, he held her clutch.
"Elio Marchand," the man introduced himself with a slight smirk.
"And you are... the girl who fled my mother's gala."
Aurélie froze. "I didn't— I mean, I was just—"
"Escaping?" Elio offered, stepping forward and handing her the clutch.
"Trust me, I've wanted to do the same thing since I was ten."
She stared at him, stunned. The Marchand heir. The man she was supposed to charm tonight. The one her father had gently hinted she should try to get to know.
"Aurélie Fontaine," she finally said, voice steadier than she felt.
Elio's eyes sparkled. "Ah, the lovely Miss Fontaine. I believe our parents had hoped we'd meet over wine, not in an alley soaked in rain."
"Sorry to ruin the fantasy," Aurélie said dryly, taking the clutch. Her fingers brushed his.
A quiet beat passed between them, the kind that hung suspended in the air.
"Why did you run?" Elio asked, his voice quieter now. The smirk had faded.
Aurélie looked away, toward the Eiffel Tower again. The rain had softened to a drizzle.
"Because I was tired of being introduced like a product."
Elio didn't reply at first. Then he said, almost to himself,
"So was I."
They stood there, two strangers connected by obligation and rebellion, drenched in silence and something else—an understanding.
Aurélie finally sighed. "I should get back. Before someone sends a search party."
"You could stay here," Elio offered casually. "Ten more minutes of pretending the world doesn't exist."
Aurélie raised an eyebrow. "Do you say that to every girl you find in an alley?"
"Only the ones wearing Dior in the rain," Elio replied.
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips.
Ten minutes later, they were sitting on the stone steps of a closed bookshop, watching the tower flicker like a heartbeat.
"You know what's ironic?" Aurélie said, her voice barely louder than the rain.
"Our parents would probably celebrate if they knew we were talking like this."
"They'd have us married by breakfast." Elio chuckled.
Then, after a pause, he added, "But we're not going to give them what they want, are we?"
Aurélie shook her head slowly. "Not a chance."
And yet... neither of them stood up.