Zoe arrived at Vénus Noire Headquarters fifteen minutes early. The Haussmann-style building, tucked behind the Champs-Élysées, was covered in ivy, yet its entrance was a full-glass revolving door— a bizarre blend of tradition and modernity, much like the French themselves.
The receptionist, a impeccably made-up blonde woman, smiled: "Monsieur Ji is in a meeting. Please wait in the lounge."
The wait stretched to forty-five minutes. Zoe checked her watch— 10:57 AM. Her New York body clock screamed in protest. Finally, the lounge door opened, but it wasn't Lysander who emerged— just a young assistant clutching a folder.
"Apologies, but Monsieur Ji has gone to lunch," the assistant said with a smile. "He won't be available until 1:30 PM."
"Lunch takes two and a half hours?" Zoe couldn't help but ask.
The assistant's smile turned subtle. "In Paris, lunch is more than just eating— it's… an exchange of art. Especially lunches with suppliers." She winked. "Perhaps you could explore nearby? The windows on Rue Saint-Honoré are worth seeing."
Zoe picked up her bag and headed for the elevator. As the doors closed, she caught a faint French murmur behind her: "Another American, thinking the whole world runs on New York time."
She took a deep breath and pressed the button for the top floor. The elevator required a keycard, but she'd obtained a temporary pass the previous day using a fake maintenance request— Henry had been right: in Paris, rules were made to be broken.
The top-floor corridor was lined with thick Persian carpets, ending in a pair of walnut wood double doors. Zoe knocked— no answer. She tried turning the handle, but it was locked.
"What are you looking for?" a deep male voice asked from behind.
Zoe spun around. The man stood in the corridor's shadows, at least 6'1", wearing an unbranded charcoal gray suit that fit his frame with flawless tailoring. His eyes were an unusual slate blue, like the Atlantic Ocean on a winter's day.
"Monsieur Ji," she switched to French. "I'm Zoe Shen from Black Thorne. We had an appointment at 10 AM."
"I remember the time," Lysander stepped forward, inserting a key into the lock. "And you're fifty-three minutes late."
"I was waiting in the lounge—"
"In my company," he pushed the door open, "important visitors are escorted directly to my assistant's office, not the general lounge. If the receptionist didn't receive special instructions, it means you're not 'important' tier."
Blood rushed to Zoe's cheeks. This wasn't a cultural difference— it was a blatant power play.
The office was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Paris's rooftops on three sides. The fourth wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, filled with ancient leather-bound volumes and modern art albums. Lysander sat behind his desk, making no move to offer her a seat.
"I've seen your merger proposal," he pulled a document from his drawer and tossed it onto the edge of the desk. "It's riddled with holes."
Zoe stepped forward and picked it up. It was her initial draft, its edges worn, the margins filled with sharp French annotations.
"Page 37— you assume French unions will accept 15% layoffs," Lysander steepled his fingers. "In France, mass layoffs require Ministry of Labor approval, a process that takes at least six months. Yet your financial model shows restructuring benefits kicking in by month three— how do you plan to fill those three months? With magic?"
"We have an emergency fund—"
"Emergency fund?" He smiled, but the grin didn't reach his eyes. "Black Thorne's emergency fund clause only applies to projects with an annualized return exceeding 20%. Vénus Noire's average return over the past three years is 11%. Shall I continue, Ms. Shen?"
Zoe tightened her grip on the document. She'd researched this man— he'd taken over a failing family business at 28 and tripled its market value in five years. But the files hadn't prepared her for how aggressive he was.
"What do you suggest, then?" she lifted her chin.
Lysander stared at her for a full ten seconds— the kind of scrutiny one gives to an auction item.
"I need you to join the core team and obtain a complete chain of evidence for Catherine's asset transfers," he said. "But the board will never let someone from an American investment bank access core data."
"So?"
"So you need a new identity," he pulled another document from his drawer. "My temporary special assistant, for three months."
Zoe took the file. The cover bore a French title: 24-Hour Close Proximity Agreement.
She scanned the clauses quickly:
During the agreement period, the assistant must maintain a physical distance of no more than 10 meters from the CEO (except during sleep hours).
All work communications must be conducted in French.
Accompany the CEO to business social events every Wednesday evening.
The assistant must comply with all reasonable instructions from the CEO.
Breach of contract requires payment of 5 million euros in compensation.
"This is illegal," Zoe looked up. "In France, restrictive personal clauses—"
"Perhaps in America," Lysander leaned back in his chair. "But in France, this is a 'special work arrangement'— as long as the salary is sufficient. Your daily rate is 10,000 euros, net."
Zoe's heart skipped a beat. 10,000 euros a day— 900,000 over three months. Exactly the amount her mother owed the nursing home.
"Why me?" she asked.
Lysander stood up and walked to the window, sunlight outlining the sharp angles of his jaw.
"Because Catherine hates Americans. Even more so, young, attractive women," he turned his head. "You check both boxes. She'll waste so much energy on you, she'll overlook my real moves. Simple game theory, isn't it?"
Zoe stared at the agreement. The paper's edge cut into her fingertips, a sharp reminder of the stakes. She knew this man was using her— but 900,000 euros, and access to Vénus Noire's core…
"I need to revise Clause 3," she said. "'Business social events' is too vague."
Lysander walked back to the desk, pulling a Montblanc pen from the holder. "Agreed. Revised to: 'Accompany the CEO to designated business events every Wednesday evening; event nature will be disclosed 24 hours in advance.'"
He leaned over to amend the clause. The sudden proximity brought the faint scent of cedarwood, mixed with a hint of silver polish.
"Will you sign?" he held out the pen.
Zoe took it and scribbled her Chinese name— Shen Zhiyi— on the signature line, the characters neat but resolute, much like herself.
Lysander looked at the name, something flickered in his eyes.
"Welcome to Paris, Assistant Shen," he collected his copy of the agreement. "We start tonight. 7 PM, L'Ombre— the underground club. Dress code: black, collarbones exposed. And bring a silk scarf."
"Why a scarf?"
Lysander was already heading for the door. "Because the AC is brutal. Also— Catherine is there every Wednesday."
The door closed behind him. Zoe stood alone in the spacious office, her gaze drifting to the top shelf of the bookshelf— a glass display case holding a silver collar, with faint engravings on its inner surface.
She squinted, trying to make out the words, when the door suddenly reopened.
"One more thing," Lysander stood in the doorway, his features obscured by backlight. "In public, address me as 'Monsieur' or 'Monsieur Ji.' Using my first name is considered offensive in France."
"And in private?"
He fell silent for a moment.
"In private," he said, "you'll never need to speak to me at all."