Paris was supposed to be an escape. It was supposed to be a fresh start. Instead, it felt like a continuation of the nightmare.
Chloe dragged her suitcase through the arrivals hall at Charles de Gaulle, her body aching. The flight had been the longest eight hours of her life. After the bathroom, Emilio had simply zipped up, walked out, and ignored her for the rest of the trip. He hadn't even looked at her when he deplaned.
She followed the signs to the crew bus, but her phone buzzed. A text from the scheduler: "Crew hotel overbooked. Alternate accommodations sent to your email. Take the RER B to Gare du Nord."
Of course. Nothing could be easy. She didn't want to take the train. She wanted a hot shower and a stiff drink. She pulled up the email on her phone, squinting at the address. It was a boutique hotel near the Marais. She sighed at the unfamiliar address, quickly entering it into her phone's map app to get her bearings before putting the phone away.
She walked out into the cold Paris evening, the wind biting through her uniform jacket. She pulled her scarf tighter and started walking, looking for a taxi stand. The streets were crowded, the air thick with exhaust and the smell of roasted chestnuts.
She was checking the map on her phone, trying to figure out which way to turn, when she heard the roar of a scooter engine behind her. It was loud, getting closer. She stepped aside to let it pass, but it didn't pass.
A hand grabbed the strap of her crossbody bag. The force was incredible, yanking her forward. She stumbled, her heel catching on the cobblestone. She fell hard, her knees slamming into the pavement, her palms scraping the rough stone. The scooter accelerated, the thief ripping the bag off her shoulder.
"Hey!" she screamed, scrambling to her feet. "Help! Au secours!"
But the scooter was already gone, disappearing around the corner in a blur of black and chrome. A few pedestrians stopped, looking at her with a mix of pity and curiosity. An older woman clucked her tongue and said something in French that Chloe didn't understand.
Chloe stood there, shaking. Her knees were bleeding, her palms were raw, and her bag was gone. Her passport. Her wallet. Her phone. Her hotel key. Everything.
A bystander helped her into a nearby cafe and called the police. An hour later, she was sitting in a cold, fluorescent-lit police station, holding a cup of terrible coffee. The officer behind the desk took her statement with a bored expression.
"Mademoiselle, these things happen," he said in accented English. "The scooters, they are fast. We will look for your bag, but..." He shrugged. "It is unlikely."
Unlikely. She was stuck in Paris with no passport, no money, and no phone. She couldn't check into her hotel. She couldn't buy a plane ticket home. She couldn't even call the embassy until morning.
She tried to remember the phone numbers of her crew members, but she didn't have a phone to call them with. She asked the police officer if she could use the station phone, but he just pointed to a payphone in the hall that was out of order.
She walked out of the police station into the freezing night. She had nowhere to go. She walked for hours, the cold seeping into her bones, her stomach growling with hunger. She felt like a ghost, drifting through the City of Lights, invisible and alone.
Eventually, her feet carried her to a grand boulevard. She looked up and saw the name of a hotel. The Ritz. No, not the Ritz. The Plaza Athénée. It was one of the most expensive hotels in Paris. And it was where Emilio Gillespie was staying. She had seen it on the passenger manifest.
She didn't know why she walked there. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was desperation. She stopped across the street, huddled in a doorway, watching the doormen in their top hats and the luxury cars pulling up.
She was a mess. Her uniform was dirty and torn, her face was streaked with tears and dirt, her knees were caked with dried blood. She didn't belong there. She didn't belong anywhere.
She sank down onto the cold stone steps, wrapping her arms around her knees. She was completely, utterly alone. The irony wasn't lost on her. She had tried to buy a man to forget her loneliness, and now she was more alone than ever.
Up above, on the top floor of the hotel, a figure stood behind the glass. Emilio Gillespie lowered the binoculars. He had watched the scooter snatch her bag. He had watched her fall. He had watched her walk, step by painful step, until she ended up right where he wanted her.
He picked up the phone. "Bring her in."
