With Pierre's words in mind—You will not give up on Paris yet—I sleepily and tipsily responded to the email that I'd report in tomorrow at the convened time.

Then promptly fell asleep on top of my bed covers.

I'd miraculously set an alarm bright and early, so when I woke up, groggy, my mouth dry and eyes watery, I didn't curse myself. Well, not for getting up on time, at least; I did curse myself for having too much wine.

"Damn you, Pierre," I said, forcing myself into the shower, hoping it'd give me a boost. I'd set the coffee to brew before that, and as I exited, the heavenly scent filled the entire apartment.

I poured myself a mug, standing by my living room window to peer outside.

Paris. I'd done it. I'd come this far. I'd...survived.

Today would be the bigger test. Integrating in my new professional setting, meeting my coworkers, peers, supervisors. Possibly interviewing with the man whose position I was vying for.

This was the opportunity of my lifetime, and I couldn't screw it up. I had to dress for the role, prove myself by wearing our line of skincare and makeup on my face with perfection.

I was so glad I'd woken up hours before I was supposed to arrive.

I toned, used serum, moisturized, prepped my skin—all the steps to make myself glowy enough, proving I knew how to use our products. I picked the perfect shade of red for my lips, and as I was dabbing a light pink blush to my cheeks, my stomach gargled.

I ignored it, but then it growled.

"Ugh," I said, applying the finishing touches to my face and checking myself out in the mirror. "The toast won't be enough this morning; I need a real breakfast."

I hadn't shopped for more supplies, so I'd have to stop by somewhere for a big bite to eat. With nerves like this, I wasn't sure I'd be able to eat, but if I didn't do so soon, my stomach would keep screaming all day. No one needed to hear that.

I put on my beret—screw Pierre and what everyone else thought; it was my signature—my coat and shoes and gave myself one final glance in the mirror in the hallway.

A walking cliché, stepping right out of a sappy TV show about a girl moving to Paris. The thick black stockings, the black sweater, the red skirt and matching shoes—it was pathetic. I was pathetic.

But I held my chin up and my makeup was impeccable. Would anyone really care if I dressed this way? If I looked like a foreigner but assumed it?

Downstairs, Madame Monceau was typing away at her computer and didn't notice me, which I was thankful for. She'd given me strange looks when we met—nose slightly tilted up, tight eyes, lips pursed in disapproval. I didn't think she was much older than me, but she'd studied me like I was a young girl she wanted to reprimand.

She didn't need to see me now and instill more doubt in me.

I hurried out, and the air splashed over my cheeks, filled up my lungs. I smiled as I exited the courtyard and sought some place to eat. There was a café across the street, not far from where Pierre had taken me last night. Café L'Arche—only mildly busy with locals grabbing breakfast before work.

I went in, snagged a table near the door, and ordered a coffee and a croissant. It still wouldn't be enough, but if I asked for more food, I worried the server would look at me with even more disgust. He'd eyed my beret and all but wrinkled his nostrils after taking my order.

This was me, though— soft-spoken, but physically flamboyant, sticking out. I was like that in L.A., too, except no one said anything over there. They let me strut about with my bright skirts and dark lips and heels too high and never criticized me. At least, not to my face. But here, in Paris, where I thought fashion was important, no one appreciated my efforts.

Maybe they didn't like the excess of color. Maybe it wasn't professional enough.

Maybe I was overthinking and in fact, no one cared.

The tiny coffee cup was empty within seconds of it landing on my table. I scarfed down the croissant, too—delicious and flaky—and figured it'd satiate my belly for now.

The office was just off the Champs Élysées, which was only a quick trot away. I wasn't familiar with the side streets, nor was I comfortable navigating them yet, so I went up Avenue Marceau, which stopped before the Arc de Triomphe.

I'd seen the triumphal arch before, while visiting Paris with my ex. To know I'd likely see it every day hit differently. There it stood in the center of a converging of busy streets, solemn and official, unbothered.

That was what I needed to do—be solemn and unbothered. Not let anyone's judgment of my attire and style get in the way of my goals.

Fit in, learn French, get the job.

LeRouge's most popular and luxurious store was on the Champs Élysées, which was the next big avenue near the one where I lived. It wasn't far down, meaning I didn't have to walk for hours to reach it. The notion of walking to work every day was appealing to me; I was sick of driving everywhere in L.A.

I'd visited the shop once, though my ex hadn't let me explore it. Working here now, I figured I'd get the chance to do so and couldn't wait.

I stopped in front of its doors—not open yet—and admired the intricate set-up of the interior. It was two stories high, decked with lavish displays, plush seating, walls and walls of products.

The bottom floor was makeup and perfume, and the second floor was skincare. Like all LeRouge stores, it showcased all our products, from the more accessible—cheaper—to the incredibly expensive. We catered to all populations, all wallets, all genders, all ways of life.

I caught myself before drooling as I sighted the display case for my favorite blush, Hush Halo, and pried away from the window, checking the time.

"Shit," I said, realizing I was close to running late.

LeRouge headquarters were accessible from a close-by side-street, Rue Lincoln. As I hurried to it, I passed a place called LaDurée—a bakery known for its incredible macarons. I salivated as I slowed down, gawking at the delicious delicacies in the window.

Working this near would be dangerous to my weight.

I dipped into Rue Lincoln, and a few paces down was the main entrance—a set of towering glass doors framed with gold, the words LeRouge in cursive above the door handle. In the lobby—a spacious room with high ceilings, cozy chairs, and check-in desks—a security guard welcomed me, gave me a temporary badge, and led me to the elevators.

"You'll need to go to the fourth floor," he said, ushering me inside. "Regina will be waiting for you."

Regina was the current president's secretary, and the person who'd sent me the email last night. I meant to ask her why she'd sent it so late, but then again, I knew how late the presidents of our companies worked. More so their secretaries.

As the elevator lurched upward, I turned to peer at myself in the mirror walls. Pale, petrified; I could tell by my small eyes and the way I kept clenching my jaw. My makeup was still pristine, my outfit was...well, I loved it, and it was too late to turn back now.

I applied for this job, and even if I didn't get it, this was my new place of employment.

The elevator's ding brought me back to the present, the doors sliding away to reveal the fourth floor. This was headquarters—the headquarters of our entire company. LeRouge was and always would be a French brand, and its pride showed immediately as I got out of the elevator.

I wasn't sure what was on the other floors, but this one was magnificent. A modern reception with two receptionists busy answering phones; the brand's logo sprawled across the foggy glass behind them. The counter was a sleek silver, and the waiting area in front of it had posh navy-blue chairs to sit on.

Beyond the reception were large hallways decked with pictures of products and windows into meeting rooms and conceptual spaces.

A woman approached me seconds later—poofy red hair, big brown eyes behind vivid green spectacles, and hardly tall enough to reach my chin.

"Lucy Rhodes?" she asked, extending her hand before I could answer. "I'm Regina, Monsieur Girard's secretary. Pleased to meet you at last." She had an accent, but it wasn't French; I couldn't decipher it.

I accepted her hand and shook it. "Likewise." I gulped, fumbling with the straps of my purse. "Uh, am I late? I stopped for breakfast and got absorbed in the scenery, and—"

"Not late at all," she said, checking her watch—I already knew it was just past nine, which was when we'd agreed to meet. "This is only a day to tour and get acquainted, anyway. We don't expect you to work yet."

She led me down the hall to the right of the reception desk. We passed a few offices—closed, but with windows showing inside. Each one also had a window overlooking the Champs Élysées. So the offices were above the store, then? Interesting.

We also passed an employee lounge—empty, but looking comfortable with cushioned chairs and tables, fridges and appliances, and a fancy coffee machine. Then the private coffee-shop—not a Starbucks, like we had in the L.A. branch—next to a cafeteria that came off more like a bistro. A little out of place for the building, but quaint and cute, nonetheless.

Regina walked fast; even with her tiny paces, I had a hard time keeping up with her. We arrived at another lobby, similarly decorated to the main one, but narrower. Only one receptionist was here, and she nodded when she saw Regina, unlocking a side-door for her.

"The higher-ups are in this area," she explained, guiding me down another corridor, this one lined with pictures of celebrities posing with our products; some portraits were signed. "And you will be too, as an assistant director. I'll show you to your office shortly but let me give you a quick tour first."

At the conclusion of the corridor was an opening into a lounge, and a wall of large, copper doors, all with special name-plaques on them. The president's office was the farthest down to the right—the one with the best view, Regina said. The others were spaced out, giving access to the director of sales, the assistants, and some of the chief officers. There was even an exclusive office for the CEO when she was in town, accessed by a guarded staircase near the president's office.

"Right, so," Regina navigated us to the opposite end of the row of doors, "you are already signed up for French lessons, which will start ASAP."

I blinked at her back; she was a blur as she rushed forward and opened one of the smaller doors of the bunch. "Signed up? I thought I'd be responsible for doing those on my own time?"

I hoped it would be virtual lessons. I wasn't ready to embarrass myself in front of a live person who'd be paid to help me learn a language I'd struggled with most of my life.

"No, no, with something that important, we can't risk you getting incorrect lessons," she said, gesturing at me to enter the room. "Giselle will take care of you. She's taught many people in the building, and even some from other branches. She's exemplary."

Giselle—I pictured a model, tall and leggy, speaking flawless English, and I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"French is hard," said Regina, nudging me forward—I'd remained stuck in the threshold. "I would know, since I had to learn it myself, coming here from Italy."

Italian, ah! So that was her accent.

"Giselle helped me a lot, and she'll do wonders for you, too. Here's your office."

I finally came to, realizing where I'd walked into. A spacious area with an oak desk, two-screen computer, and a leather chair. Some bookshelves on either side, and a window showing onto Rue Lincoln; a few potted plants and plush seating for meetings.

It wasn't CEO-level, but the door locked, there was room to walk around, and a faint scent of lavender flowed through the air, making me smile. Almost making me comfortable.

"This is standard for an assistant director of sales. You're not the only one; we had to create the position for you," explained Regina, opening the blinds of my window showing the hallway we'd come from. She flipped the light switch, better displaying the off-white walls and hardwood flooring.

"It's lovely," I said, settling into my chair. In truth, it wasn't much smaller than my office back in L.A., and I found the decorations and subtle touches more to my taste here. The oak finish and the soothing color-scheme had me relaxing somewhat.

Regina cleared her throat, prompting me to stare at her. "Not to...uh...how do you Americans say it...burst your bubble? But I wanted to warn you that you have competition for this position." She flinched at my jaw dropping. "I'm sorry, we couldn't tell you over the phone—confidentiality stuff."

I set my purse on my desk and massaged my shoulder—the strap had been digging into it. "Am I allowed to ask who?"

Regina nodded. "There are several candidates, and the one I know of for sure is Dean King, the current director of sales."

I froze, my hand halfway into my purse to extract a breath mint. "Dean...King? The Dean King?"

Of course, I'd heard of him—being the director of sales at the Paris branch kind of made him the director of all directors. We were technically on the same level, but us other directors took our cues from him. I'd never met him directly, but we'd corresponded via email a few times.

He was decent, from what I understood. A good boss, treated his employees fairly, had been with the company a while. Of British descent, but he'd been in Paris for a long time and spoke the language well.

He was in a prime position to get the job.

"Yes," Regina winced, "and I want to caution you, because you seem like a sweet person."

I frowned. Sweet meant innocent and naive, which I wasn't despite my appearance.

Most people misjudged me upon meeting me; I had that smiling face and the perkiness of someone who didn't know better. But it was a front—I was far more observant than anyone was aware. And I kept that to myself on purpose.

"He's not happy about someone else coming in, especially from the US." Regina waved her hand. "But that's a matter for another time, hm? I'm sure you'll do fine. It would do this branch well to have a woman leading it, I say. As the current secretary to the president, you'd have my vote if I could give it."

I slouched in my seat, all my pleasure at my new surroundings fading. Yeah, I had this job for sure, but the bigger office, the responsibilities, the prestige? Those would most likely go to Dean. He was all but confirmed to get Monsieur Girard's place, and only a fool would think otherwise.

But I wouldn't pull my hat out of the ring just yet. I'd come this far, and not to give up. Pierre's encouragement echoed in my head again, reminding me to stand tall, to be fierce, to be me.

"Swell," I said, perking up and joining my hands atop my desk. "Anything else for today?"

"Your first lesson with Giselle, actually. Oh, and so you know—" Regina paused in the doorway, eyes pinched, rubbing the back of her neck. "Giselle happens to be Dean's executive secretary, so he's not too pleased about lending her to you."

She scampered out, leaving me with my mouth hanging open and my mind racing with questions.

Who was setting me up to fail, and why?

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