Chapter Text
Sunlight pried at the shutters and insisted on the day; Verso buried his head deeper into the pillow and begged it to be quiet. A muffled call drifted down the hall but he sighed and curled tighter, clutching the pillow like a shield.
“Verso! Si tu ne te lèves pas tout de suite, je te balance la poêle sur la tête! (If you don’t get up right now I’ll throw the skillet on your head!)”
He groaned. Clea never made empty threats — if she said she’d chuck a skillet, she’d do it — so he added another pillow over his ears, certain it would be enough.
Silence returned for a beat, broken only by his slow, satisfied snore—
BANG!
He flinched, burrowed, and tightened his hold on the pillow as Clea appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed, a skillet poised like a war banner. She scowled. “Réveille-toi, espèce de fainéant! (Wake up, you lazy bastard!)”
Her voice sharpened on the next line, “I don’t want to be late — it’s your job to get the shop ready this morning!”
“I am awake…” he mumbled, voice muffled below the duvet.
“Then, get dressed!” she snapped, and her footsteps hit the floorboards as she swept off down the corridor.
Verso sighed, clicking his tongue as he swung his legs over the bed. The floorboards chilled his bare feet, urging him awake faster than he liked. He shuffled into the washroom, splashing cold water onto his face until the last threads of sleep broke away. Toothpaste, shirt, trousers—each step of his routine done half by habit, half by stubborn defiance of the morning.
He buttoned a pale cotton shirt, tucked it into grey wool trousers, then pulled on a fresh pair of dark socks. His brown leather derbies waited by the bed—scuffed but loyal—and he slid into them with a quiet grunt. In the mirror above his dresser, his reflection blinked back: a dark beard framing his jaw, thick and untamed. He stroked it with a nod, liking how it made him look a little more like his father.
Down the narrow hall came the sounds of life: the clink of plates, Aline’s voice from the kitchen, and the low hum of the radio spilling through the walls. The house was awake, with or without him.
He went into the dining room, smirking as he saw Alicia — her hair tied back with a ribbon, face buried in yet another book, a half-eaten croissant forgotten in her hand. Lost again in her own world.
He passed behind her and ruffled her hair.
“Putain!” she hissed.
“Language, Alicia,” their mother Aline chastised, setting down a fresh pot of coffee before pouring some into Renoir’s cup. He, as usual, was half-hidden behind the morning’s Le Monde.
“Maman! Verso ruined my hair!” Alicia grumbled, finally putting her book down as Verso chuckled and took his seat. She fussed with her ribbon, muttering under her breath.
Clea sighed, clicking her tongue as she rose from her chair.
“I’ll fix it,” she said, passing behind Verso and giving his ear a sharp tug. He winced while she quickly retied Alicia’s hair.
Verso grabbed a croissant, poured himself coffee, and dunked it before taking a bite. From the radio came the soft hum of an announcer’s voice:
”—Ici Paris, Radiodiffusion Française. Il est huit heures. Le gouvernement annonce aujourd’hui de nouvelles mesures pour soutenir la reconstruction du logement dans la capitale… (It’s eight o’clock. The government announces new measures today to support housing reconstruction in the capital.)”
Aline looked up from her cup. “Will you be coming home late today?”
Clea froze mid-motion before clearing her throat. “I might.”
“Hanging around with that soldier again?” Aline asked, her voice level but pointed.
“He’s still in training, Mama,” Clea muttered, rolling her eyes as she finished the ribbons in Alicia’s hair. The younger girl was already lost again in her book.
“Honestly, Clea,” Aline sighed, exasperated. “You should think about someone more stable—”
“That’s why I have an income of my own,” Clea interjected, tearing her croissant and spreading butter over it with brisk precision.
Aline sighed again and nudged Renoir with her elbow as if to recruit him to her side. Renoir finally stirred, lowering Le Monde and blinking in mild confusion.
“What…?” he said.
Aline grumbled as Renoir stared in mild confusion, while Verso chuckled over his breakfast.
Renoir finally sighed. “Are you both talking about Simon?”
Clea flinched under Aline’s sharp glare. Renoir shrugged. “I don’t see the problem. At least she has a beau. God knows among the young girls nowadays, staying celibate is in fashion.”
“To a soldier, Renoir!” Aline guffawed, shaking her head.
“I don’t see the problem. I was a soldier once myself,” Renoir said lightly, sipping his coffee.
“You were conscripted. That boy chose to be one—volunteered!” Aline exclaimed. “God forbid you become a—”
“Maman… you do realise, even though he’s training, he’ll mostly handle administrative duties,” Clea corrected gently.
Aline exhaled sharply. “Either way! And with the affaires d’Indochine? He might be sent to the front! What if you become a widow?”
“It’s not like he has a choice, Maman,” Clea said, shoulders drooping. “It’s the only work available to him right now.”
“You know how lucky we are Verso hasn’t been called up?” Aline cried, her hands flailing slightly. Verso flinched, and Alicia beside him sighed, clearly exhausted by the topic.
“Taking our husbands and sons for a pointless fight while we should be rebuilding… and now my own daughter wants to volunteer to become a widow!?” Aline threw up her hands, half-laughing, half-wailing.
Renoir held Aline’s hand gently, squeezing it as if to calm her. She sighed, finally. Clea exhaled as well.
“Maman… we’re just courting, not planning to marry anytime soon. Besides… he’ll be doing administrative work, not the front lines.”
“And what if he does?” Aline countered.
“Then I’ll deal with it when the time comes,” Clea shrugged. “For now…” She stood, grabbing her bag. “I’ll be late for work.”
Aline knew she had lost the argument. Planting kisses on their mother’s hair and her father’s cheek, Clea disappeared down the stairs. Verso smirked into his cup, amused. His mother would give up eventually — Clea was as stubborn as a bull.
“Well, I’m off to school,” Alicia said quietly, not lifting her eyes from her book. She pressed quick kisses on both parents’ heads before leaving, and Aline called after her:
“Put the book down and watch the roads!”
The monotone hum of Alicia’s footsteps faded down the stairs. Now only the three of them remained. Verso finished his breakfast, standing.
“I’ll open up the shop,” he said.
Renoir nodded, humming, and rose with the aid of his cane. Aline busied herself tidying the kitchen. The conversation naturally dwindled, leaving a gentle morning quiet. Father and son descended the stairs together.
“Any tuning visits today?” Verso asked casually.
Renoir blinked, thinking. “I’m sure there are only two, though I can’t recall the exact times.”
“I’ll check the list,” Verso said.
Aline called from above, “There are deliveries as well — make sure you accept them!”
“Yes, yes,” he replied. Renoir stayed on the workshop floor, wordlessly returning to his work, tending to custom orders or repairing instruments.
Verso continued down to the shop. He tidied displays, dusted the counters, opened the cash register, and consulted the docket for the day’s schedule. Finally, he flipped the sign to Open, welcoming customers.
He glanced at the schedule: two piano tuning visits, one at a hotel and the other at a nearby home. Deliveries for parts his parents needed were listed as well. He exhaled, thinking how lucky he was to avoid conscription. As a member of an artisanal family, his labour was considered vital for France’s postwar rebuilding. The thought of being drafted sent a shiver down his spine — his father had barely survived a bullet wound during the war and now walked with a permanent limp.
There was still time before the morning deliveries. Smiling, he reached under the counter for his notebook, filled with compositions. One day, he hoped to perform at the Opéra Garnier. For now, he would enjoy playing at weddings, private homes, and even in the shop itself.
At the back of the shop, an old grand piano sat for sale. Too expensive for most customers, it gathered dust. Verso sat at it anyway, playing. The parents didn’t mind — the music often drew passerby to linger outside, listening. The shop had earned a reputation for not just instruments, but music itself.
Verso opened the lid, placed his notebook on the stand, and played. A perfectly normal, routine morning.
The bed creaked softly as she shifted, reluctant to leave the warmth of the blankets. Light spilled through the tall windows, brushing the polished floorboards in gentle streaks of gold. She rose slowly, bare feet touching the cool rug, and lingered for a moment, letting the sway of the ship settle beneath her.
Her eyes drifted toward the horizon. The sea stretched endlessly, a deep, shifting blue, glimmering where the first touch of dawn caught the crests of the waves. The vastness was humbling, serene, and somehow electric all at once. She leaned lightly against the window frame, listening to the low hum of the engines vibrating through the walls, mingling with the faint creak of the deck and distant calls of crew members preparing the ship for the day.
The suite around her was quiet, a haven of soft carpets, polished wood, and brass fittings. Two bedrooms, a living area, and a dining space opened from the hall, still sleeping under the hush of early morning. She ran her fingers along the carved edges of the desk by the window, feeling the cool wood, letting her gaze drift back to the waves that seemed to stretch beyond the limits of imagination.
For a moment, time felt suspended, caught between the gentle sway of the ocean and the promise of a city waiting far beyond the horizon.
Suddenly the door to her room swung open. A servant with a braid bowed, hands pressed forward.
“早晨，小小姐。(zou2 san4, siu2 siu2 ze2—Good morning, young lady.) ”
She blinked and nodded. Without words, like clockwork, the servant went about preparing her day, helping her undress while others arrived, all in uniformed braids, laying out her clothes neatly on the bed. She glanced at the traditional cheongsam and sighed.
“真係有必要咩…？(zan1 hai6 jau5 bit1 jiu3 me1…?—Is it really necessary…?)”
One servant bowed respectfully.
“夫人話係嘅，夫人堅持。(fu1 jan4 waa6 hai6 ge3, fu1 jan4 gin1 ci4—Madam insisted, madam is firm on it.)”
She sighed, knowing better than to fight her mother, especially since the whole idea of expanding into Europe had never been her own. She sat before the mirror as the servants brushed her obsidian waves. They were about to braid it when she raised her hand.
“唔好啦。(m4 hou2 laa1—Let it be.)”
“但係，夫人… (daan6 hai6, fu1 jan4…—B—But, Madam…)”
The servants paused, eyes pleading. She grumbled, knowing her mother was obsessed with tradition, but this was far from home, ridiculous even.
“我話唔好，就唔好。(ngo5 waa6 m4 hou2, zau6 m4 hou2—I said leave it, so leave it.)”
They exchanged fearful glances before nodding, letting her be. She allowed them to tie parts of her hair with a jade pin and place her earrings, then stood, letting them dress her in the cheongsam.
She grumbled, staring at the cheongsam with discontent. It wasn’t even the modern kind that hugged a woman’s figure—it was loose and long to the ankles. Her mother always said once she was married, she could wear whatever she liked, just like her elder sister. For now, though, living under her mother’s roof meant obedience.
The servants bowed politely, directing her outside. She almost rolled her eyes; it was as if they assumed she didn’t know where the shared suite with her parents was. As she walked, she noticed her father humming softly, glasses perched low on his nose, the bald crown of his head glinting in the morning light, eyes fixed on a book. She blinked—he was scribbling in a French dictionary, nodding to himself as he practiced phrases.
She giggled quietly, glancing toward her mother, who remained impassive as usual, taking tiny bites of congee with delicate, precise movements. Sliding into her chair, she met her mother’s disapproving gaze.
“起得咁遲，頭髮又亂又鬆！(hei2 dak1 gam2 ci4, tau4 faat3 jau6 lyun6 jau6 sung1!—Waking up so late, hair all loose and wild!)”
She then glanced at her father. “This is a terrible idea! Look at her, the last one unwed and already improper!”
She groaned, fighting the urge to roll her eyes, while her father simply hummed, clearly not listening as he practiced his French phrases.
“What do you want to do then, Mama? Ask the captain to turn the ship around? You’ve said this every day since we left…”
“毒舌！(duk6 sit3!—A poisonous tongue!)” Her mother hissed disapprovingly. “I see the 鬼佬 (gwai2 lou2 — ghost man) has polluted our ways—wearing revealing clothing and hair loose like a comfort woman!”
“Hmm, how does Etienne sound?” her father asked suddenly, earning wide eyes from her mother. She smirked. “I think it’s a good name, Baba.”
“Dear!” her mother protested.
Her father passed her the French dictionary, ignoring her mother. “What about you? You need a name too, no?”
“I’ve already picked mine,” she chuckled.
His brows raised. “And what is it?”
“Lune,” she said with a small smile. “It’s almost a direct translation of my name.”
“No! NO!” Her mother guffawed, waving her spoon in mock outrage. “Your name is still 沈月蘭 (yue4 lan2)! That name was carefully chosen by our family’s personal Naming Master—”
“Who’s a crook,” Lune muttered under her breath, taking a delicate sip of congee. Her mother’s eyes narrowed sharply.
“你點可以咁講！？ (nei5 dim2 ho2 ji5 gam2 gong2!?—How dare you!?) That man has served our family for generations!”
“He always predicts things wrong… It’s a wonder he still has clientele,” Lune continued quietly, remembering the horrifying moments when the Master had handed out talismans written in chicken’s blood or dictated that Lune’s clothing be discarded because it didn’t align with the balance of her chi.
“嘩呀！(waa1 aa3!—Haiyaah!)” her father sighed, clicking his tongue as if trying to rein in the storm. “We’re far away from Hong Kong already! Besides, we’re here for business, not to settle permanently. What’s wrong with shifting our names for a while? It’s not like anyone here can pronounce them properly—it saves both sides a lot of trouble.”
“It’s called common respect!” her mother huffed, her tone sharp as she stirred her congee. “I don’t think it’s worth doing business with someone who can’t even pronounce our names correctly!”
“And you can pronounce theirs properly, Mama?” Lune countered, earning a freeze of shock from her mother. Prideful and rooted deeply in her lost noble lineage from the mainland, her mother refused to adopt English, believing it would soil the family line further.
Lune, on the other hand, had mastered several languages, thanks to her father’s insistence and trust in her. Over the years, he had gradually entrusted her with more business responsibilities than her elder brother, knowing she was sharp, capable, and adept at navigating both tradition and the modern world.
Then, adding a touch of mischief, she leaned in and showed him some of her notes. “What about this one—Brigitte? Sounds elegant and refined—”
Her mother huffed, rising from the table with a flurry of servants trailing behind her, and disappeared toward the shared room with her father. The door closed with a soft click.
Lune chuckled as her father smirked.
“你唔好咁大媽—(Nei5 m4 hou2 gam2 daai6 maa4—You shouldn’t be too disrespectful—)” he said, a teasing glint in his eye.
“Baba, on pratique le français? (Baba, shall we practice French?)” Lune suggested, her eyes sparkling.
He paused, sighed, and replied slowly, “Je… je vais essayer, mais je ne suis pas aussi fluide que toi…(I—I’ll try, but I’m not as fluent as you…)”
Lune chuckled. “That’s how I felt about English before, but I did well, souviens-toi (remember)?” She recalled the times as a little girl when her father had patiently taught her conversational English so she could accompany him in meetings.
He chuckled, nodding, continuing in French, “Comme je l’ai dit (As I said), you really should give your mother time to adjust. You know she had never left our home before…”
“She could still stay?” Lune countered, crossing her arms. “No one’s forcing her to come—”
“你知呢樣唔可能嘅！ (Nei5 zi1 ni1 joeng6 m4 ho2 nang4 ge3!—You know that’s not possible!)” He exclaimed in his mother tongue before clearing his throat realising his blunder, reverting back to French, “Leaving your mother at home all alone? Your elder siblings are far too busy now with their own families.”
Lune sighed, knowing her father’s words were true, but she couldn’t help herself. She raised her arms, letting the loose silk cheongsam sway. “But Baba… really? Why do I still have to wear this…? She even insisted I bring my GuZheng…”
Her father sipped his tea and exhaled, “Well, your mother wanted you to perform traditional instruments instead of the piano. You know how much she hates that you prefer Western culture over hers. She takes these things to heart.”
“But everyone else has gotten used to it! Everyone is wearing the latest fashions, and I have to wear…this!” Lune said with a small laugh, flipping her long sleeves dramatically. “People in Paris might think me striking—”
Her father chuckled, “It’s a good way to advertise our silks, isn’t it? That’s the point.”
“I meant to showcase Parisian fashion, not our traditional styles—it’s outdated,” Lune grumbled, crossing her arms. She sighed, eyes drifting toward the window. “Besides… I want to see the sights, and I can’t do that in public wearing this…”
“Well, Lune, we’re there for business, remember? Not vacation. We have a full schedule once we land. You need to prepare for your performance,” her father reminded gently.
“But Baba… why do I have to perform as if I’m some concubine earning the love of an emperor? Why can’t we hire performers?”
“Lune, you know why,” he replied patiently. “It’s a way to show off our cultural heritage and refinement.”
“So I’m a walking model and showpiece?” Lune scoffed, the frustration clear in her voice.
Her father smiled, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “If you think about it that way, yes. But it’s also a way for people to remember our family—not just the wealth, but the sophistication that comes with it.”
“Besides,” her father smirked, “I thought you liked playing your instruments? What’s so wrong with advertising your skills to the European market? There are already some of us living there—”
“Really? You’re still thinking about my marriage in this sense?” Lune scoffed.
Her father sighed. “Well, what else? You’re the only one left compared to your siblings. You prefer living alone till death?”
“Who says I’ll be alone?” Lune countered before smiling. “I have you both still.”
Her father sighed, clearly unhappy with that answer. “Your mother and I won’t live forever, once we’re gone then what?”
“Then I’ll adopt an animal,” Lune said simply.
Her father’s eyes widened. He sighed, exasperated. “你唔係講真㗎嘛 (nei5 m4 hai6 gong2 zan1 gaa3 maa3) — You cannot be serious…”
Lune only sighed and sipped her congee, drawling, “Do I really have to perform? Mama usually disapproves whenever I want to play my instruments.”
“That’s only because you don’t play it to attract suitors,” her father corrected before softening his tone. “Fine then. If you perform without complaints, I will let you go watch a concert. How about that?”
Lune gasped, eyes wide, leaning in. “Really!?”
He nodded.
“With clothing of my own choosing!” she added quickly, her grin sly.
Her father blinked before groaning and shaking his head. “好啦好啦 (hou2 laa1 hou2 laa1) — Fine, fine.”
Lune giggled, delighted. She leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek before rising to her feet.
“W—Where are you going?” her father asked, startled.
“To rehearse,” Lune hummed in a sing-song tone, gliding back toward her room.
Moments later, the delicate sound of the GuZheng filled the suite—its strings trembling like waves against the ship’s steady hum. Her father sat back in his chair, closing his eyes. His daughter was a virtuoso, after all.
Verso readjusted the strap of his satchel, the familiar weight of his tuning tools pressing against his side as he walked along the bustling stretch of Rue de Rivoli. It wasn’t his first time here—far from it. Many of his clients lived in this part of the city, nobles and merchants who considered their grand pianos as much a symbol of refinement as their jewellery or porcelain. Verso didn’t mind; the work kept his family’s business afloat, and he found comfort in the precision of it—tightening, aligning, bringing sound back into balance.
He caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window—dust on his coat, hair slightly mussed—and quickly brushed himself off before stepping toward the entrance of the Hôtel Meurice.
The doorman recognized him at once, tipping his hat.
“Monsieur Verso.”
“Merci,” Verso murmured with a polite nod, stepping into a world that always felt too gilded for him.
The lobby gleamed like a hall of mirrors—Versailles reborn, he thought. Gold etchings traced the high ceilings, the marble floor reflected chandeliers, and perfume mingled with the sharp scent of cigars. The hum of wealth filled the air: laughter softened by silk gloves, polished shoes tapping lightly on marble, waiters ferrying champagne and suitcases alike.
Verso crossed the threshold and found a familiar face at the front desk.
“Julie.”
Her lips pressed into a polite smile. “Verso.”
“I have an appointment,” he said, his tone careful. “A piano in need of tuning—”
“I know,” she cut in smoothly, reaching behind the desk for a ledger. She glanced up, professional mask unbroken. “This way.”
He nodded and followed. The silence between them lingered like a held breath.
They entered the elevator, where the liftman turned expectantly toward Julie.
“Top floor,” she instructed.
As the gates clanged shut and the elevator creaked upward, Verso blinked. The top floor—he’d never been that high. Usually, his work kept him in the lobby, tuning the public piano before the dinner crowd arrived.
The seconds stretched. The elevator groaned. The silence grew heavier.
Julie cleared her throat softly. “Have you… been well?”
Verso’s gaze flicked toward her before settling on the brass paneling. “Yes. I have.”
“Business steady?”
He offered a small, tight smile. “Stable.”
“Good,” she nodded, offering a small, professional smile before clearing her throat. The brief flicker of warmth vanished, leaving the silence to settle thickly between them.
Verso wanted to bury himself through the floor—or jump out the window, anything to escape the awkwardness. Unfortunately, this job was too important to risk; tuning instruments in a place like the Hôtel Meurice opened doors to the city’s most exclusive clientele.
Finally—after what felt like an eternity—the elevator shuddered to a stop with a soft ding. The liftman slid the gate open and nodded.
They stepped out, Julie’s heels clicking crisply on the marble. The corridor was alive with quiet activity: maids polishing brass handles, porters dusting vases, footmen straightening rugs. Clearly, preparations were underway for someone important.
Verso’s eyes widened as they passed one grand salon after another. “Did—did someone rent the entire floor?”
Julie didn’t break stride. “Three weeks.”
“Three—three weeks!?” Verso sputtered, gawking at the palace-like suite. “Who in the world—”
“Merchant family from overseas,” Julie interrupted smoothly. “That’s all I’m allowed to say.”
“I… see.” He glanced around again, marvelling at the refined décor. There was even a private kitchen—this was no ordinary booking.
“Over here,” Julie said curtly, leading him through a set of double doors into a smaller foyer. At its center stood a black lacquered grand piano, gleaming under the light.
Verso blinked in surprise. “I didn’t know there was a piano up here.”
“Personal request from the guest,” Julie replied, crossing her arms. “It hasn’t been played yet—we cleaned it as best we could, but…” She grimaced. “The sound— well, that’s why you’re here.”
Verso’s brows knitted as he lifted the lid. One touch on the keys made him wince—the pitch was terribly warped. He didn’t say anything; he simply set his satchel down and began his work, hands steady, ears precise.
Time slipped away as he tuned key after key, the room filling with the soft echo of tempered notes. When he finally paused, he blinked in surprise—Julie was still there, arms folded, watching.
“Is it necessary for you to stay?” he asked, incredulous.
“Policy,” she said flatly. “Trust me, I don’t want to be here. But if anything goes missing, it’s my job on the line.”
“I don’t think I can focus with you staring daggers at my back,” Verso muttered as he continued his tuning, pressing each key in turn.
It had been years since the end of their relationship. They’d dated as teenagers—barely a year—before she ended it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. Just a difference in temperament, two stubborn hearts too young to bend for one another.
She used to tell him, again and again, that he was too closed off—that no one could truly see what he was thinking. And she wasn’t wrong. Verso’s mind tended to drift, wandering into quiet corners of thought even in conversation, even when he was with her. He didn’t mean to—ideas simply came to him that way. But Julie had wanted someone more present, someone who would meet her energy, her need for attention and assurance.
Soon it had exhausted them both. Every conversation felt like a test, every silence like a failure. She noticed before he did, and when she ended it, he hadn’t fought her. It was, after all, what adults called a teenager’s romance. Still, her bitterness lingered. Julie had never been one to forgive easily.
Since then, whenever their paths crossed, the air between them was stiff and careful—professional, if not cordial.
Finally, the last note came into tune, and Verso sighed in quiet relief. He was nearly done. But before leaving, he set both hands on the keys, almost absently. A melody drifted into his mind—one of his own—and without thinking, he began to play.
Music filled the suite, soft at first, then swelling, rich and resonant. The notes rolled like sunlight across polished marble. The staff, caught mid-task, paused one by one, drawn unconsciously toward the sound. For a moment, time stood still—just him and the piano.
Verso didn’t notice the spell he’d cast until he stopped, fingers hovering above the last chord. The silence that followed was almost reverent. Then, as if waking from a dream, the staff quickly scattered, pretending to busy themselves again.
Julie looked unimpressed—perhaps because she’d already known what he could do. With a simple tilt of her head, she gestured for him to follow.
Verso said nothing. He closed the piano lid with care, gathered his tools, and slung the satchel over his shoulder. They walked out of the suite and back to the elevator. Neither spoke a word as they descended, the hum of the old mechanism the only sound between them.
As the elevator doors opened and the two stepped into the lobby, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. The usual clinking of china and murmur of conversation died down, replaced by the echo of polished footsteps on marble.
Verso and Julie both paused, watching as heads began to turn. The grand doors had opened again, and the staff quickly fell into formation, bowing or stepping aside. Through the entrance came a finely dressed gentleman in the hotel’s colours—Verso immediately recognized him as the Hôtel Meurice’s manager.
The manager’s arms opened wide in greeting, and behind him walked a group that turned every head in the room. At the front was an Asian man, bald and dignified, wearing a perfectly tailored silk suit. Beside him, an elegant woman—older, yet still striking—carried herself with the effortless poise of old money. A thick fur coat framed her regal bearing; every detail of her pinned hair, her jewelry, her expression spoke of heritage and control.
But it was the figure behind them that caught Verso’s eye, though he couldn’t quite see her face yet—shielded as she was by the couple.
Trailing them came a small entourage of women, all dressed in matching cheongsams and coiffed hair, their steps in perfect rhythm. Each carried lacquered cases of identical size and color. Verso blinked, realizing in astonishment—they’d brought their own servants. And behind them, hotel porters struggled under a mountain of luggage, so much that it looked as though the family had moved to Paris entirely.
“Monsieur and Madame Shen, welcome to Paris,” the hotel manager said warmly, bowing low.
The bald man smiled, his voice confident and accented but clear in French. “I thank you for your hospitality. I trust everything is within my specifications?”
Verso blinked in surprise. Most foreigners, especially wealthy ones, preferred translators—or English. Hearing his fluent French felt almost startling.
“Of course, Monsieur Shen,” the manager replied, bowing again. “Everything is prepared as you requested. If you’ll follow me, please.”
At once, the staff began to move. Julie instinctively tugged Verso by the sleeve, pulling him out of the way to let the entourage pass. He complied, but his attention lingered on them as they walked by, the air thick with perfume and authority.
Then something shifted in him—a pulse, a quiet thrum in his chest. He didn’t know why, but his heart suddenly raced. He turned, scanning the group just as one of the women—her hair black as ink, long and gleaming under the chandelier—paused, as if she, too, had felt something.
For a moment, he thought she might turn fully toward him.
“Verso!” Julie hissed, tugging his arm sharply. “Come on!”
He blinked, snapping back to reality. His gaze darted away as he followed her to the front desk, cheeks warm with embarrassment. Gawking at a VIP guest—what was he thinking?
Julie handed him the payment, and he wordlessly passed her the signed receipt. Their transaction was swift and cold, the way it usually was. Then she turned and left him standing there.
Verso adjusted his satchel, ready to leave. His eyes flicked back to the elevators—the gilded doors had already closed, carrying their mysterious guests upward.
A strange restlessness lingered in his chest, something he couldn’t quite name. With a quiet sigh, he stepped through the revolving doors and out into the open air of Rue de Rivoli.
The cool wind met him, carrying the distant hum of the city. He pushed the thought away. It was just another day, another job.
Or so he told himself.