If Santana Lopez were good at one thing, it was design. And bitching people out. But she considered the latter a hobby rather than a career. And what a career she had. As one of the top interior designers in the world, Santana had decorated houses and apartments in dozens of countries for the most fabulous, the most fashionable, the most famous, for the richest of the richest.
If her latest project were not in Paris, the most romantic city of them all, Santana would not have even rolled out of bed. Granted, she was looking at a paycheck in the millions, and, well, that had some sway. But most importantly, it was Paris, the city of Love. The buildings, the streets, the people breathed art. It was as if they couldn't help it; their culture had decided this life for them long ago. As for Santana, she adored the life behind the city. The weight of tradition, the taste of wine, and the slightest smell of pretension in the air melted her heart.
Thanks to her unbearably annoying yet admittedly useful assistant, one Rachel Berry, Santana landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport, boarded a champagne-filled stretch limo, and arrived at her hotel with not a strand of hair out of place.
She only hoped the rest of the trip would be as successful.
See, her client had somewhat of a reputation. Some said he was a dying man, throwing away the last of his millions financing independent films, supporting up-and-coming artists, and donating to charity after charity. Some said she was daddy's little girl, a too-rich-for-her-own-good socialite trying to find a cause to support, acting as patron to the arts just to feel good about her spoiled little life. Others thought the person was, in fact, a corporation; it was the only way to explain these outrageous sums of money.
Santana herself had not one idea who her client was. All she knew was she had a magnificent country house to decorate, and her client had exquisite taste.
Only a week into installation, and Santana had fallen in love. She had decorated dozens of houses before this one, but this one was truly to die for. For one thing, her client was one of the wealthiest Santana had ever had, and the budget was to match. She had spent over $2 million furnishing just the first floor of the mansion, and there was still a long way to go. Needless to say, her client's representative, Ms. Fabray, signed off on every request, no matter the price. It seemed they honestly trusted Santana's vision, and how lovely it was to work for someone so understanding of an artist's passion.
Perhaps it was the endless budget or the mysterious billionaire client Santana wanted to impress, but she poured every sweat of her being into the project, becoming so attached to every detail, she wanted to live here herself. She was even rather sad that the house would be completed in three weeks, and she would once again be in New York, miles and miles from this masterpiece she had created in Paris.
When the day came to a close, she said goodbye to Ms. Fabray and dismissed Rachel and the movers. But she stayed out at the patio herself, watching the sky turn dark over a glass of fine French wine.
She hadn't felt so relaxed in years, and, right now, that itch to drop everything and just go was bigger than ever. Regardless of how much she loved her hectic career, these moments made her see a new life she could have—a quiet, wine-filled, Parisian life.
Santana jolted awake. She could still feel the wine swaying in her head. She had to stop drinking that stuff if it were going to send her to sleep all the time. The bottle she had opened was on the ground next to the lawn chair, drained of almost every drop. Mistakes. Santana made a lot of them. She yawned and straightened out her dress, then glanced at her watch. Almost ten o'clock. She had better return to her hotel.
Just as Santana picked up her bag, she heard a noise. A footstep perhaps? If Santana were sober, she would be wiser, but as she was not, she paused and waited for the sound again. There was definitely a noise coming from the garage. She followed the muted sounds she was hearing; they were getting louder the closer she got. Then, just as Santana peeked inside the dark garage, it was all quiet.
Santana turned to go, but she felt a poke at her shoulder, which set her off. "WHO'S THERE?" she screamed. "YOU NEED TO GET OFF THIS PROPERTY, OR I WILL CALL THE COPS!"
"Wait, calm down!"
Why would a trespasser in Paris be speaking perfect English? "Tell me who you are right now!" she yelled.
"Look, why don't we just talk this out—"
"You're avoiding the freaking question!" Santana scrambled along the walls of the pitch-black garage to find the light switch, struggling much more than she should. She had spent days designing this place for God's sake! When Santana finally felt the switch, she flipped it on and spun around to face the intruder.
The woman had her arms in the air. She tried to smile when she said, "Hi."
Baffled by whomever this blonde woman was, Santana once again asked, "Who are you?"
"Well, I should be the one asking the question really." The woman's blue eyes twinkled. Her arms were still in the air.
"What? I could get you in jail for trespassing right now, lady."
"That…would be difficult."
"I don't know what they hell you're saying, but if you don't explain yourself right now, I will attack you."
"What? No!" The once friendly woman now frowned, but Santana noticed she still looked as friendly as a puppy dog. "Don't do that, please. What's your name?"
"What's my name?" Santana looked up in disbelief. "I'm asking you!"
"I just don't normally like introducing myself—"
"God damn it, woman!"
"OK, OK! My name's Brittany."
"What the hell are you doing here Britt—"
"Brittany Pierce."
Santana froze. Then she took a deep breath and asked, under her breath, "Dr. Pierce?"
