The penthouse is a glass cage—gorgeous, yes, but a cage all the same. I've seen this view of Paris before, the city glittering like a promise, but tonight it feels like a threat. I can hear my mother in the next room, her laughter brittle as she talks to her fiancé on the phone. Mr. Salvatore. The name tastes sour.

I slip out before she can notice, my heels clicking on marble, my heart pounding with something that feels suspiciously like dread. The city air is cool, sharp, and I let it bite me as I wander. I need to remember who I am—Caroline Forbes, not some pawn in my mother's latest scheme.

I'm halfway across the Pont Alexandre III when I see him. He's leaning on the railing, designer jacket, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He looks like trouble—expensive, bored trouble. He watches the city like he owns it.

He catches me staring, and smirks. "You look lost. Or maybe just bored?"

I arch an eyebrow, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "Neither. Just avoiding a penthouse full of bad decisions."

He laughs, low and rich. "A fellow escape artist. I knew I liked you."

I roll my eyes, but I don't walk away. There's something about him—something dangerous and magnetic. He flicks his cigarette into the Seine, turns to face me fully.

"Let me guess," he says, circling me like a cat. "American. Here for the art, or the shopping?"

I tilt my chin, meeting his gaze. "Neither. I've done Paris. I'm just here for the drama."

He grins, slow and wolfish. "Well, you found it."

We walk, our steps falling into sync. He tells me stories—scandalous, wicked stories about Parisian parties and ruined reputations. I match him, tale for tale, refusing to let him see how much he fascinates me. There's a challenge in his eyes, and I can't help but rise to meet it.

He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. "You know, I could show you a side of Paris you've never seen."

I smirk. "You think you're that interesting?"

He laughs, cocky and confident. "I know I am. But you—Caroline, was it?—you might just be interesting enough to keep up."

He pulls out his phone, holding it out to me. "Give me your number. Unless you're afraid."

I take his phone, fingers brushing his. "Afraid of what?"

He leans closer, eyes glittering. "Of what happens when you say yes."

I type in my number, my pulse racing. I don't know his name. I don't care. For the first time in weeks, I feel alive.

As I walk away, my phone buzzes: "Tomorrow. Noon. Don't keep me waiting."