Chapter Four
Rylee
Bonjour, Paris.
“L adies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ve begun our descent and will be landing shortly…”
We’re landing.
So, I slept through the whole flight. My eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep, as he continues his announcement.
I took two sleeping pills before take off to help me relax since I’m afraid of flying; I probably needed only one. I rub my eyes and look out the window, and the view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance steals my breath once again.
The wheels touch down softly at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport. I inhale and exhale slowly through my nose, trying to calm my racing heart.
The last time I was here was a year ago for Mia’s birthday party. A lot happened then, and I’m a little nervous to be back. My mind drifts to the one person it shouldn’t, but I quickly stop myself.
“Ca vas? (You okay?)” A voice cuts through my silent panic.
I turn my head to find the older woman beside me watching me with concern. “Not really, I’m a little nervous,” I say in French, smiling at her.
She raises her eyebrows as if to ask what there is to be nervous about in Paris.
“I’m starting a new job, and…there’s someone there I’m not ready to see, but I’ll have to eventually.” Hopefully, not anytime soon.
“Ahh! I see. I’m sure everything will be fine.” She smiles at me, and it eases some of the knots in my stomach.
“Merci (Thank you).”
I help her pull her suitcase from the overhead bin before grabbing mine, and we make our way through the exit.
“Bonne chance (Good luck).” She waves at me before disappearing into the crowd of passengers.
My eyes scan the gates until they land on the nearest restroom. Cutting through the crowd, I make my way to the bathroom. After emptying my bladder, I fix my hair, dab a little concealer under my eyes to hide the fatigue from the flight, and finish with a bit of lip gloss.
I adjust my long pink coat, giving myself one last look. Satisfied, I step back into the busy gates. The email mentioned someone would be pick me up from the airport. My eyes search the crowd around the terminal until they land on a man holding a sign that reads Rylee Queen Del Sol .
“That’s great,” I sigh. Why do they have to use my full name? It’s not that I don’t like my name, but it’s so bold and dramatic.
My father, whom I haven’t seen since my parents separated, is Haitian American, and his last name is Queen. Imagine people calling him Mr. Queen. My mom is from the Dominican Republic, and her last name is Del Sol. Combined, you get something that sounds like I’m royalty—Rylee Queen of the Sun .
Most of the time, I go by Rylee Queen or Rylee Del Sol.
A big smile splatters across my face before I approach the man holding the sign. His dark hair is neatly combed, and his black suit is crisp. He’s probably in his late forties.
“Miss Queen Del Sol?” He smiles warmly at me.
I groan internally. “Rylee is fine,” I say with a polite smile.
“Welcome to Paris, Miss Rylee, I’m Bertrand.” He nods.
I want to ask him to drop the Miss, but it seems pointless. It’s his job to greet me like that, and he doesn’t seem the type to break protocol.
“Let me help you with the suitcase.” He reaches out to grab it.
“It’s okay. I got it.” I can carry my suitcase.
I follow him to where his sleek, expensive-looking car is parked. This company must be really big. I still don’t know why they bought my old company or why they need me.
He opens the door for me, and the fresh and fancy scent from inside the car greets me instantly.
“Merci,” I say, settling on the black leather seats, a contrast to my pink jumpsuit.
His smile brightens at my French. I speak enough of it to have a conversation, but since his English is perfect, I’ll save my French for when it’s really needed.
I take a moment to soak it all in as he takes my suitcase around the back. The trunk closes with a soft thud before he appears from the driver’s side. “Are you ready to go, miss?” He looks at me through the rearview mirror.
Ready or not, I’m here. As we drive away from the airport, I glance at the window. There’s not much to see right now except for the other cars passing by on the highways and the industrial buildings.
Twenty minutes into the drive, the top of the Eiffel Tower comes into view. I shift into my seat, my nails digging into my palms. It’s becoming real that I’m here, back in the city I fell in love with, the city that made me feel so much.
The car turns off the main road into a different world that reminds me of New York—towering buildings and skyscrapers. This isn’t the Paris I remember; I didn’t visit this part of the city. Paris, to me, means lazy walks by the Seine River, picnics at the park, small cafes, and cobblestone streets.
And him .
They built this part of the city for business and power, and it commands attention. This is precisely what I need right now.
The car pulls up to a tall building with a Parisian facade before we enter the underground parking lot. Bertrand reverses into one of the parking spaces and turns off the engine before stepping out.
My door pulls open. “Merci, Bertrand.” I smile at him before exiting the car.
He grabs my suitcase from the trunk and hands it to me. “Come on, I was instructed to make sure you settled in before I leave.”
Instructed? “By who?”
“My boss.”
“And who’s your boss?”
“Your boss.”
Here we go again with the mystery. I traveled over a thousand miles for a job and don’t even know the boss’s name. If they were to kidnap me, who would I reference? Maybe my old boss knows more than she lets on.
We walk to an elevator, and Bertrand swipes a key card. The elevator takes us up, and a few seconds later, the doors open to what looks like a lobby. The ceilings are high, the light fixtures elegant, and classical music plays softly in the background. A seating area off to the side looks far too fancy for anyone to sit on. It’s more like an art exhibit than a lobby.
Bertrand steps aside to talk to someone in his perfect French. They clearly know each other. After a brief exchange, he joins me again. I follow him into another elevator, dragging my small suitcase behind me.
He swipes his card again, and the elevator doors close as we enter. I glance at the floor display as it counts up to the penthouse. Penthouse? What the hell am I doing in a penthouse? The elevator dings, and Bertrand gestures for me to step out.
“Bertrand,” I whisper, leaning in like I’m about to share a secret. “I think you picked up the wrong Rylee.” The odds of another Rylee Queen Del Sol traveling from New York to Paris on the same day are slim to none, but that’s the only explanation that makes sense right now. This apartment cannot be for me.
I blink, glancing at Bertrand then back to the apartment, my eyes wide as I take in the luxurious space. “Yep, you definitely picked the wrong person.” Why would the company set me up in an apartment that costs more than my yearly salary?
“I didn’t pick up the wrong person.” He chuckles, pulling two cards out of his pocket then sliding one into my hand. “This is your key card. You can use it for the elevator that will take you straight to your apartment and the amenities. If you lose it, report it to the front desk immediately. And this…” He hands me another card. “My number’s on here. Call if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll leave you to settle in.”
“I’m really staying here?” I wave my hands around at the impossibly luxurious space.
Bertrand’s lips twitch into a knowing smile. “Yes, Miss Rylee.”
I’m starting to question if this is actually a marketing job. What if this is one of those companies that pretend to hire you for something legit, but have you doing who-knows-what? Oh, no...
“Enjoy your weekend.” Bertrand smiles, turning to leave.
“Wait!” I blurt out, shifting my weight from one foot to another. “Do you know if there’s a candle shop around here?”
His brow lifts. “A candle shop?”
“I–uh, can’t sleep without my vanilla candle,” I admit, shuffling my feet on the marble floors that sparkle in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
He pauses and then nods. “There are several shops downstairs. I’m sure one of them sells candles.”
“Merci, Bertrand.”
“De rien (You’re welcome.), Miss Rylee.” He politely nods before walking out, leaving me alone to take it all in.
I stand there for a few seconds, letting the quiet settle in. The windows offer a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. On my right, there’s a kitchen with white cabinets, gold handles, and white marble countertops. It opens to the living area with plush beige sofas and a flat-screen TV.
I open a door on the left and find a small powder room with elegant finishes. Farther into the space, there’s another door on the right. This one leads to what looks like the bedroom. My breath hitches at the sight. A queen bed sits against the white walls, and the ceiling above has beautiful molding. But it’s the floor-to-ceiling glass doors—opening up to a small rooftop terrace—that pull me in.
I slide open the door and step outside. A soft breeze brushes against my skin as I take in the panoramic view of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine, winding through the city below. It’s breathtaking, as if I’m standing on top of the world with Paris at my feet.
My body shivers, but not from the cold. It feels like somebody’s watching me. My eyes instinctively lift up, and there’s another floor above. They linger on the glass, but I don’t see anything. The feeling intensifies, as if someone’s eyes are locked on me.
Then my phone rings with a video call, snapping my attention away from the window. “Hey, girl,” I answer, walking back into the room and flopping onto the bed.
“Hey! Oh my God, you’re in Paris! How was the flight? Where are you staying? How does it feel to be back? And I’m sorry I couldn’t pick you up.” Mia bombards me with questions all at once.
Mia is my best friend. We met when I moved to New York eight years ago, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. We may as well be sisters.
“I don’t know. I’m nervous and excited. But something feels off.”
Her brow scrunches. “What do you mean?”
“Well, first, they had this fancy chauffeur pick me up from the airport. Even the inside of the car smelled expensive.”
“That just means they’re a big luxury company.”
“Okay, but why did he bring me to this luxury penthouse in this fancy building? Everything looks ridiculously expensive. I’m scared to touch anything. You know what I think?” I sit up, wild ideas running through my head.
“Oh boy,” Mia says.
“I think he’s some old, creepy man tricking me into being his sugar baby.”
Mia bursts into laughter. “Girl, if he’s rich, I doubt he needs to trick anyone into that. Plenty of people would line up to do it for money. ”
Well, she’s not wrong.
“Maybe I’m overreacting. I’m just not used to this,” I say, rubbing my temple.
“This is an amazing opportunity, don’t sabotage it, okay?”
I nod. “You’re right.” I need this job.
“Now, let me see this fancy apartment,” she demands with a grin.
I switch the camera, giving her a quick tour of the space. “See? It’s insane, right?”
“Girl, you weren’t kidding—this place is luxuriouuuus. Maybe he does want you to be his sugar baby,” she teases, laughing.
“Haha, you’re not helping.” I shake my head, laughing along with her.
“Kidding! But seriously, it’s gorgeous. Enjoy it, Ry. I’ll let you settle in, and we’ll talk later. Love you! And send me the address.”
“Love you more, babe. Say hi to Jake for me.”
Jake is Mia’s fiancé. They met at a cabin three years ago. He was some asshole who showed up and ruined her quiet retreat after her mom died—her words, not mine. But they fell obnoxiously in love with each other.
“Can I be your sugar daddy?” I hear Jake say in the background before she hangs up. Thank God I don’t have to listen to the rest of that conversation.
I type out a text to my sister.
Me:
Hey sissy, I know you’re still asleep, but I wanted to let you know I made it safe. Talk later. Te quiero mucho.
After hitting send, my back hits the mattress, and I stare at the beautiful molding on the ceiling. Even though I slept most of the flight, my body still feels heavy, craving proper rest. But I need those candles.
I’m about to push myself off the bed when the doorbell rings. Maybe Bertrand forgot something. I head to the door and open it, but no one’s there. Only a basket on the floor.
I bend down to pick it up, and inside is a welcome card from La Fontaine D’or, along with vanilla body wash and candles.
My lips curve into a smile. Bertrand must have told the front desk. I’ll have to thank him.
I could bake him a Dulce De Leches cake before Monday. I do make the best cake. Cradling the basket to my chest, I walk back into the bedroom, ready to take a bath and finally rest.