Arlo
Eighteen months earlier | Paris, France.
I hate everything love stands for.
What is that, even?
A word people worship, a lie they pass around like fine wine, sweet for a moment, then bitter when it’s gone.
Love at first sight?
Bullshit.
One person for life?
A delusion fed by Hallmark films and desperate women clutching romance paperbacks.
People don’t fall in love. They fall into possession, convenience, power. Everything else is a story you tell yourself to make the loneliness sound poetic.
Even parental love isn’t real. I should know.
My mother died giving birth to me, so she never had the chance to love me. Or maybe she did, the idea of me, while she was still pregnant.
And my father… I don’t even know what that man feels half the time, but I can guarantee it isn’t love.
He’s too closed off. Present, but never really there.
Maybe he hates me for it, for being the reason he lost his wife. And honestly, I don’t blame him. I probably would too.
And I do blame myself, maybe so much that I’ve started to believe everyone else does too.
My brother’s no better. He’s mentally unstable, and love isn’t something he’s ever been capable of. Not because of his condition, but because he’s proved it, more than once. Like the time he tried to end my life.
Maybe that’s on his madness, or the demons that live inside him. I don’t know.
But if family can’t love family, what hope is there that a stranger ever could?
The whole concept feels absurd.
I lift my whiskey and signal to the waiter for another.
Paris grates on me, the noise, the tourists, the constant hum of people pretending to be in love. The number of marriage proposals alone is enough to make me sick. But I’m here for business.
My father’s words from this morning still burn at the back of my mind.
“You’ll handle this, Arlo. You’ll secure the deal. For once, do something worthwhile, get involved in the family business and stop wasting your time chasing a ball.”
And that’s how I end up here, sitting in a café-restaurant on the edge of the Seine, nursing a glass of whiskey, and studying the man across from me.
He’s in his late fifties, wearing a crisp suit and an expensive watch.
“Monsieur Vass,” he begins, “your father and I have worked together for many years. The Vass stones are known for their quality. I trust the new shipments will meet the same standard?”
I tilt the glass in my hand, watching the amber swirl before I set it down. “They will,” I say. “The Angola site’s output has been stable. The only issue has been transport security, but that’s been resolved.”
He nods thoughtfully, his gaze searching mine. “The new routes, through Antwerp, yes? Private couriers?”
“Two layers of cover, all insured under shell names. No customs delays, no signatures that trace back to us.”
“Good.” His smile widens, though it never reaches his eyes. “And the K-47 mine in the Himalayas, I heard the floods caused delays?”
“Temporarily. The mine’s operational again. We’re moving the first shipment next month.”
He leans back, satisfied. “Then we have an agreement. Twenty percent above the previous contract, as discussed?”
“Twenty five,” I correct, meeting his gaze. “You’re bypassing two intermediaries this time. That convenience has a price.”
He gives a small, knowing laugh. “You sound more like your father than you think.”
I smile without humour but don’t answer.
He signs the papers in silence, the scratch of his pen loud against the hum of the room.
When the deal is done, he closes the folder and extends a hand. “To continued prosperity, Monsieur Vass.”
I take it, firm and brief. “To business.”
He leaves a few minutes later, his cologne lingering in the air. I sit back, finish what’s left of my drink, and glance at my phone. A message flashes on the screen.
Father: Deal confirmed?
I stare at it for a moment before typing back.
Arlo: Handled.
I set the phone down and finally take in the room.
That’s when I see her.
The woman sitting alone near the window, the light from inside catching on her hair, white blonde, almost silver.
She’s dressed simply, in soft tones that make her stand out more than anything else here. A pale jumper tucked neatly into a skirt.
There’s something about her that feels… untouched. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Too young to have learned how ugly the world really is.
She turns her head as if she feels me watching. Our eyes meet.
Green.
Clear and vivid, nothing like I’ve ever seen.
What kind of green is that?
Because I think it just became my favourite colour, and I’ve never had one, not even as a kid.
For one reckless second, I forget myself. My fingers tighten around the glass until I’m certain it’ll break.
Something stirs in my chest, unfamiliar and alive, and I don’t even have a name for it.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don’t do this. I don’t notice women like this.
I don’t feel anything I can’t control.
I’ve spent years believing love is a story people tell themselves to feel less alone. And yet, here I am, staring at a stranger like something in me just woke up.
We keep looking at each other, neither of us moving. Then she smiles.
And just like that, I’m done for.
It’s a small smile, but it’s real and unguarded.
And for a second, I don’t think she even knows what she’s done.
Because now she’s seen me.
And once I’m seen, I don’t let people forget.
My jaw tightens. I should look away, but I don’t. I can’t. Her gaze holds mine.
She sealed her fate the moment she looked at me. Because now I’ve decided.
That smile?
Mine.
I’ll earn it, steal it, take it apart and put it back together until she forgets it ever belonged to anyone else.
Her?
Also mine.
Whatever this is, it isn’t love.
This—this is something else entirely. Something darker.
Primitive.
Absolute.