Cordelia’s Reaper (The Sins We Crave #1)

1 - Welcome to London, Buttercup

This godforsaken country shall be the death of me, or at least the death of my sanity.

The concrete runway grounds me for all of two seconds, before the cutting southeasterly wind crashes through me, threatening to knock me right off my favourite Louboutin heels.

A sharp slap in the face. Damp, heavy, and nothing like back home.

On the coast of Nice, the air is clean, dry, and scented with the comforting aroma of freshly baked rolls in the morning, and sun-warmed pavements by midday.

Luxury perfumeries and chic cafes line every street corner, carrying with them the rich blend of jasmine and vanilla, drifting through the cobbled streets. A soft invitation on the breeze.

There’s nothing inviting here; now I’m in London.

The tang of pollution wades through the air, thick as treacle, sickly sweet and impossible to ignore.

I have to clutch my stomach, so I don’t bring up the hand-crafted ratatouille I’d so lovingly indulged in a few brief hours before.

Heavy smoke curls above rooftops somewhere in the distance, bringing with it the faint trace of oil that coils around me in a suffocating shroud.

Apparently, it rains a lot here.

Wonderful.

My Louis Vuitton suitcase drags behind me, rolling along on its little wheels, groaning and rattling over the uneven ground.

It was my only companion on the flight over, well, other than the French chart hits plugging my eardrums. Mama and Papa flew out two weeks ago to prepare for the grand opening of their prestigious new art venture: Galerie Rousseau.

Soon to be one of London’s top hotspots for artists, collectors, and socialites alike. It’s all she’s talked about for months now. Some ludicrously rich investor had poured millions into the launch. Apparently, he saw promise in Mama’s creative vision.

Translation—he needs somewhere sleek to gloss over his money-laundering business. Her paintings are nice, nothing groundbreaking. Besides anyone can open a gallery if they’ve got enough capital to back them.

“It is our dream, ma puce!” Mama had cried when she’d received the news.

A scowl. I hate that fucking nickname. Apparently, it’s endearing, but the literal translation in French is ‘my flea.’ Yeah, those grimy little wingless insects that feed off the life and blood of others. Parasites.

Thanks, mother.

Besides, that’s your dream; not mine.

The minute my phone connects to the Wi-Fi, it explodes with a plethora of messages from back home. The group chat ‘sans filtre’ bundles together my best friends from Nice. Scrolling through the conversation brings conflicting emotions, both joy and sadness.

Renee: Missing you already, ma Cherie!

Chloe: Please come back, Lucien is driving me crazy!

Philippe: He is cooking…

Theo: Might be the last you hear from us, tbf…

Lucien: Guys! I am not that bad. The smoke adds the flavour. Like seasoning?

Chloe: We’ve opened all the windows and got the fire brigade on speed dial just in case!

Lucien: So ungrateful…

Theo: You set the smoke alarm off twice, mec!

Renee: We need you back! Sans filtre = sans sanity

That little skull emoji follows the last sentence. A wide smile finds its way to my lips as I send a quick reply.

Me: Miss you all! Try not to kill each other whilst I’m gone.

Whilst I’m gone.

Makes it sound as if I’ll be coming home.

Except I won’t. Apparently, London is my new home.

Mama has enrolled me in an expensive academy where all the local rich kids attend.

She says I’ll fit right in. But she’s wrong about me.

As usual. She may be my mother, but she knows me about as well as a stranger on the street.

The only place I truly ever felt accepted was surrounded by my closest friends in France.

Now, once again, the isolation is taking hold.

My phone slips neatly back into my pocket.

As I step up to the front desk, a plump lady with salon-worthy hair and far too many layers of makeup grins at me.

Her face barely moves. Maybe she mistook her foundation brush this morning for a garden trowel.

She’s showing her teeth, yet it’s anything but friendly; like there’s a shark lurking behind her painted smile.

“How can I help you?” She asks, blinking. Again. And again. And again. Honestly, I’m surprised her fake lashes don’t hinder her eyesight.

Clearing my throat, I offer her a false smile that’s taken years of dedication to get just right.

“I’m waiting for my driver,” I say, studying my freshly manicured nails.

I’ll need to seek a new salon once we’re settled.

My loyalty to my nail tech has spanned over five years, and we were both disappointed our friendship had to end.

“He should be here by now,” I add, glancing in both directions.

“Oh!” she exclaims, throwing a sudden arm out and narrowly missing swatting me in the face. “Our taxi rank is through that door ahead.”

I turn, enough to glance at the little silhouetted car symbol on the yellow sign. Laying my hands on the smooth countertop, I tap the tips of my talons against the glass impatiently. And immediately regret it. Who knows how many dirty paws have touched that surface?

“I think you misunderstand me,” I slow my speech, hoping my accent isn’t misconstruing the words coming out of my mouth. “I don’t need a taxi. I am meeting my private driver.”

Private jet, private driver. You can see a pattern forming here, right? Mama certainly loves to splash the cash around when it helps to sustain the perfect image she portrays to the rest of society. If it gives her the opportunity to brag and blow smoke up her arse, she’s there.

“Oh,” the woman repeats, in a tone that tells me she finally understands. “You need the red zone. It’s down there to your left.”

It almost feels like she might give me an all-knowing wink at this point. Like the red zone is some sort of secret rite of passage, and not just an airport pickup point. I nod, wrap my fingers around the handle and ferry my suitcase toward the eluded red zone.

Airports are dirty places. Full of miserable people who haven’t bathed in several hours.

I passed a few in the corridor, their offensive stench wafting into my personal space without invitation.

That’s the problem with having a sensitive nose.

I’m receptive to picking up on even the faintest of odours, whether they’re pleasant or not.

“Miss Rousseau.” Nico greets me with a wave and a grin. Always happy, that one. I often wonder if he beams his way through arguments with his wife and kids at home.

My smile is genuine this time, as I lean forward to plant two air kisses on his cheeks. Yes, we French really do that.

“Nico,” I sing back, revelling in the heavenly aroma circulating between us. “It’s so good to see you. You’ve had your haircut, non?”

“And shaved,” he adds, swiping his fingers over his hairless chin.

Nico has been our family driver for as long as I can remember.

I’m pretty sure he’s seen me in nappies.

When my parents decided to uproot to England, they insisted he tagged along too.

So much that they paid for him, his wife, and children to fly first class across the channel.

Not forgetting to put them up in a snazzy penthouse in London for good measure.

“Are you ready to go, Miss?”

“Absolutely,” I grimace, eyeing up the white puddles of gum melted into the pavement. “This place is- a how you say hazardous to my health.”

Nico claps his hands together before reaching for the door handle of the familiar black Bugatti. Parked up, engine running, poised and purring like a contented feline.

I slide into the passenger seat while he pops the boot and stores my luggage.

The combination of leather and his rich cologne soothes my agitated nerves.

I’ve never been a fan of flying; I have a fear of heights.

But I don’t let it deter me. I love nothing more than exploring new places, discovering picture-perfect locations off the beaten track, and drinking in cultural customs and traditions.

Since Papa had been stolen from me by his business associates, opportunities were unfortunately few and far between.

Nico hops into the driver’s seat and retrieves his shades from a flip compartment above his head.

He doesn’t need them; it’s not sunny. But he rarely goes without.

I almost did a double take when he wasn’t wearing them to greet me.

Sometimes I swear the man was born into the world with them already fixed to his face.

I inhale a deep breath, letting the fresh burst of oxygen soothe my agitation, when that blissful scent floods my nostrils once more. Impossible to ignore.

“Nico, what are you wearing?” I lean in closer so I can get a good whiff of him.

He glances at me. “Tom Ford Black Lacquer. You like?”

“You smell divine. Je kiffe,” I hum, savouring the sweet medley that’s swirling within the confines of the tight space. “Amelie is a very lucky lady.”

His grin grows as he watches the London traffic through the front window, cheeks pinking beneath his shades.

“Cordelia. Stop, you’re making me blush,” he says, half-laughing.

I flick open the glove box, giggling. He always keeps sanitiser to hand. I squeeze two generous pumps and rub my palms together. Much better.

We pass a large group of tourists, huddled like penguins under a single umbrella. I frown, staring at the bright lights of black cabs and double-decker buses, weaving in and out of traffic in a blur of colour. London is so busy. I’ll never get used to it.

Less than twenty-four hours and I’m already pining for home.

“I trust your flight was, okay?” Nico interrupts my thoughts, running his long-honeyed fingers through his dishevelled hair.

“Yes, it was smooth. And the cuisine was exquisite,” I say, salivating, remembering the taste of the rich mousse au chocolat and how its gooey goodness clung to the roof of my mouth. “How are my parents?”