6. CHAPTER 5
Léonie
I had certain rules about dating. And though I hated the thought of following rules, these were made from personal experiences. Things I stood by for my peace of mind and my sanity.
Over the years, I’d learnt to stay away from men who needed my last name more than my first. Jacob Vardi had been the catalyst of this one. He was my first boyfriend, sophomore year. I was foolish and drawn in by his good looks.
I’d later discovered he’d been using my family’s name and address on his résumé as a networking hook while we were dating.
Since then, I'd become cautious. More guarded.
Anyone who asked about my family within the first ten minutes was already disqualified. I didn’t want to be useful. I wanted to be wanted.
Hence why this was rule number one in my book of dating do-nots.
The other rules surrounded protecting my heart from men who had no right earning it in the first place. Turning away from men who promised forever without getting to know me and men who were in constant need of saving.
I was kind, not charitable, and I refused to become someone’s redemption arc.
Of every dating rule I’d ever come up with, there was the most important one I couldn’t falter on. It’s the single rule that has guided me all these years and has protected me through the Parisian aristocratic circle.
Never date an aristocratic heir.
While Isolde thought some of my rules were dramatic, she agreed with this one.
Aristocratic heirs were a straight route to a shrink’s chair or worse—a straitjacket you forgot to return and a lifetime of being referred to as that girl at dinner parties.
Trust fund babies still sowing their wild oats had nothing good to offer me.
They mistook boredom for depth, recklessness for personality, and women for props in whatever rebellion they chose to stage.
They came with deep family issues, invisible handlers, and mothers who fake smiled through everything.
I’d watched enough girls fall into that world and come out quieter, smaller, like the air had been slowly sucked out of them by an invisible money-wielding succubus.
No, thank you.
I wanted someone ordinary enough to choose me without negotiation.
Someone who loved me loudly, privately, and without witnesses. Someone sweet and compassionate.
Someone like Yves.
I reminded myself of the things I loved about being with Yves as I made my way to the Parvis du Sacré-C?ur.
I’d arrived before he did, the basilica glowing behind me as the sky slowly started to brighten.
There was something deeply personal about Paris in the early hours of the morning. The streets were empty, far lonelier than usual, and gave me far too much room to think about the mistake I was probably making.
Stop thinking. You're doing today, not thinking.
I held on to my weekender firmly, ignoring my hands freezing from the early morning cold.
There was still enough time to turn around and go back home.
Why would I?
I'd convinced myself deep down that this was what I needed.
Doing, not overthinking.
“Keep waiting for him. He’ll be here soon,” the voice in my heart whispered.
Not long after, I heard footsteps behind me.
“Léo.”
I turned.
Yves jogged up the steps, cheeks pink from the cold, his brown hair mussed, and his eyes too alert for this hour. He looked like an overeager student in a movie about to make a bad decision.
“You came,” he said, like he hadn’t been the one to set the time, the place, and the plan.
I swallowed. “You said you’d have everything ready.”
He lifted the worn duffel bag strapped across his shoulder. “Tickets. Cash. Burner phones. New SIM cards. One way out of your own personal prison.”
He sounded so proud of himself.
I smiled because I did love that about him. His simplicity. His sincerity and belief that effort always translated to outcome.
“I’m not in prison,” I replied, more out of habit, without any conviction in my voice.
He gave me a look that said don’t lie to me.
“You’re about to be traded to a man you’ve never met, for oil and legacy,” he said. “That sounds like Fresnes with nice wallpaper and golden bars.”
That reference almost made me laugh, because he wasn’t entirely wrong. Being married into the aristocratic circle was the same as living a lifelong sentence with no way out.
I reached for his hand and tugged gently, pulling a smile from him.
“Let’s go before I change my mind.”
We moved through the empty streets as fast as we could. I kept waiting for a car from my father’s security detail to slide around the corner, for Debo’s voice to call my name, for the spell to break.
Nothing came.
It was just us in the chill and the sounds of our footsteps, till we dove into the silent entrance of the closest metro station.
We bypassed the frantic early-morning commuter crowds, and within minutes we were aboard the silver train, slipping into the anonymity of our seats.
I pulled out a face cap from my bag, flattened my hair, and placed it on to shield my face from commuters walking the aisle. The dark windows mirroring my anxious reflection as I watched Yves fidget with the tickets and the strap of my bag. He couldn’t sit still.
The tickets said Marseille. We were headed towards the coast, far away from Paris. The farther we could go, the better.
“I took leave for the week,” he said suddenly.
“For the week?” I repeated after him, trying to make sense of it.
“Yes. I told them it was a family emergency. Which is technically true, if we’re being philosophical about it.” He grinned, like he’d made a clever joke. “Once we’re settled, I’ll figure out the next step.”
The next step.
The future.
The big, foggy after.
I nodded, holding on to the belief that there was such a thing as settled for us.
“For how long, Yves?” I asked pensively. “How long do you think we can keep this going?”
He looked offended that I even asked.
“As long as it takes,” he said. “We’ll get out of France if we have to. Italy. Spain. Somewhere with fewer Kades and Fernándezes.”
He looked so innocent as he spoke. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss him or knock some sense into him. Maybe it was both. Because I knew the truth, and I almost spilled it. I almost told him there was no such place. Money crossed borders, and power followed right behind it.
“I know my family,” I said instead. “They won’t let this go. They’ll look for me.” They’ll come after us.
“Let them look,” he said, stubbornly. “You’re an adult, Léo. You don’t belong to them.”
That was the part he never understood. They believed I did. Legally, socially, culturally—pick a battleground, they had it covered.
I watched the blur of countryside speeding past the window and tried to imagine a life where I was just a woman on a train with her boyfriend, where our bags were filled with cheap clothes and sunscreen, heading toward sea breeze, fresh air, and true freedom.
A life where I didn’t have to worry about inheritance and expectation. That wasn’t my reality, but a girl can dream. Right?
“You good,” he asked after a while.
I shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“Don’t think,” he said, placing his hand on mine. “Thinking is how they win. Just be here with me.”
I rested my head against the cool window and tried.
He squeezed my hand. “This is the start of everything.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, for me, it felt more like an intermission.
I don’t know how long we were on the ferry, but the ride was disorienting in a strangely peaceful way. The sea stretched out in all directions, bright and endless, and for a brief, fragile moment since we left Paris, I almost felt free.
There were no gates, no drivers, no bodyguards waiting by the kerb. Impossibility—for a moment—felt faraway.
I could finally let out a breath without caution. I took it all in—the wind, water, and the weight of my own decision.
Yves came to stand behind me at the railing, his arms slipped around my waist.
“You’re shivering,” he said.
“It’s the wind.” I lied.
“It’s nerves.” He placed a tentative kiss at the side of my neck. “You’re safe, Léo. I promise.”
I wanted to believe his promises, and in the thought that intention alone could stand against my family’s power.
Maybe I’d seen enough to understand the danger of what we’d just done.
I didn’t bother correcting Yves. I didn’t need anything ruining this moment. So I let my body lean back into his and closed my eyes.
“You really think we can do this?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
He turned me to face him, his eyes full of life and earnest hunger.
“We’ll find a small place,” he said. “By the sea. I’ll work remotely till I can get something permanent. You can design your own line if you want, not just consult for Céleste. We’ll live a simple and quiet life. Actually live. Just like you’ve always wanted.”
It was a pretty picture. So pretty it almost hurt.
“And when my father finds us?” I asked. Trying to hold on to the hope he was offering like a naive schoolgirl in a relationship for the first time.
Yves’ jaw tightened. “We won’t make it easy.”
He said it like we were in a romance movie where resistance was beautiful instead of exhausting.
I thought about Debo’s eyes last night. His voice still in my head: Some men take more than what’s offered.
What would Orion Kade do once he’s informed I’m missing?
What would he do to my family?
What would he do to me when they eventually find us?
A new fear erupted in my mind at the thought of what he would do to Yves.
He’ll kill him. A voice in my head said loudly, and the fear gripped tighter.
I didn’t let it show. I masked it with a smile and stayed in Yves’ arms for the rest of the journey.
From the ferry to the car that took us to our destination, none of us spoke a word, but the implication of it all floated in the air around us.
After the car dropped us off, we passed a small roadside stall selling fruits. We’d barely eaten anything since we left Paris.