One
I’ve decided there’s nothing more suspicious than being picked up at the airport by a man you’ve never met, holding a sign with your last name on it.
Especially when your mom was about to call a cab five seconds earlier.
The man was wearing a cream shirt and shiny shoes and said his name was Henri. He bowed a little, which made me instantly uncomfortable and said, “Mademoiselle, Madame Laurent, welcome to the South of France. Monsieur Deveraux has sent me to bring you to the villa.” Which, personally,sounded like the opening line of a spy movie. My mother, of course, thought it was charming.
“Did you know about this?” she asked me, like I’d been faxing secret messages to Antoine’s staff without her knowing.
“Nope.”
But she was already grinning, like this was all partof some perfectly planned French romance. Antoine, her boyfriend who calls her ma chérie and sends orchids wrapped like they’re ransom notes from a luxury florist.
Henri said he’d been sent by Monsieur Deveraux to drive us to the villa. My mother clapped her hands like we’d just won the lottery of elegance. Personally, I was wondering if this was how people got kidnapped.
Still, we got into a dark Mercedes E-Class, the kind of car that made you feel like you were about to step onto a private jet. It smelled faintly of leather, expensive cologne, and something citrusy, maybe the South of France bottled up. Henri popped the trunk and started loading our suitcases in with practiced ease. I watched from the backseat,already settled, the leather hot beneath me.
My mom’s cell phone chirped. It was one of those clipped, robotic rings that sounded like it belonged in a spy movie. She fished it out of her leather bag , checked the tiny screen, and smiled before answering.
“Did you get my surprise?” Antoine’s voice was smooth and a little teasing.
“You didn’t have to really,” Élodie said, giggling like a teenager caught sneaking out.
They talked for a minute longer, he was charming and funny, she was playful but tired.
When she hung up, she was still smiling.
“You know, you’re going to love Delphine. She’s complicated, but I think you two will get along. Maybe even be friends.”
Delphine was Antoine’s daughter. Seventeen, going on some glamorous, tragic twenty-five. Blond, beautiful, and rumored to have gotten suspended from boarding school last year for reasons nobody would say out loud. I didn’t say anything. I just stared out the window at the olive trees blurring past, thinking about what complicated really meant.
Mom kept chatting about dinners under the stars, eau pétillante by the pool, how the villa was basically heaven, and how Delphine was going to adore me.
The drive started off in that post-flight daze, when everything feels a little floaty and your skin still smells like recycled air. But the second we pulled onto the coast road, it was like I’d stepped into a perfume commercial. Pale blue sea on one side, cliffs and villas tucked behind rows of umbrella pines on the other. Bougainvillea spilling down stone walls like it had somewhere to be. Even the air smelled expensive : salt and lemons and whatever magic makes French people look effortlessly chic.
I wondered if Delphine had ever stood by this same highway, sticking out her thumb, trying to run away. It seemed like the kind of thing she’d do.
Delphine. The name tasted bitter in my mouth.
I’d seen her photos. Blond hair that always looked perfectly tousled, those big eyes that seemed to watch everything, and judge. She was my age, maybe a little older, but there was something about her that felt too polished, too rehearsed. Like a character playing a part, not a real person.
Rumors floated around the edges of every conversation I overheard about Antoine’s world: Delphine had been suspended from boarding school last year. No one said why, but I imagined cigarettes in hidden pockets, whispered fights in dark hallways, secrets she was desperate to keep.
My mother spoke as if Delphine was a prize, a little diamond to beadmired and loved. She just saw a girl who needed love.
Meanwhile, Henri kept driving like he was auditioning for Formula One. Then he cleared his throat like he’d been working up the courage to speak for the past twenty kilometers.
“The villa is very beautiful this time of year!” he said, turning halfway around in his seat even though we were still barreling down the highway. “Monsieur Antoine has new olive trees. They’re still babies. Very delicate. Like little soldiers.”
My mom laughed.
“Little soldiers!”
“Yes! And the pool is bigger now. You could host the Olympic Games there. But only if you like to swim surrounded by mosaic tiles of naked gods. Very artistic.”
Mom clapped her hands together.
“Oh, how fabulous!”
“And the chef! He’s new too. From Nice. He makes a cake so good people cry.” Henri blinked at me in the mirror. “You should try it. You look like you’d enjoy cake.”
“Um… thanks?” I said.
Mom was practically glowing.
“Is Delphine there already?” I asked.
“Ah, oui! Mademoiselle Delphine arrived two days ago. With friends. Very fashionable friends. All wearing sunglasses inside. I don’t know why.”
Mom gasped.
“Oh, how fun! Vivienne,you’ll have friends your age!”
Mom was giggling so much she nearly choked.
I just stared out the window at the olive trees, imagining Delphine in giant sunglasses, scowling at someone over a poolside lunch.
“Don’t worry,” Henri said, grinning. “Delphine is… how you say… full of life.”
That was one way to put it.
Henri was still going on about flambéed cherries and curtains catching fire when my mind drifted straight back to New York. Back home, I wasn’t exactly swamped with invitations. No one was ringing my landline off the hook, or scribbling my name in gel pen inside a glittery Lisa Frank planner.
Not that I was a total loser. I had lunch-table friends. A girl from photography club who’d call my house to rant about cheap film stocks and how we’d both die if B&H ever closed. But that wasn’t the same as having a best friend. Someone who knew your secrets, finished your sentences, and made sure you didn’t accidentally leave the house looking like an extra from “My So-Called Life.”
Mostly, it was just me and my camera.
I liked being the observer. Watching people. Finding stories in strangers’ faces on the subway. The city was a living organism, pulsing with neon signs, steam from manhole covers, and the faint scent of hot pretzels and car exhaust.
My mom always said I should “get out there” more, like Manhattan was a giant party waiting for me to RSVP. But whenever I tried, it felt like I’d missed some memo everyone else got in seventh grade.
The girls at my school wore sparkly eyeshadow and Tommy Girl perfume and spoke fluent Gossip. They talked about club openings, or who got into Bungalow 8 last weekend, even though technically none of us were old enough to drink. They had perfectly messy buns, Prada backpacks, and knew exactly how to smudge lipliner without looking like a raccoon. Meanwhile, I was still printing my photos in the darkroom and worrying my hair smelled like developer solution.
I’d tried sleepovers. Once. Everyone was shrieking about which boy band member they’d want to lose their virginity to while I sat there, eating Cool Ranch Doritos, feeling like an alien.
So mostly, I stayed quiet.
But sitting there in that car, bumping along the highway in the South of France, I also couldn’t stop thinking about how it was different, being me in Europe. Not that it was always perfect in New York. People stared there too, sometimes. But Europe felt… trickier. Like it was all fine ifyou were Naomi Campbell in a magazine spread, but in real life, people stared just a little longer. I’d felt it even at the airport. The way securitysquinted at my passport, the way a lady in a linen suit looked me up and down like I’d wandered into the wrong terminal.
It made me feel like my skin was some neon sign I couldn’t turn off.
And then there was the other part. The part where I had a blonde, white mother. It’s like we came as a set that didn’t match. People’s eyes flicked back and forth between us, trying to do the math. I could see it happen, like they were wondering if she was my stepmom, or my nanny, or if maybe there’d been some cosmic mix-up at the hospital.
When I was little, I used to wish we at least looked a little alike, so people would stop staring. Same eyes. Same nose. Something. But we didn’t. And now that I was older, I’d learned to act like I didn’t care.
Except sometimes I did. Especially here.
Now we were headed to a villa where everyone probably wore white linen and had sun-streaked hair and names like Delphine. Blonde, gorgeous, probably fluent in three languages and emotional blackmail. The kind of girl who wore sunglasses inside because she could.
It was hard to picture the two of us belonging in the same movie, let alone the same villa.
Henri’s voice cut through the hum of the engine, sharp and unexpectedly cheerful.
“Welcome to paradise, Mademoiselle Laurent. We have arrived to Cap d’Antibes.”
I blinked, trying to shake off the cloud of memories and nerves from my head.
The car rolled to a stop, brakes crunching softly over the gravel, and Henri practically flung himself out like he’d been dying for fresh air. He twisted around to grin at me, hair rumpled and eyes gleaming in the glow of the headlights.
“Try not to trip on the welcome mat. It bites.”
I rolled my eyes, but a laugh slipped out.
Then I stepped out of the car, and the night swallowed me whole.
The first thing that hit me was the heat. Not gross New York humidity that clings to your skin like plastic wrap, but dry warmth, fragrant with crushed herbs and something floral and sharp. Maybe jasmine, or lavender, or whatever rich people planted along gravel driveways.
And then I looked up at the villa.
And for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
It rose in layers of pale stone, glowing under the night sky like it was lit from the inside out. Every window blazed gold, the shutters thrown wide as if the house was exhaling warm light into the dark. Vines climbed the walls, twisting around iron balconies. Clusters of roses spilled over terracotta pots like they were posing for a perfume ad.
Tiny string lights were draped over the courtyard, zigzagging between trees and columns. Their glow scattered reflections across the gravel, so it sparkled like a thousand tiny diamonds. Somewhere close by, water trickled—a fountain, maybe, or a pool overflow. The sound blended into cicadas buzzing in the trees, like static on an old radio.
I’d grown up thinking “villas” were something you saw in glossy travel magazines at the dentist’s office. This place looked exactly like those pictures, except realer, and bigger, and somehow impossibly perfect.
In New York, even the fanciest buildings had cracks in the stone and smelled faintly of radiator heat and leftover takeout. The sidewalks were sticky, and the streetlights glowed the color of old brass. You could be standing outside a Fifth Avenue townhouse worth twenty million dollars and still smell hot dog water drifting over from the corner cart.
But this villa… this was something else.
For a moment, I felt like I’d stumbled onto the set of a movie I wasn’t cast in. Like I was the extra who accidentally wandered into the hero’s close-up.
My mother was halfway out of the car, clutching Henri’s arm and practically squealing.
“Oh my God, Vivi, look at those lights! Antoine must have done this for us. Isn’t it the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?”
I wanted to say no, just to be difficult. But the truth was…it kind of was. And I hated that it made me want, even for half a second, to believe that all this could somehow belong to us.
Henri was fussing with our luggage, muttering in French, but I barely heard him. I was too busy staring at the villa, trying to process the fact that this was real life and not a spread in Architectural Digest. Because here’s the thing: back home, our apartment on the Upper East Side is nice. Like, technically nice. White walls. Polished wood floors. Big windows that look out over other buildings’ brick walls and black metal fire escapes. My mother calls it “classic prewar charm,” which is code for creaky floorboards and radiators that hiss like angry cats all winter. We’ve got a doorman named Freddy who’s older than God, and who once told me I’d “blossom into a real heartbreaker.” (Gross.)
But there are no fountains gurgling in the courtyard. No ivy curling around pillars like it’s trying to climb into heaven.No smell of warm stone and lavender drifting through the air like perfume. In our building, the hallway always smells faintly like boiled cabbage, and the trash chute rattles every time someone upstairs dumps their empties from a Friday night.
The only lights twinkling outside our windows are the ones from taxi cabs blaring their horns at two a.m. Or neon deli signs promising twenty-four-hour bagels. Not these tiny, perfect lights spilling diamonds all over white gravel.
Not a house that looks like it’s been standing for centuries just waiting for a French movie star to sweep in and uncork a bottle of vintage rosé. This place felt like the opposite of our apartment. Like the opposite of everything we were.
And somehow, it made me want to both run away and never leave.
Henri was still wrestling with our suitcases when the big front doors of the villa swung open.
And there he was.
Antoine Deveraux.
For a split second, he just stood there at the top of the steps, framed in the golden light spilling out behind him, like he was making his entrance in some glossy French movie.
He was wearing a crisp white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair was perfectly tousled, like he’d just stepped off a sailboat. His skin was tanned, like he spent all his time outdoors doing something effortlessly rich: tennis, sailing, plotting international business takeovers. And the thing was…he looked good. Like, irritatingly good.
My mother let out this tiny gasp I’d only ever heard her make twice: once when she bought a pair of Manolo Blahniks on sale at Bergdorf’s, and now.
“Oh, mon amour,” she breathed.
And then they were kissing.
Not a polite little peck, either—a full-on,movie-worthy kiss, right there in the gravel driveway under the fairy lights. His hands slid into her hair, and she tipped her face up like she was starring in a perfume commercial.
I tried not to roll my eyes so far back into my headthat I’d need medical intervention.
When they finally broke apart, Antoine’s eyes landed on me.
“Vivienne.” He said my name like it was a compliment. Like he was genuinely happy to see me, which almost made me suspicious.
He bounded down the steps and came straight for us, ignoring Henri, who was still huffing over a suitcase zipper.
“Let me help.”
Before I could object, Antoine had grabbed two of our bags, lifting them like they weighed absolutely nothing, and flashed me a grin.
“You’ve grown taller since I last saw you. And even more beautiful, which hardly seems fair.”
I tried to say “thank you,” but all that came out was a strangled sort of noise. Because the truth was, no matter how much I wanted to be cool and unimpressed, Antoine Deveraux had serious movie-star energy. And standing there in that villa driveway, I felt like I’d just stepped into someone else’s life.
Antoine hoisted the last of our luggage onto Henri’s shoulder like it weighed nothing and turned to my mother with that look—the one that made her giggle like a high school girl sneaking into a bar with a fake ID.
“Come,” he said, extending his hand dramatically,“you have to see the house properly.”
And of course my mother swooped in, looping her arm through his. She tossed me a look over her shoulder like, Are you seeing this? We’ve arrived.
So I followed them, trying to act casual, even though my heart was pounding like I was about to step onto a catwalk.
The villa was all cool stone and echoing halls. The air smelled faintly citrusy, like lemon polish and something more expensive I couldn’t name. Every footstep clacked on the marble floors.
Antoine kept up a running commentary like a real estate agent-slash-Disney prince:
“This is the salon, where we entertain. And the library—though, ah, I confess, I mostly keep wine in there.”
My mother laughed and touched his arm again, her finger tips resting on his linen shirt a little longer than strictly necessary. Meanwhile, I tried to keep my face neutral as we passed through room after room.
In the salon, sunlight spilled in through tall windows framed by gauzy curtains, pooling over antique rugs the color of driedroses. A grand piano stood off to the side, its black lacquer gleaming like apatent leather shoe.
A staff member in a crisp white shirt was discreetly dusting the mantelpiece, pretending not to hear us, like part of the furniture.
It was all…so much.
Because in New York, even the fanciest apartments have scratched hardwood floors and radiator pipes that clang like ghosts in the night. Our entire living room could fit into Antoine’s entryway.
I kept thinking: This place isn’t a house, it’s a statement.
Antoine led us past a series of tall double doors. He threw one open with a flourish.
“Voilà. The garden.”
And honestly? My jaw dropped.
There were citrus trees heavy with glossy leaves. Terracota pots overflowing with lavender. A fountain in the shape of a womanpouring water from a jug. The gravel paths curved away into shadows, lit by little golden lanterns hung from wrought iron hooks. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the softsplash of a pool.
Antoine smelled faintly of expensive cologne—something woodsy and sharp—and my mother kept leaning closer, inhaling like she was addicted.
We came to a hallway lined with portraits. Heavy gilt frames, oil paintings, all these serious-looking people with perfect cheekbones and high collars.
And there, halfway down the wall, was a photograph instead of a painting.
A girl about eight or nine years old, pale and delicate, with a serious little face and hair the color of champagne. She wore a white dress and stood in front of this same villa, sunlight glowing around her like a halo.
Delphine.
Even in the photo, she looked slightly bored. Like she’d rather be anywhere else.
Antoine noticed me staring and gave a soft laugh.
“Ah. Ma fille. Delphine. She was always dramatic,even as a child.”
My mother sighed, starry-eyed. “She is so beautiful. A real heartbreaker.”
I didn’t say anything, but the back of my neckprickled.
Because suddenly I could picture Delphine standing exactly where I was, drifting through these halls in white linen, speaking perfect French, looking down her perfect nose at girls like me.
And for one sharp second, I felt like the only person in the villa who didn’t belong in the frame.
But then Antoine grinned, snapped his fingers at Henri to bring the bags upstairs, and turned back to us like he was about to announce dessert.
“Come,” he said. “There’s something else I must show you. The pool. It is quite…magnificent.”
Antoine led us out a side door and down a stonepath. The cicadas were buzzing so loud it felt like electricity in the air.
My mother clung to his arm like he might float away if she let go. And me? I just trailed behind them, trying to look unimpressed and failing miserably.
The garden opened up into a terrace, and there it was—the pool.
And Henri hadn’t been exaggerating.
It was long and perfect and lit from underneath so it glowed this insane shade of turquoise in the dark, like a piece of neon jewelry. White loungers lined the edge, with big canvas umbrellas folded downfor the night. There was a low wall draped in vines, and beyond it, black skyand stars.
It smelled like chlorine and jasmine and some sweet perfume drifting from the open windows above.
Antoine stopped right at the pool’s edge and spread his arms like he was presenting a game show prize.
“Well?” he asked, looking back at us, practically vibrating with pride.
My mother made a delighted little squeal and kissed him again. I stood there, arms crossed, pretending I wasn’t impressed. But the truth was…it was stunning. I mean, who has a pool that looks like a Balmain campaign shoot at midnight?
Standing there, I felt like I’d fallen into someone else’s fantasy.
A villa in the South of France. A boyfriend who sends cars to pick you up from the airport. A pool glowing in the dark like a Tiffany window display.
Meanwhile, back home, our living room had crownmolding and a doorman downstairs who knew my mother’s dry-cleaning schedule by heart—but the radiators still hissed all winter, and sometimes the elevator stalled between floors for just long enough to freak you out.
And it wasn’t just the house.
It was Antoine. The way he moved through the world like everything belonged to him. The way my mother looked at him, all soft and dazzled, like he was the sun and she’d been living in the dark her whole life.
And then there was Delphine.
Even without having met her yet, I could practically feel her presence lurking in every expensive shadow of this place. Delphine, with her perfect French and her vintage slip dresses and her hair the color of a glass of champagne. Delphine, who probably didn’t have to wonder, everytime she walked into a new space, whether people were going to ask whose daughter she was, or look at her skin and do the math.
The thought made something tighten in my chest.
Because as much as I wanted to believe I was just some cool New York girl who could handle anything…I was already starting to feel like an outsider. Like a tourist in someone else’s family.
Antoine turned to me suddenly and flashed that grin again.
“Vivienne,” he said. “Promise me you’ll swim tomorrow, oui? You must enjoy the villa. It’s your home too, now.”
I tried to smile back.
But the words your home too clanged around in my head like a bell. Because I wasn’t so sure about that.
Antoine finally seemed to remember that normal people might want to sit down after a transatlantic flight.
“Come,” he said, ushering us back toward the villa’s side entrance. “Delphine is waiting. She’s been so curious to meet you both.”
My mother actually squeezed my hand like we were about to meet royalty.
Inside, the villa was glowing with lamplight. Everything looked gold and creamy and hushed, like a hotel lobby at three in the morning.
We stepped into a long corridor lined with pale rugs and modern art. Big canvases with splashes of color that probably cost more than our entire apartment renovation back home.
And there she was.
Delphine.
She wasn’t smoking, thank God. She was just leaningcasually in the doorway of one of the salons, one shoulder propped against the frame.
She wore a pale pink silk slip dress, the kind you’d think belonged under other clothes but that girls like her wore out in public, because they could. Her hair was soft and champagne-colored, loose around her shoulders, and she wore a delicate silver cross chain that glinted against her collarbone. And she was beautiful. In that way that made me instinctively straighten my posture and feel the need to check if I hadlipstick on my teeth.
For a second, her eyes flicked over me, quick as a camera flash.
Then she gave me a polite little smile, barely lifting one corner of her mouth.
“Bonjour,” she said, her accent so smooth it was practically velvet. “You must be Vivienne.”
It wasn’t unfriendly. But it wasn’t exactly friendly either.
Antoine stepped forward like he was presenting a rare piece of art.
“Delphine, ma chérie, this is Élodie and Vivienne. Elodie, Vivienne—my daughter Delphine.”
My mother surged forward with both hands outstretched.
“Delphine! Finally. Antoine’s told us so much about you.”
Delphine accepted my mother’s kiss on both cheeks but looked vaguely distracted, like she was thinking about something more interesting.
Then she turned back to me.
“So…New York?” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Is it really like in the movies?”
Her tone was breezy, but there was a tiny glimmer in her eyes that felt like a test.
And suddenly, I was hyper-aware of everything: my travel-frizzy hair, the wrinkles in my T-shirt, the fact that I still smelled like airplane.
In the movies, the new girl walks into a room, and the glamorous locals instantly take her under their wing. In real life, sometimes they just look at you like they’re still deciding whether you’re worth their time. And the thing about girls like Delphine is…even when they’re perfectly polite, you can feel the walls. The soft, expensive, silk-lined walls.
Meanwhile, Antoine was beaming like he’d just brokered world peace.
“Delphine, why don’t you show Vivienne her room?”he said.
Delphine gave a delicate shrug.
“Sure,” she said. Then she turned on her heel and started gliding down the hallway, not even checking if I was following.
My mother gave me an encouraging little wave.
And just like that, I was off after Delphine, feeling like Dorothy stepping into Oz, except I wasn’t sure if the witch was good or bad yet.
Delphine didn’t speak for the first few seconds as we moved down the corridor. Her bare feet made no sound on the rugs, while my sneakers squeaked faintly like a kid crashing a grown-up party.
She finally glanced back at me, her hair catching the lamplight.
“So, you’ve been to France before?” she asked,lightly, like she already knew the answer.
“Once. Paris. When I was eleven.”
Delphine gave a tiny smile, eyes still forward.
“Mm. Well. This isn’t Paris.”
I could practically hear Carrie Bradshaw’s voice narrating my life: “I couldn’t help but wonder… was Delphine Deveraux my new best friend… or my future frenemy?”
Because everything about Delphine screamed that glossy, unattainable French-girl cool. She wasn’t even doing anything dramatic, just walking. But she moved like she was floating. Like she’d been taught how to turn corners elegantly at finishing school. And I knew girls like her back home, too. The ones who sat on the steps outside the Met with perfect hair and an iced coffee,discussing someone’s tragic breakup in hushed, knowing voices.
Except Delphine wasn’t Upper East Side polished. She was…unreadable.
Halfway there, she suddenly stopped and slipped a slim cigarette from somewhere—tucked into the strap of her dress, maybe, or hidden in the folds of the silk.
She twirled it between her fingers, not looking at it, just letting it dangle like a secret. Then she shot me a sideways look, her mouth quirking up at one corner.
“Want one?” she asked.
Her voice was soft but edged with mischief, the same way a cat might look at a bird.
I shook my head quickly. “No, thanks.”
Delphine let out a tiny breath, half sigh, half laugh.
“Suit yourself,” she murmured, and struck a match against the wall, the spark catching in the dim hallway. She lit the cigarette slowly, never breaking eye contact, and took a single drag before exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curled around her face like silk.
Delphine pushed open a door and stepped aside.
“This is your room.”
I stopped in the doorway, blinking.
The room was massive. Walls painted a soft cream, tall windows framed by white linen curtains, and a huge four-poster bed with acarved wooden headboard that looked like something out of a period drama. An antique vanity sat in one corner, a gilded mirror catching the soft glow from a crystal chandelier overhead. A delicate armchair upholstered in faded silk waitedby the window, where the balcony doors stood open just a crack, letting in abreeze scented with salt and jasmine.On the nightstand, a vase of white roses looked freshly cut.
It was the prettiest room I’d ever seen.
But it made me feel like an intruder.
Back home, my bedroom was a chaos of photo prints stuck up with washi tape, a half-unpacked camera bag, art magazines stacked in careless piles.
This room belonged to someone who wore silk robes and sipped mineral water, not a girl who spent afternoons wandering the city with a camera around her neck.
Delphine crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe with an almost lazy grace.
“C’est chouette, hein ?” she said. “Dad likes everything to be perfect.”
She paused, her voice dropping to a quieter, sharperedge.
“Sometimes I think he forgets people aren’t furniture.”
For a brief moment, vulnerability flickered across her face. Then it was gone, snapped shut like a well-oiled trapdoor.
She gave me a faint, challenging smile.
Delphine lingered in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame, the cigarette still smoldering between her fingers.She watched me as I stepped inside, eyes flicking over my reaction like she was grading me on a test I didn’t know I was taking.
“I picked the sheets,” she said suddenly, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth. “I thought you’d like something…simple.”
Delphine drifted in after me, circling the room as if inspecting it for flaws.
“Don’t let my father give you the ‘Ici, tu es chez toi’ speech,” she added, tapping ash into a tiny porcelain dish on the nightstand. “He likes to pretend this place is casual. It’s not.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs, and tilted her head.
“So…do you have a boyfriend back in New York?” she asked, as if we’d known each other forever.
I felt my cheeks warm. I gave a weird half-laugh and blurted, “No, I don’t.”
I regretted the laugh the second it left my mouth. It echoed in the room like I’d dropped a fork at a fancy dinner.
Delphine’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. She flicked a bit of ash into the dish and said, “Well. We have a really cute gardener.”
She paused, taking a drag of her cigarette, eyes fixed on me through the smoke.
“Matteo. He’s older. Nineteen, I think. Looks like someone out of an Italian movie. You’ll see.”
She tilted her head, studying my face for a reaction, as though she’d just handed me a secret.
My stomach did a little flip. I tried to act casual, but I could feel my pulse ticking in my neck. “Oh,” I managed. “Cool.”
Delphine let out a soft, amused puff of smoke.
“Just…be careful. He’s a little weird.” she murmured.
I frowned. “What do you mean he’s weird?”
But Delphine only shrugged, a tiny, elegant shrug that said secrets were her native language.
“Anyway,” she said, standing up and smoothing her dress, “if you need anything, I’m…somewhere around.”
She gave me one last sly smile and flicked her ashes into the dish.
“Dinner’s in half an hour. Change before it gets cold.”
Then she slipped away, leaving me alone with the faint scent of roses and smoke and the strange feeling that this was just the beginning of something complicated.
About half an hour later, there was a brisk knock at my door.
I opened it to find a woman standing there in acrisp black dress and tiny white apron. Her hair was scraped into a severe blonde bun, and her lipstick was an almost alarming shade of coral. Her cheekbones could cut glass. When she spoke, her accent was clipped and lilting— somewhere Eastern European, like she’d stepped out of a Bond movie.
“Monsieur Deveraux would like everyone on the terrace for dinner,” she said.
“Oh—” I started, raising my hand to ask the mostbasic question—Where’s the terrace?—but she’d already spun on her kitten heels and whisked away down the corridor, leaving behind a faint cloud of Chanel No. 5.
So I was on my own.
I wandered through the villa, feeling like I’d accidentally stumbled onto the set of a Ralph Lauren ad. The air smelled like old stone and lavender furniture spray. Somewhere distant, a cicada buzzed. Everything glowed under soft pools of light — gold fixtures, glossy floors, silk curtains that caught the breeze like they were posing for photos.
I took a random left turn, and bam — I almost collided face-first with Delphine.
She stood there in a pale slip dress, leaning one shoulder against the wall, like she’d been waiting for a director to yell “Action.” Her hair was tucked behind her ears, eyes lined in a way that made her look tired.
She tilted her chin. “You look lost.”
“I am lost,” I admitted. “Your house is bigger than the Met. I’m trying to find the terrace.”
Delphine pushed off the wall, sighing like this was exhausting. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I kept sneaking glances at her. She looked like a page ripped from a fashion spread in Seventeen magazine—expensive hair, glowy skin, an expression that said she wasperpetually bored.
After a few steps, the silence started driving me nuts, so I blurted, “Henri said your friends were here earlier.”
Delphine barely glanced at me. “Yeah. They left just before you came.”
“Oh.” I let out a nervous laugh. “Bummer.”
She finally looked at me, her eyes sharp and amused.“Don’t worry. You’ll meet them, eventually.”
Delphine stopped in front of a huge set of glass doors. She threw them open dramatically, like unveiling a surprise on The Price Is Right.
Warm night air rushed over us, carrying scents of grilled fish, herbs, and faint salt from the distant sea. Fairy lights twinkled along the terrace railing. Voices floated through the dark — my mother’s laugh, Antoine’s deep murmur.
I stepped outside, feeling like I’d fallen into someone else’s movie.
The terrace looked like a spread in Architectural Digest. Wide stone tiles stretched out under my shoes, glowing warm from the lights strung overhead like champagne bubbles. There were potted lemon trees, giant white umbrellas folded like sails, and a low table set with glasses catching the glow. Everything smelled like rosemary and ocean air and a faint whiff of expensive cologne.
Antoine was standing there in white linen trousers and a pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was laughing at something my mother had just said, head tipped back, perfect teeth flashing.
Élodie was perched on a wicker chaise, one leg tucked under her, her face lit up like Times Square. She was talking fast, hands flying around like she was conducting an orchestra. Her hair shone under the lights.
Delphine drifted past me and collapsed into a chair,draping her arms along the back like she owned the place.
Antoine spotted me and spread his arms wide. “Vivienne! Finally. Come, come. You must try the chèvre. It’s from a tiny farm near Aix. The goats practically get massages.”
I edged forward as he pressed a cool glass of sparkling water into my hand.
Élodie beamed at me. “Isn’t this divine, Vivi? The air alone is worth the plane ticket.”
I was about to answer when Antoine swooped in, placing a sliver of soft white cheese onto my plate.
Delphine rolled her eyes. “We’re practically feeding her like a goat.”
Antoine shot her a look. “Be nice.”
Delphine picked up a green olive and popped it into her mouth, all bored elegance. “I am being nice.”
My mother gave me a little nudge. “You okay, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” I said, though my head was spinning. It was like I’d stepped into a whole different planet.
Meanwhile, back in New York, our kitchen had sleek white cabinets and glossy marble counters, but one cabinet door always hung slightly crooked, no matter how many times they super “fixed”it. And our microwave, a fancy stainless steel model my mom bought at Bloomingdale’s, smelled faintly of popcorn no matter what you cooked in it.
Antoine leaned closer, lowering his voice like we were co-conspirators. “Tell me what you think of Delphine. She’s very… how doyou say… unique.”
Delphine shot him a glare, but didn’t argue.
I swallowed a sip of my sparkling water. “She’s…cool.”
Delphine tilted her head, giving me that cat like smile again. “Cool. That’s one word for it.”
Then she turned her gaze toward the darkness beyond the terrace, where cicadas buzzed and a few stars winked between clouds. For amoment, her face softened, and I wondered what she was thinking.
Antoine clapped his hands once. “Bon! Tomorrow we go to the market. You must see the flowers, Vivienne. And the fruit. Everything here tastes better.”
My mother practically squealed. “Oh my God, can you imagine the peaches?”
Delphine rolled her eyes again, then leaned forward and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear, “And the gardener.”
I choked a little on my water.
Antoine and Élodie were too busy laughing over the menu to notice.
Delphine leaned back in her chair, swirling a glass of pale pink wine. “Honestly, this villa’s so pretty it makes me sick.” She shot me a sly look. “But the gardener makes it tolerable.”
I tried not to blush. “You keep mentioning him.”
“Because he’s worth mentioning,” Delphine said, as if explaining the obvious. “He’s older. Not old-old. Just… not a stupid boy. And he has these hands.” She held hers up, fingers spread dramatically. “Like he’s always been digging in the dirt or building something. It’s very…” She wiggled her fingers. “Interesting.”
Antoine looked over, catching only the tail end of this. “Ah, Delphine. Toujours la romantique.”
Delphine made a face. “I’m not romantic. I’m realistic.”
Élodie jumped in, smiling. “Vivi, you should ask him to show you around the grounds. There’s a rose garden and a labyrinth and everything. Like a fairy tale. You can take pictures for your summer album.”
“Or a horror movie,” Delphine muttered. “Depends who you’re stuck in there with,Vivi.”
Antoine chuckled and lifted a piece of bread. “Please, eat! No one eats in America, they are all afraid of bread. You’re too thin. You must try this tapenade.”
He scooped a dark, glossy paste onto my plate. It smelled salty and rich.
I forced a smile. “Thanks.”
Delphine propped her chin on her hand. “So, Vivienne. What do you do in New York when you’re not being dragged to France?”
Élodie laughed lightly. “She takes photos. My daughter’s an artist.”
Delphine raised one brow. “An artist. Cool. Like…moody black-and-white stuff? Or, like, girls eating ice cream with their eyes closed?”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Kind of both, actually.”
Delphine’s lips curved into a genuine grin for half a second before she smoothed it away. “Okay. That’s acceptable.”
Antoine waved his hands. “Tomorrow, Vivienne, you must take pictures of the villa. Yes? Make me look handsome.”
My mother leaned into Antoine, giggling. “That’s impossible. You’re already too handsome.”
Delphine let out a dramatic groan. “Kill me.”
I stared at the table, the olives and cheese glistening under strings of terrace lights. The warm breeze shifted the scent of jasmine and chlorine. The sky above was deep navy, full of stars I didn’t recognize.
Somewhere far off, a dog barked.
And for a second, I felt like I was standing just outside my own life, looking in.
Eventually, the plates were half-empty and the cicadas louder than the conversation. Antoine was pouring himself another glass of wine, talking to my mom in rapid French that left her laughing breathlessly.
Delphine leaned back, stretching like a cat. “I’m going to bed. You coming, Vivienne?”
I blinked. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”
Antoine gave us a gracious wave. “Sleep well, mes jolies. Tomorrow is for exploring, yes?”
Delphine rolled her eyes but kissed him on the cheek. Élodie was too busy giggling into Antoine’s shoulder to notice us leaving.
Inside, the villa felt cool and echoey after the summer heat. Our footsteps clicked across the floor as Delphine led me upstairs.
“Brace yourself for the birds,” she murmured.
“What birds?”
She pointed to a giant oil painting near the landing. It was some kind of hunting scene with pheasants and spaniels and aman in a powdered wig. The pheasants looked terrified.
“It’s like they’re screaming,” Delphine whispered dramatically. “This whole house is a shrine to dead animals.”
I snorted. “I’ll try not to have nightmares.”
At my door, Delphine paused, studying me like she was memorizing a secret. “If you wake up screaming, come knock on my door.”
“Okay,” I said, even though I knew I never would.
She disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in a corridor lit by soft wall sconces.
When I slipped into my room, I stood a moment by the open French window, looking out at the black sky full of stars and the pale curve of the pool below. It smelled like warm stone and rosemary and thefaintest trace of chlorine.
I thought of my mom downstairs, practically glowing under Antoine’s attention. Of Delphine offering me cigarettes like some doomed heroine. Of the gardener I hadn’t even met yet. And for a second, I felt like the whole summer was holding its breath, waiting to see what I’d do next.
I was standing by the window, picking at a loosethread on the gauzy curtain, when there was a gentle knock.
“Vivi? C’est moi.”
It was my mom. She slipped into my room wearing pale silk pajamas, her hair up in a messy twist, bare feet whispering over the cool tile. She smelled like her night cream and just the faintest hint of Antoine’scologne—amber, citrus, expensive.
She gave me a small smile, then without asking, crawled right into my bed and pulled me close, like I was still eight yearsold.
“Move over,” she said, nudging me with her hip.
I scooted back, rolling my eyes, but she just tucked herself in beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“You and Delphine seemed like you were hitting it off tonight,” she said softly.
I snorted. “She offered me a cigarette five minutes after showing me my room.”
My mother gave a low laugh. “Well… that’s practically how girls say ‘I like you’ in France.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not how we do it in America,” I said. “At least not with people we just met.”
She grinned. “True. In New York, we’d rather pretend we’ve never seen each other and wait for someone to make an introduction.”
I thought of our building back home—marble lobby,brass elevator doors that sometimes jammed, the doorman who always called me “Miss Vivienne” even when I wore ripped jeans. The familiar hum of Park Avenue traffic outside my window at night. Everything felt so far away.
Mom kept talking, tracing circles on my arm with her finger tip. “Henri told me there’s a very handsome jardinier. A gardener, you know. Maybe you’ll fall in love. France is good for that.”
“Mom, please,” I groaned, burying my face in the pillow.
She pulled it away gently. “I’m just saying… I want you to have fun here. You deserve to have a little… how do they say… légèreté.” She said the word in that French way, light and breezy, like champagne bubbles.
She shifted closer, speaking into my hair. “So…?”
“What?”
“What do you think of Antoine?”
“He’s… nice,” I said. It came out flatter than I meant.
“Nice?” She gave a small laugh. “He’s more than nice, Vivienne. He makes me feel… safe. And seen. Like the way I used to feel when I first moved to New York and I’d walk past all those brownstones on East 70th and imagine my whole life waiting for me there.”
She sighed, softer now. “Antoine makes me feel like the waiting might finally be over.”
I didn’t know how to answer that.
So we just lay there. My mother pressed her cheek to mine. Outside, the night buzzed with cicadas, and a warm breeze carried the smell of lavender through the open window.
“I love you so much, Vivienne,” she whispered.“Tellement, tellement.”
“I know,” I said, my voice small.
And for a moment, France didn’t feel quite so foreign. I could almost pretend this villa was just another fancy New York apartment we’d snuck into at an open house, whispering behind our hands and making up stories about the people who lived there.
But under all that pretending, I knew something was changing. I could feel it thrumming in the walls, humming like static in the air. Still, I closed my eyes and let my mom hold me. AndI let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, this summer wouldn’t break us.
