Prologue Part I: It Works Every Time
Night draped itself over Paris like a velvet shawl. The lights of the city glittered across the Seine, casting golden reflections that danced between the ripples. The Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance, like a promise.
On the Pont des Arts bridge, romance unfolded in slow motion.
From opposite ends of the span, two lovers ran to each other—him in a dark peacoat, her in a flurry of heels and curls, their silhouettes backlit by a dream.
“Béatrice!” the man called, his British accent slicing through the night like a well-trained falcon.
“Benedict!” the woman cried back in honeyed French, eyes glistening, scarf fluttering behind her.
They collided in the center of the bridge. He swept her up in a dramatic embrace, spinning her like a record at a wedding reception, their laughter echoing into the moonlight.
“I never thought I’d see you again!” Béatrice gasped, clutching his face. “When they locked me in that wine cellar for a week, the only thing that kept me alive was the thought of you.”
“Béatrice…” Benedict whispered, stroking her cheek like it was made of porcelain. “No matter what they do, they’ll never keep us apart.”
From below, seated gracefully on a wrought-iron bench by the river, a woman in a black trench coat watched them with all the amusement of someone witnessing a very tired play for the seventh time.
She took a deliberate bite of a croissant, flaked layers scattering like golden snow.
Then she rolled her eyes.
With a flick of her wrist, she waved her hand through the air—dismissively, almost lazily.
A breeze stirred. The leaves on the trees above rustled to life.
On the bridge, the romantic spell cracked.
“Something’s in my eye,” Béatrice said, blinking rapidly as her hair blew wildly across her face.
“Me too—wait, what—” Benedict turned, squinting just as a rogue newspaper came flying out of nowhere and smacked him square across the eyes.
“Aagh!” he yelped, stumbling blindly as he clawed at the paper. “It’s got my whole face!”
The woman on the bench—unbothered, unhurried—lifted her hand again and traced a slow spiral in the air.
The wind answered.
Up on the bridge, Benedict flailed backward, arms windmilling in a last-ditch attempt at dignity before flipping over the railing and vanishing with a splash into the Seine.
She stood at last, brushing crumbs from her coat, then formed her fingers into a pistol and blew gently across the top like smoke from a barrel.
“It works every time,” she said to no one in particular, smiling wickedly.
Another shriek echoed from above.
A second splash.
She laughed. Full-bodied, satisfied. Then turned and strolled into the night.
