15 | Spilled Soup And Spilled Secrets

VERA

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"RESERVATION FOR MS. LILAC," a man said, turning to hand a card to a waiter beside him, "table 27."

I didn't want to be here. Not really. I felt so out of place in my silk dress, dressed in finery that I can't afford, and going to restaurants meant for people who could spend a thousand dollars in a day and not make a dent in their bank account.

To be fair, I wasn't supposed to be myself. My alias was Rebecca Lilac, an American lawyer dealing with a big case, who decided to treat herself to an expensive dinner to celebrate. Seducing a member of The Elite was part of the plan too, but they don't need to know that.

"Thank you," I said to the receptionist at the front, already beginning to follow the waiter through the back of the entrance.

Here we go.

As soon as I slipped through the large, gold doors, I was instantly transported into the world of the upper-class. Wine glasses were hanging from shelves in intricate patterns, paintings with polished frames were poised on the wall, a classical band of four tucked in the corner as they played a beautiful rendition of Vivaldi's Variation. If I wasn't so stricken with nerves, I would have let myself slip into the elegance of it all.

But I had another plan on my mind. One that involved the pudgy man sitting at table 26, indulging in a basket of buttered brioche in the center of his cream-clothed table.

Pierre Gagnon.

Brother to Timothée's mother, liar, thief, and murder. He sat at his table, pigging out and chewing with his mouth open, the sight of him making me sick as I made my way towards my table—I knew what he had done. There was a burly business associate in front of him, dressed in the same black suit, although I couldn't see his face from where I stood.

"Are you in?" A familiar voice crackled through my earpiece, "can you hear me?"

I heard Timmy's staticky voice loud and clear, my hair purposely pushed forward to block the communication device from watching eyes. I knew where he was. Sam too. The two of them were dressed as chefs in the kitchen, keeping a low radar as they waited for events to proceed. Avery was in an alley somewhere.

"Yes, and yes," I muttered under barely parted lips, "starting layer one."

Make them catch you looking.

As the waiter led me to table 27, I focused my gaze intently on Pierre Gagnon, purposely knocking the side of his table gently with my hand as I passed. It was played off as an accident—something which made the Uncle look up from his conversation, pupils dilating as he saw my eyes trained on him in interest—but I glanced away as soon as we met gaze.

I was the timid, shy girl, who was dressed in silk.

And that was enough to alert him of my presence. I felt him staring at me, watching me as I slowly lowered myself into my cushioned chair, leaning against the red velvet back as I picked up a gold menu. I didn't need to look at him any more.

"What's he doing?" I heard Timothée say through my earpiece.

I glanced around quickly, making sure I wasn't being observed anymore. Nothing. Pierre's attention was back to the basket of yeast in front of him. The business associate was rambling on in French about something I didn't understand. I kept my focus on the Uncle.

"Eating bread," I said quietly under my breath.

"I hope he chokes on it," Timothée grumbled.

I stifled a scoff, lifting my menu to shield my mouth like a fan. "Focus on the mission, not your feelings," I echoed. It was petty, but I felt the need to use his tone-deaf words from earlier against him.

He laughed. "Touche, Vera."

I heard the click of his monitor switch off, and decided to incorporate Layer Two of the plan into effect. The waiter came over when I waved my hand ("how may I assist you, Miss Lilac?", to which I would say "I only have a question"), and that's when I laid my plan.

Clearing my throat, I waited for Timothée's uncle to look my way, before turning back to the waiter and mumbling a question under my breath. I asked him who the 'man sitting across from me' was—something I already knew—but it was an obvious nod to the second layer: make them catch you talking about them. It seemed to work, because not long after, the uncle called his own server over and asked who I was.

"Miss Rebecca Lilac," his waiter said, "American Lawyer."

Hah!

He was in my trap now. All I had to do was wait through the dinner, eavesdrop into the conversation, and then incorporate layers 3 and 4. I'd be seen as someone only interested in the Uncle, not in the conversation, and everything would be fine.

I just had to get through this.

I felt like my whole body was ticking with nerves, no matter how confident the alias I'd put on made me feel. Rebecca Lilac was a strong woman who wouldn't hesitate to make her interest known. Vera Bennet was a complicated mess who was rejected by a guy more than once, but still felt the same admiration for him. We were not the same, and even though it was only pretend, Vera still existed behind the mask.

That's why I was scared.

If I screwed up and let my foolishness get the better of me, Timothée wouldn't trust me on this deal ever again. He'd stop helping me write. Or maybe he'd forgive me and give me a second chance. I don't know. I know nothing of him; nothing that matters.

"Stop thinking so loud," Timothée's voice said through the earpiece again, "you're freaking me out."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I said, covering my mouth with the menu again.

"Your silence is loud. Why aren't you doing anything?"

"Because I've got a process for things, leave me alone," I said, "now stop talking before someone gets suspicious."

"I bet you're hiding behind your menu."

I flinched, careful not to let a surprised gasp leave my lips unexpectedly. I couldn't tell if I should be impressed that he was able to read my actions so quickly, or creeped out at how accurate it was.

"I'm not," I lied, lowering the menu cautiously, "but what's wrong with that, anyways?"

"Makes you seem shy," he said, "you're supposed to seduce him, remember? I don't know how you'd ever expect to do that while covering your face with salad descriptions and—"

A loud clattering noise cut him off, followed by a yelp of surprise, and a horrible ear piercing shriek that shot through my head, leaving me covering my ears with my hands.

Some people in the restaurant turned to look at me in suspicion—including Pierre, who stopped mid-conversation to inspect the situation—but I played it off by clearing my throat, and setting my menu back down. If you pretend nothing happened, they'll pretend too. Focusing on the cream tablecloth in front of me, I waited till the moment passed over before I could figure out what happened.

"Timothée," I hissed under my breath, "Timothée what the hell was that?"

There was no response. Just buzzing.

"Timothée?" I whispered again.

Nothing.

Something must have happened when the clattering noise rang out, so I cast a wary look in the direction of the kitchen doors. I could see chef hats milling about behind the circular window, but none of the faces were familiar in any way. I wondered if Sam and Timothée got into an altercation. Or got caught.

Uh oh.

"Something to drink, Mrs. Lilac?" A waiter said abruptly, nearly sending my soul into orbit by surprise.

His accent was thick, so it took me a moment to comprehend it all through my already tightening nerves, but I nodded my head.

"Water's fine," I said, glancing back at the kitchen doors.

Then I was left alone again, a buzzing noise from a broken earpiece in my ear, and no idea of what to do.

What would Rebecca Lilac do? I tried to say to myself, mulling the question over, and over, like a broken record. I didn't have a sure enough answer. She was a lawyer—quick to a defense, and had the ability to slide her way out of a predicament with quick wit—but she was also someone entirely fictional. Even if I could channel my inner Rebecca, I'd had a whole lotta' Vera to deal with.

If only Timothée would answer me back.

Pierre was continuing in his conversation, spilling words of French out like a fountain, but I couldn't understand a single bit of it. Timothée was supposed to translate it. Timothée was supposed to tell me what to do. Timothée wasn't supposed to go awol so unexpectedly, making me worry that he'd been kidnapped or arrested for God knows what, and God knows what reason.

Sinking back into my chair, I tried to regain my upper hand. Pierre would occasionally steal glances over at me while I kept my composure, probably too blinded by his own ego and tainted morals to notice that I'd almost forgotten about him entirely.

Where the hell is Timothée?

I pretended to be uninterested, playing an apathetic part in my role as a seductress (I hate that word). Pierre didn't seem to mind. It just made him make implicit remarks in French to the man across from him, while occasionally running his gaze down the slit in the side of my dress.

Oh, if only I could deck him through the table.

I wouldn't, of course, for the sake of Timothée's already degrading plan, but that was the least of my worries. This was a complete mess—I was stranded in a restaurant where I could barely afford the price of a table fork, while also out of touch with my French translator, director, captain, guy I'm hopelessly falling for—and this was the only chance we had to find out how to get inside his Uncle's party.

And we screwed it up.

Somehow.

Taking a long sip of water from my glass, I watched as a waiter exited from the kitchen doors, holding out a flat, black tray with two bowls sitting on top. The man looked young, but slipped through the tables like he knew each surface like the back of his hand. He was already setting down the bowls in front of Pierre and his guest before I could finish blinking.

There was a quick exchange of thank yous, followed by the picking up of spoons, and the tasting of wealthy businessmen engorging on their dinner. Except Pierre didn't hesitate. Once he tried the first spoonful, he was digging in like a kid in a candy bar pile.

But then he started choking.

Seriously choking. The clatter of his spoon hitting the floor was like a loud gong in the quiet restaurant, and he was falling out of his chair with his hands wrapped around his neck as he heaved out sharp breaths. His face was purple.

Vera, he's choking.

Everyone was watching, frozen from the shock, but no one was doing anything. They were scrambling for their phones to call a medic, perhaps, but at this rate, the retching man wouldn't make it this far.

Vera, do something.

And before I could think things through, I was on the floor, raising the man up from the arms and wrapping my body around his stomach as I performed the bits of CPR knowledge I'd retained from high school. The Heimlich Maneuver. I always imagined it was just a safety precaution to fit a city requirement, but I never thought I'd be in this position, saving someone's life with it.

And I was so caught up in the strange aura of reconciliation, that I almost missed the final blow of my forearms against his stomach, where a small black object came shooting out of Pierre's mouth and onto the carpeted floor a few yards away.

He slumped into my arms, wheezing.

"Quelle horreur," the large man said through heavy breaths, "Quelqu'un a essayé de me tuer!"

I had no clue what he said, but he seemed red-faced about it. Scrambling back onto my feet, I brushed my strewn hair out from over my eyes, ignoring the crowd of waiters and guests starting to form around the section of tables I was standing by. Pierre climbed to his feet.

"You," he said, turning towards me slowly, "the American."

I froze. "Rebecca Lilac."

"I know who you are," he murmured, his accent thick but understandable, "you saved my life."

I didn't respond, because I didn't know what to say. This was a man who ruined the life of someone I'd grown close with (however one-sided it may be), and I saved his life. A part of me wished I didn't. A part of me was glad I did. It was a merry go round of morals.

"How may I repay you?" Pierre said, a sickly sweet smile appearing on his face.

I blinked. "It's not necessary."

"I insist."

I opened my mouth to shun the offer out of polite habit, but then something came to mind. It was like the spark of a charger reaching it's plug, or the sound of a match striking a match box. I had an idea.

"Well, if you insist," I smiled, "is it possible to get a ticket to your party?"

Pierre looked intrigued. "You've heard about the gala?"

"As a tourist, I'd love to experience what a true Parisian ball is like," I said quickly, "and where else is better than at the famous Gagnon mansion?"

Even though I was laying it on thick, no one seemed to question it. Not even the bystanders who were watching the whole scene play out. For all they knew, I heard about the rich man from one of my American gossip tabloids. Little did they know, I heard about him from the very nephew he stole from.

"Fredrich, put Miss Lilac on the list," Pierre said, snapping at his dinner guest (note to self, the business associate is called Fredrich), "I'd be more than honored to have you present at such a prestigious event."

Bam.

Whatever game we were playing, I won. Somehow, in the strange turn of events, I managed to surpass the original plan and get a better result, and instead of just information, I received a way into the very gala I was going to crash.

But as the crowd dispersed, I couldn't help but make my way over to the side of the room in interest. Bending down to see what Pierre had been choking on beforehand, I squinted my eyes in subtle observation. Aside from its slimy, saliva covered surface, the black lump of plastic was strikingly familiar.

It was an earpiece.