But no, I had to chase down the first emotionally unavailable man in a trench coat who happened to speak English and hope he would be the answer to my very inconvenient, very life-or-death crisis.
My body ached in all the wrong places. My silk blouse clung where it shouldn't, and the chill in the room settled deep into my spine. Somewhere outside, a dog barked, a rooster screamed, and I remembered with horror that my hair was now officially frizzing.
Great. Just great.
Eventually, I must have dozed off.
Though calling it sleep would be generous. It was more like temporary unconsciousness brought on by mental fatigue and a bruised ego.
Because the next thing I knew Something was breathing. On me. Warm, Fast, Close.
I blinked.
And then felt a sniff right against my cheek.
"AH!" I yelped, sitting up too fast and nearly face-planting into golden fur.
A dog. The dog.
Tail wagging, tongue out, eyes shining like he'd just found his soulmate. He'd jumped straight onto the sofa, massive paws planted against my thigh like he'd known me forever.
"What the hey! No—down!" I tried to push him gently away, laughing despite myself. "You can't just throw yourself on sleeping women, sir."
He barked once, like says who?
I sat up, rubbing my temple, trying to smooth down my hair and pretend I wasn't slowly unraveling in designer sleepwear and zero dignity.
Footsteps approached from down the hall.
No. No, no, no.
I tried to straighten myself on the couch as quickly and gracefully as someone who'd just been tackled by a golden retriever could.
But before I could get the dog off me, the very man I least wanted to see in that moment walked in same black shirt, this time rolled neatly to his elbows, eyes as unreadable as ever.
He stopped. Eyed me, Eyed the dog.
"I see he's made himself comfortable," he said coolly.
"I was ambushed," I replied defensively, gently nudging the dog off my lap. "And technically, I was here first."
The man said nothing, just walked past me and into what I assumed was the kitchen, as if finding me in disarray and half-draped in fur was just a normal Tuesday.
"Good morning to you too," I muttered under my breath, pushing the dog off fully and brushing at my sleeves.
The dog let out a soft huff and sat beside me like a loyal knight, tail thumping once against the floor.
At least someone here liked me.
I leaned toward him and whispered, "If you had thumbs, I'd ask you to do my hair."
He tilted his head, tongue out.
"I'm serious," I said, sighing. "I don't even know where my brush is. Probably halfway to another province in the back of that thief's van."
He barked once, just as the sound of footsteps entered the room again.
This time, it wasn't him. It was her, a woman.
"Oh, you're awake," she said warmly, her tone softer than her son's by miles. "Did you sleep alright?"
I nodded quickly, attempting grace despite my disaster chic. "Yes. Very… firm. Solid. Stable."
She chuckled as her eyes flicked to the dog still loyally planted at my feet. "Looks like someone's taken a liking to you."
"Honestly, I think he's the only one who has."
She smiled and took a few steps closer. "You must be hungry. Come. Breakfast is ready. You'll feel better once you've eaten something warm."
Before I could even decline politely, my stomach betrayed me loud and clear.
She heard it. I heard it. The dog definitely heard it.
I smiled, tight-lipped. "Apparently, I will."
She gestured toward the hallway. "There's a bathroom just there, if you'd like to freshen up before coming in."
"Thank you. Really." I stood, stretching my sore limbs. "I'll be quick."
Her eyes lingered on me for a moment not judgmental, but curious. And something about the way she looked at me made me feel… like she already suspected more than she let on.
I gave her a small nod before slipping toward the bathroom.
The second the door clicked shut behind me, I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath since last night. I turned the faucet on cold water sputtering into a porcelain sink older than my entire skincare routine and leaned over it.
My reflection in the tiny mirror was not forgiving.
Mascara smudged just enough to look tragic, cheeks a little too flushed, and hair that had betrayed every serum and silk pillowcase it had ever known.
My blouse, an ivory silk I loved too much to travel in but did anyway, was slightly wrinkled at the collar, a soft reminder of the sofa's war against my dignity.
I let out a breath, pushed my hair behind my ears, and muttered, "This is fine. You're still you. You're Claire. You've walked Cannes red carpets. You once wore Dior in a thunderstorm and didn't flinch."
I splashed cold water on my face, dabbing it gently with a towel that felt like it had seen fewer laundromats than the Paris Metro. But I didn't care. I needed to feel awake. Grounded. Real.
Because this wasn't some spontaneous escape.
This was a mission.
A debt. Dad needed me.
And no matter how stiff the sofa, how cold the son, or how lost I felt in this unfamiliar world… I wasn't leaving until I'd done everything I could.
I stepped softly down the hallway, the dog trailing behind me like a private escort. The smell of something warm and lightly spiced drifted into the air it wasn't my usual almond croissant and latte, but I wasn't complaining. My stomach, however, made its feelings very clear. Loudly.
The moment I turned the corner into the dining area, I felt it that shift in energy.
There he was. Already seated at the table. That same crisp black shirt, sleeves perfectly folded, collar sharp, like he woke up in slow motion to a classical soundtrack. His posture? Impeccable. His face? A study in indifference.
Of course.