Foxglove

One

Three thousand four hundred and fourteen.

Three thousand four hundred and fourteen miles had brought me all the way to Paris to make either the best or worst decision of my life.

I stood there, on one side of the sidewalk taking in the scenery in front of me. Mouth slightly agape, like an idiot,  I witnessed the commuters go on through with their every day lives, people going in and out of buildings, cars rushing past me, a few birds flying and the nicest building I had ever seen in my life ahead of where I stood.

Forty-eight hours prior I had received an email from a man with a very strange request. Typically I would never reply to emails like these, but my curiosity got the very best of me.

He said that he needed someone that could pretend to be his niece and that apparently, he had found out about me through a friend of his that was a friend of a friend of a friend of the woman that had hired me for her husband's funeral humiliation.

He was offering me a paid, first-class ticket to Paris so that we could meet up and discuss the nitty-gritty details of the plan. Now, I suggest you do not follow my lead and jump on a plane to meet a stranger, but in my case, this Parisian stranger had something that piqued my interest.

Millions. Stone cold cash, baby.

The amount of money that could not only change my entire life but could make sure that I could pay off my mom's medical bills and perhaps, her mortgage. She would not have to go back to the crammed-up studio we shared, and I could do my best to give her the life she deserved. Even if she was still mad, I could offer her a better life and that was all that mattered.

"Miss?" The driver that had picked me up from the airport spoke up. "You must go inside and tell the concierge that you have a meeting with Monsieur Lavigne. He should let you up to his suite."

I turned to him. "...What if he kills me?"

The driver raised an eyebrow. "Trust me Miss, you are vital to this plan, he'd never lay a hand on you. " He tried to calm me down, but his words only made my heart rate pick up as if I was Usain Bolt straight off of a race. "So, you're saying that he'd kill me if he didn't need me for this?" I squeaked out. If you couldn't tell, I was panicking hard at that point. I was in a country I had never been in before, in a completely different continent, preparing to meet a man and now the driver man had just made me more nervous.

He shook his head. "Je vous jure, cette gamine est epuisant." He muttured under his breath. I adjusted my coat and decided to finally go inside of the hotel in front of me. 

Oh my gosh, was I in an episode of Gossip Girl?

The white marble floors underneath me were so clean that I could kind of see my own reflection, the gold and crystal chandelier that hung above definitely costed more than an arm and a lung, pillars wrapped in white roses and the air had the scent of Chanel no.5.

Right across the lobby from me was the front desk, and a man in a crisp white suit was speaking on the phone. As I approached, I read his tag: "concierge."

Bingo bango.

By the time I got to the desk, he was hanging up his call. Raising his head, he quirked an eyebrow up.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle. Bienvenue au Paradise Hotel, comment puis-je vous aider?"  He asked. It was time put those four years of high school french and afternoons breaking down over duolingo to good use.

"Bonjour. J'ai un rendez-vous avec M. Lavigne." I informed. This concierge, who also had an absolutely killer mustache, seemed to be alarmed thanks to what I said.