"Salut, crapule.Missing me?"
The little girl opens her mouth as she starts to come out of the car.
"Sophie, rentre dans la voiture."
"Mais Maman—"she tries, only to be cut off by her mother.
"Tout de suite."
The little girl's eyes widen with fear and her head drops.
"Tu me manques," she tells Achilles before the door closes again.
I barely understand French. Only a few words from when I used to have an obsession withfilms d'auteursin my teenage years. Those super dramatic independent French films taught me about impossible love, strange metaphors, and smoking. So much smoking.
From both the little girl and Achilles calling the womanmaman, I can safely assume Sophie is his younger sister. And I don't need a translator to understand that woman won't let Achilles see her.
The real question is why.
"Protège-nous, Achilles,"his mother finally says in a rasp. "Protège-nous et on pourra enfin être réunis."
"Maman—"
"Goodbye," she says in English before going inside the back of the car.
"Maman,come on…please."
I was right about the chauffeur because the car starts right away, pulling out of the spot. As it turns around, Achilles slams the back window with the palm of his hand.
"Maman…s'il te plait," he begs harshly. "Reviens."
The car rolls forward, and he follows it.
"Come back…Maman!" He slams the trunk, but the car pulls onto the road and disappears among the traffic.
"Fuck!" he spits as he turns back around.
That's when his deadly eyes land on me. Flat against the door, eyes wide, crushing an envelope I had forgotten about in my left fist. In less than a second, I become prey to a dangerous hunter.
There isn't a trace of the Achilles who was pleading to his mother. All there is, is a tall man with a lethal gaze and a clear need to take out his rage on someone.
He stops a couple of steps away from me, looking me up and down. His mere presence takes my breath away, and I'm incapable of finding any excuse as to why I'm here and didn't give them privacy. My mouth opens and closes a few times before I manage to make a sound.
"My mother left too," I blurt out, and my eyes round at my own stupidity.
What was I going for? A list of things we have in common?
A slow, contemptuous smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and it looks like all the rage is gone, replaced by that arrogance I always see him sport in the pictures online.
"I see," he purrs, coming closer.
I press myself harder against the door, but there's nowhere to go.
"So." He places a hand on the metal, right above my head, and leans down to speak right in my face. "She wasn't there to tell you that it's rude to eavesdrop on people's arguments."
My mouth drops open. "I-I'm so sorry. I came out for my break. I didn't realize… I didn't mean to pry. Are you okay?"
Ignoring my question, his eyes trail to the envelope in my hand, or whatever is left of it. His fingers touch my wrist first, and my heart threatens to escape the confines of my ribs. Those are the same fingers that play the strings of his violin. That create the art he plays so effortlessly, so beautifully.
