Chapter Text
Victoria slammed the horn, though she knew it was useless.
“Putain, j’en ai ras le cul,” she muttered, squinting against the low autumn sun. She glanced behind her and slipped the 1958 Mercedes Roadster into reverse. The borrowed Mercedes jolted harder than expected. She slammed the brakes, narrowly avoiding tapping the bumper behind her. She gritted her teeth, cranked the ivory steering wheel, and bumped the front-left wheel onto the steep sidewalk, praying Adrienne’s pristine fender wasn’t now scratched to hell. A groan. A scrape. She winced. Hopefully just the suspension.
The woman she’d nearly hit gave her the finger. Victoria returned it, unfazed, then eased the Mercedes between the traffic-jammed car ahead and a jumble of baskets outside a boutique selling nautical-themed children’s clothes and plush sea creatures. The street was a complete deadlock. A pizza delivery scooter, likely speeding, had caused a chain reaction: three cars were tangled together in a narrow intersection, drivers shouting and gesturing, with nobody moving.
This was exactly why she avoided driving in Paris.
But today was different.
The Mercedes was small by Victoria’s standards, which was her saving grace. She had about a foot of clearance on either side as she crept along the sidewalk. Just thirty more feet, ten mètres, she corrected herself, until she could slip down a side street and escape the chaos. One problem: pedestrians. She honked, nudging Saturday strollers aside, ignoring the rising protests as she inched forward. It was neither legal nor graceful, but she couldn’t be late. Not today.
She finally cleared the backstreets of Montmartre, ignoring a couple of one-way signs and nearly sideswiping a taxi in the process. Once free, the route to Charles de Gaulle was relatively uneventful. Still, she had to floor it to make up lost time. On a good day, the drive from Rue Lepic took under thirty minutes. But Paris’s traffic rarely offered good days.
Paris had always been a part of her life. Her parents met here. Her father, an aspiring artist, had studied at the École des Beaux-Arts. Her mother, all coiffed elegance and barely concealed judgment, had once waited tables in Saint-Germain. The family visited Paris every year: Le Meurice. Hôtel Barrière. Always five-star. Always exhausting. When she was finally old enough, Victoria bought her own garret in Montmartre; small, exclusive, and hers.
She spoke almost perfect French, thanks to her mother. She smoked her first cigarette here. Got drunk here. Kissed someone for the first time here. She lost her virginity here, too. All in that order. The city of Love. And also, perhaps, of nicotine.
Whenever her world crumbled in the States, it was Paris she turned to. And yet, Paris never quite felt like home. Too polished, too ghosted by old memories. After a few weeks, she’d start missing the sun-bleached chaos of Los Angeles. Sometimes, even the stark edge of the Seattle shoreline. She never meant to live in Paris full-time.
Her parents had been stunned when she chose Blackwell Academy over the arts schools of Europe. To them, it was a glorified high school in a nowhere town. But it had prestige among photographers, and more importantly, Mark Jefferson had been teaching there.
God, what a mistake.
She’d idolized his Noir Nouveau aesthetic for years. Then he turned out to be a manipulative predator with a jail sentence to prove it. She’d felt like an idiot. But she wasn’t the only one he fooled.
And honestly? If she hadn’t gone to Blackwell, she might never have met Rachel.
That alone made it worth it.
She’d been in Paris for ten days now, with a detour to Berlin and Cologne for work. Every one of those days away, she missed Rachel. They’d been together just three months, but it had felt immediate. Like something they’d fallen into without thinking.. Before this trip, they hadn’t spent a single night apart. Even if Rachel worked late or partied with friends, she always showed up, climbing Victoria’s garden gate at 3 a.m. until Victoria handed her a key.
She used to wake up to find Rachel tangled in the sheets, snoring softly, one leg kicked out from under the covers as if she owned the place. Victoria had loved that. Loved the sleepy kisses, the way Rachel made coffee too strong, the way she helped herd the boys off to school without ever being asked. Abe and Jon adored her, and Rachel adored them right back.
Her house had, finally, felt like a home. Victoria had never been happier.
And of course, Victoria couldn’t allow herself to just be happy. Not really. Not without guilt tugging at the edges. She worried she’d prioritized the wrong things: work, appearances, and control. That she wasn’t enough. That love, given to her this freely, couldn’t possibly last. That this two-week work trip had been a mistake.
And now? Now, she was late for the airport.
This was the longest they’d been apart, and it hurt more than she thought possible. The time zone didn’t help. They barely managed short messages between shoots and rehearsals. She longed to hear Rachel’s voice, to hold her, to merely exist beside her again.
Yes, she missed her children, too. Abe and Jon were with Marty, their father. An asshole, but a good dad. She FaceTimed them daily. But missing Rachel was different. Like a physical ache.
And with every minute, that ache only deepened.
—
Victoria finally arrived at the airport, but her problems weren’t over. She glanced at her watch. If the flight had landed on time, Rachel would already be at baggage claim. Victoria checked her app: on time. Typical. The one flight that arrived exactly when it was supposed to.
No time to park. She maneuvered the Mercedes onto the sidewalk outside the terminal and left it there, bouquet in hand, praying no one would tow it. A green parking ticket was a small price to pay.
She rushed inside, pushing through the crowd, looking for the right terminal signs in the familiar chaos of Charles de Gaulle. Even after dozens of visits, the airport was always a labyrinth.
Parents, partners, chauffeurs—people waited, flowers in hand, signs raised. Victoria stood on tiptoe to scan the arriving passengers. Her heart pounded. Chatter surrounded her in a blend of French, English, and static from the intercom. She heard someone mention the Los Angeles flight. This was it.
Travelers poured in. Happy, neutral, exhausted. None of them Rachel.
Her hand tightened on the bouquet. She checked her phone again and opened the app they used to track each other. A small blip appeared on the screen: “RaeBae.” Relief surged through her.
Then—a glimpse. A flash of familiar strawberry-blonde hair.
Her heart fluttered. She pushed forward, murmuring apologies in French and English. There she was—Rachel—in her mustard coat, wearing the silk scarf Victoria had given her. Dragging her oxblood suitcase behind her, walking casually like she hadn’t just been gone for ten days.
Victoria felt dizzy.
Then she moved. No dignity. No pose. Just a gasp and a sprint.
“Rachel!”
They collided in a soft crash of arms and laughter and kisses. Rachel giggled as Victoria smothered her with affection, then gave in and kissed her back. The people around them blurred.
“Hi,” Victoria said breathlessly, cupping Rachel’s face. “I missed you.”
“You don’t say,” Rachel teased, squeezing her arms.
“These are for you.” Victoria handed her the bouquet, now slightly crumpled. Rachel peeked under the wrapping.
“Oh my god, Vee. They’re gorgeous.”
Victoria blushed, heart swelling.
They turned toward the exit. “So,” Victoria asked, taking Rachel’s suitcase and slinging an arm around her, “How was the flight? Sleep okay?”
“Not really.” Rachel yawned. “It was nice, though. I had La Première. Like a hotel room in the sky.”
“Did you enjoy the food? The champagne?”
“Yes and yes,” Rachel said with a grin. “They even gave me a private exit. Didn’t have to see another passenger if I didn’t want to.”
Victoria smiled. “That’s life in the fast lane.”
Rachel nodded, but her expression turned distant.
They stepped into the golden September sunlight, past the taxis and waiting cars, toward the Mercedes and its gleaming green parking ticket.
Rachel broke into a grin the moment she spotted the car. “Oh my god. Vee… is that a fifties 300SL Roadster?”
“Sure is,” Victoria said, unlocking it with a flourish. “A friend lent it to me.”
Rachel walked around the car, admiring every curve. “It’s a dream. You know I’ve always wanted one, right?”
“I had a hunch.” Victoria held out the keys, teasing. “Wanna drive?”
Rachel hesitated. “This thing’s worth, like, a million dollars.”
“It’s insured.”
“Still. I’d crash it first turn out of the airport.” She took a deep breath. “Also, I might still be a little tipsy. There was a lot of champagne.”
Victoria raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, she walked around and opened the passenger door.
Rachel climbed in, visibly tired. Victoria popped the trunk, nestled Rachel’s suitcase beside a carefully hidden picnic basket, then slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
They drove away in silence, the wind tugging at their hair. Victoria glanced at Rachel.
“I was thinking we could stop at Parc de Bagatelle. There’s a rose garden, and I packed a little something to eat.”
Rachel didn’t turn. “I think I just want to go home. I need sleep.”
Victoria hesitated. “Sleep? You had a full suite on the plane.”
“I didn’t sleep.” Rachel glanced at her, irritated. “Please, Vee. I really need a nap before dinner.”
Victoria sighed. “Alright. I’ll take us home.”
—
They pulled into the small courtyard behind Victoria’s apartment, tires crunching softly over the cobblestones. The old tree in the center was still full of green chestnut leaves, their burrs littering the ground like spiky breadcrumbs. Ivy climbed the weathered walls, curling around iron balconies dressed in little urban jungles of potted lavender, basil, and late-blooming roses.
Victoria killed the engine and stepped out, lifting Rachel’s suitcase from the trunk with a practiced heft. “Careful on the stones,” she warned. “They’ve destroyed more than one wheel.”
Rachel stood still, scanning the courtyard like she was trying to pin down a memory. “It’s beautiful,” she said finally, voice distant.
Victoria was raising the soft-top roof of the Mercedes when Rachel’s voice cut across the quiet.
“What’s that?” she asked, eyes narrowing. She pointed at the folded picnic blanket now sticking halfway out of the trunk.
Victoria blinked. “What?”
“That.” Rachel’s voice was clipped. “Is that a picnic basket?”
Victoria paused, hand on the last fastener of the roof. “I was going to surprise you.”
“A surprise.” Rachel crossed her arms. “Let me guess. You packed that for your rose garden detour?”
“It’s called Parc de Bagatelle,” Victoria murmured.
“Don’t.” Rachel’s jaw was tight. “So the plan was flowers, a picnic, a romantic stroll, all without asking me?”
“I just thought it would be nice,” Victoria said, trying to keep her tone even.
“Well, it’s a great way to make me feel like crap,” Rachel snapped. “Like I ruined your perfect little setup by wanting to sleep.”
Victoria’s lips parted in protest, but Rachel held up a hand. “Spare me the guilt trip look, okay? You’re not the victim here.”
“I never said I was.”
Rachel scoffed, turned on her heel, and yanked her suitcase across the courtyard. It bounced over the stones awkwardly until one of the cheap plastic wheels cracked off and scattered into fragments. Rachel didn’t stop. The suitcase lurched behind her, lopsided and loud.
“Rachel, wait,” Victoria called, voice cracking. She hated how desperate she sounded.
Rachel didn’t turn.
Victoria took a step forward, jaw clenched.
“Seriously?” she said, her voice low and tight. “You’re just walking away?”
Rachel didn’t turn. The suitcase thudded behind her, wobbling with its broken wheel.
Victoria stalked to the back of the car and slammed the trunk shut—hard enough to make the Mercedes wobble on its suspension, the sound cracking through the courtyard like a gunshot.
“God, you’re so good at that,” she said, teeth clenched. Not loud. But Rachel heard. She stopped at the foot of the stairway. Slowly, she turned. Her face was pale. Green eyes piercing, hard to read.
They stared at each other across the courtyard. No yelling. Just heat and silence stretching between them.
Victoria’s shoulders dropped. Her voice softened.
“Let’s just… go inside, okay? You can rest. We’ll talk later.”
Rachel nodded, almost imperceptibly, and approached without a word. When she passed Victoria in the doorway, she murmured, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just… I really need to lie down.”
It was barely audible, but to Victoria, those few words felt like lifelines tossed in a storm.
—
Rachel was out cold, curled under the thick linen sheets in Victoria’s queen-size bed, her breathing soft and steady.
Victoria lingered in the doorway, just watching her. The sight made something in her chest ache — a kind of yearning that wasn’t about sex or even closeness. It was less urgent. Something like stability. The way Rachel filled the empty spaces in her life without trying.
She shut the door quietly and padded into the kitchen, placing what was left of the crushed bouquet into a tall glass vase. Wilted or not, they still smelled wonderful. The soft perfume of roses and freesia filled the small, familiar space.
Victoria loved this place. The view from the dormer window was everything: rooftops tilted at impossible angles, the glint of early evening sun catching on chimneys and glass. Below, the street hummed with life, tourists chatting, scooters whining, locals smoking on terraces. A tiny piece of Paris that always felt entirely her own.
She settled into the window seat with a sigh, legs tucked beneath her. For a while, she watched people drift by—anonymous, content, far from her tangled little storm.
But in the end, the silence made her restless.
Eventually, she rose, opened the fridge, and pulled out the bottle of rosé meant for the picnic. She poured herself a generous glass, then changed her mind and brought the bottle with her, placing it on the windowsill like a quiet companion.
Then came the tarte aux fraises. The strawberry tart she’d made late last night had survived the drive surprisingly well, though the delicate spirals of sliced fruit were slightly off-center now. She served herself a generous slice on an antique Limoges salad plate. Napoleon and Joséphine staring up at her from the porcelain.
She didn’t care. It was her house. Her mess. Her rules.
The tart was a little too sweet, the crust a bit too dry, but it was hers. She polished it off with the last of the wine and poured another glass.
She wasn’t drunk. Not yet. Just pleasantly dulled. Her mind drifted to Rachel’s expression in the car, to her stony silence, to that flash of anger in the courtyard. It stung.
Rachel had never asked for flowers or a picnic. Victoria knew that. But she wanted to give her something beautiful. Something that said: you matter to me. Was that so wrong?
She stared down into the glass, watching the light scatter through the pink liquid.
Then she whispered into the stillness:
“Why does loving someone always feel like walking on glass barefoot?”
Outside, the Parisian evening deepened, warm and golden and utterly indifferent.
—
Rachel stirred a little after eight.
Victoria heard her moving around the apartment — soft footsteps, the squeal of a suitcase zipper, the creak of the old floorboards. When she emerged, she looked rested, but not exactly refreshed. Her hair was tousled, her eyes still tired. She wore a plain t-shirt and leggings, and she was barefoot on the parquet floor.
Victoria stayed seated at the kitchen table, trying to look casual. “Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey,” Rachel replied, already dragging clothes out of her suitcase in a flurry of folds and textures. She didn’t seem upset anymore. Just… preoccupied.
Victoria watched as the contents of the suitcase sprawled across the room in bursts of black, red, and gold. Then Rachel held something up.
It was a short, curve-hugging black dress with flounces around the hem — simple, striking, and not at all what Victoria had in mind.
“You’re wearing that?” Victoria said, trying not to sound critical.
Rachel glanced at her, defensive. “Yes. My catcher in the rye.”
“But it’s a cocktail dress,” Victoria said, keeping her tone neutral — or trying to.
“So?”
“We’re having dinner at Le Meurice. Alain Ducasse. It’s not exactly cocktails-and-flounce.”
“I’ve had dinner in this before,” Rachel said, smoothing the fabric down against her frame. “I like how it looks.”
“You look amazing in it. Obviously. But it’s not exactly haute couture.”
“Oh, and the other one was?” Rachel said, raising an eyebrow.
Victoria hesitated.
Rachel answered for her. “The one you had made for me. Custom tailored. Silk and lace and ten thousand dollars’ worth of guilt. Yeah, I returned it.”
Victoria’s lips parted. “You what?”
Rachel shrugged. “I didn’t feel comfortable in it. It wasn’t me.”
“You could have worn it just for tonight.”
“That’s the problem, Vee. I shouldn’t have to perform to fit into your life.”
“It’s not a performance,” Victoria said, standing now. “It’s dinner with my parents.”
“Exactly.”
The silence between them thickened.
Victoria leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter and crossed her arms. “Did you at least keep the shoes?”
Rachel smiled sheepishly. “The suede ones? Of course I did. I’m not an idiot.”
Victoria exhaled, a short laugh slipping out despite everything. “Small victories.”
Rachel sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed out her dress across her lap. Then, after a beat: “Are you nervous?”
Victoria blinked. “About dinner?”
“Yeah.”
Victoria hesitated too long. Rachel looked up at her.
“It’s not just dinner, is it?”
“No,” Victoria admitted. “It’s… dinner with my parents.”
Rachel’s gaze was steady. “Are they going to hate me?”
Victoria didn’t answer directly. Instead, she deflected. Badly.
“I just want things to go smoothly. That’s all.”
Rachel stood again, walked to her side, and took her hand. “I can be charming when I need to be.”
“I know,” Victoria said, managing a half-smile. Then she hesitated, her thumb brushing along Rachel’s knuckles. “They might ask about your plans.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “My five-year plan?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll tell them the truth,” Rachel said simply. “That I act. That I don’t have a degree or a trust fund or a family crest. But I’m doing what I love. Will that do?”
“Sure, I just… I want them to see what I see.”
Rachel tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“That you’re… the person I want to build a life with.” Victoria’s voice faltered slightly. “That I’m serious about you. About us.”
Rachel blinked, then squeezed her hand. “You think they’ll care that much?”
“Oh, they’ll care. But I don’t. Not really.” Victoria looked away. “I mean, I used to. I used to think their approval meant everything. Now I just… I want to get through it without them making you feel like shit.”
Rachel gave her a small smile. “Thanks. That’s… sweet, actually.”
They stood there a second too long in the silence.
Then Rachel broke it, turning back to her suitcase. “Well, if it helps, I’ll be on my best behavior. Mostly.”
“Just don’t let them corner you about your resume,” Victoria said dryly.
Rachel scoffed. “Oh, I’ve got plenty to say about that. No degree, no steady job, questionable tax history. But hey — lots of experience being fabulous under pressure.”
Victoria managed a real laugh at that, but it didn’t last.
The conversation moved on. Rachel didn’t seem to notice what Victoria had almost said, or maybe she did, and was just pretending not to.
Either way, Victoria didn’t push it. Not now.