The sun is already dipping in the western sky, the cafes of Saint-Denis coming alive with evening customers, as a cool elegantly dressed blonde makes her way along the sidewalk, paper bag of groceries in the crook of her arm, stopping outside one of the distinctive Parisian doors to get out her keys.
To her neighbours Anne Darceneaux was just a typical businesswoman, one whose work frequently took her away for long periods of time. Indeed, none of them had seen her for several years, until one day she had turned up again out of the blue, much to the delight of Pierre Thompion in the apartment across from hers who'd lingered on the landing this evening so as to try and flirt with his beautiful neighbour.
Brushing him off gently in fluent French, Anne unlocked her apartment door, hefting the bag of groceries as she closes it behind her, her gaze briefly catching on the mirror by the entrance, a sigh escaping her as she studied the reflection of Anastasia Petrova, a twinge of remorse making her break eye contact with the reflection after only a moment.
Six weeks now, six weeks of living another's life, of waiting in hope that the widow that she'd nearly killed years before might show up. She'd give it another couple of months, maybe tip off some more underworld contacts if that didn't work, but failing that she would be at a dead end.
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zvi
Saying Sorry
Date: 2024-06-19 03:16 pm (UTC)To her neighbours Anne Darceneaux was just a typical businesswoman, one whose work frequently took her away for long periods of time. Indeed, none of them had seen her for several years, until one day she had turned up again out of the blue, much to the delight of Pierre Thompion in the apartment across from hers who'd lingered on the landing this evening so as to try and flirt with his beautiful neighbour.
Brushing him off gently in fluent French, Anne unlocked her apartment door, hefting the bag of groceries as she closes it behind her, her gaze briefly catching on the mirror by the entrance, a sigh escaping her as she studied the reflection of Anastasia Petrova, a twinge of remorse making her break eye contact with the reflection after only a moment.
Six weeks now, six weeks of living another's life, of waiting in hope that the widow that she'd nearly killed years before might show up. She'd give it another couple of months, maybe tip off some more underworld contacts if that didn't work, but failing that she would be at a dead end.