Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

15 | Spilled Soup And Spilled Secrets

VERA

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"RESERVATION FOR MS. LILAC," a man said, turning to hand a card to a waiter beside him, "table 27."

I didn't want to be here. Not really. I felt so out of place in my silk dress, dressed in finery that I can't afford, and going to restaurants meant for people who could spend a thousand dollars in a day and not make a dent in their bank account.

To be fair, I wasn't supposed to be myself. My alias was Rebecca Lilac, an American lawyer dealing with a big case, who decided to treat herself to an expensive dinner to celebrate. Seducing a member of The Elite was part of the plan too, but they don't need to know that.

"Thank you," I said to the receptionist at the front, already beginning to follow the waiter through the back of the entrance.

Here we go.

As soon as I slipped through the large, gold doors, I was instantly transported into the world of the upper-class. Wine glasses were hanging from shelves in intricate patterns, paintings with polished frames were poised on the wall, a classical band of four tucked in the corner as they played a beautiful rendition of Vivaldi's Variation. If I wasn't so stricken with nerves, I would have let myself slip into the elegance of it all.

But I had another plan on my mind. One that involved the pudgy man sitting at table 26, indulging in a basket of buttered brioche in the center of his cream-clothed table.

Pierre Gagnon.

Brother to Timothée's mother, liar, thief, and murder. He sat at his table, pigging out and chewing with his mouth open, the sight of him making me sick as I made my way towards my table—I knew what he had done. There was a burly business associate in front of him, dressed in the same black suit, although I couldn't see his face from where I stood.

"Are you in?" A familiar voice crackled through my earpiece, "can you hear me?"

I heard Timmy's staticky voice loud and clear, my hair purposely pushed forward to block the communication device from watching eyes. I knew where he was. Sam too. The two of them were dressed as chefs in the kitchen, keeping a low radar as they waited for events to proceed. Avery was in an alley somewhere.

"Yes, and yes," I muttered under barely parted lips, "starting layer one."

Make them catch you looking.

As the waiter led me to table 27, I focused my gaze intently on Pierre Gagnon, purposely knocking the side of his table gently with my hand as I passed. It was played off as an accident—something which made the Uncle look up from his conversation, pupils dilating as he saw my eyes trained on him in interest—but I glanced away as soon as we met gaze.

I was the timid, shy girl, who was dressed in silk.

And that was enough to alert him of my presence. I felt him staring at me, watching me as I slowly lowered myself into my cushioned chair, leaning against the red velvet back as I picked up a gold menu. I didn't need to look at him any more.

"What's he doing?" I heard Timothée say through my earpiece.

I glanced around quickly, making sure I wasn't being observed anymore. Nothing. Pierre's attention was back to the basket of yeast in front of him. The business associate was rambling on in French about something I didn't understand. I kept my focus on the Uncle.

"Eating bread," I said quietly under my breath.

"I hope he chokes on it," Timothée grumbled.