Unfit for Love

Chapter 6

Angelina's POV

"Bonjour, chérie! (Good Afternoon sweetheart)" Melissa flashes me her signature toothy grin the moment I step through the cafe door.

"Bonjour!" I return the smile, already knowing what's coming. She wants to know about the party—typical French.

"So,..." She stretches out the word, drawing out the suspense before finally asking, "How was your evening yesterday?"

Terrible, exhausting, and downright annoying. "It was great, I had fun. Thanks for yesterday," I muster all my energy to deliver a convincing smile. This morning, I've exhausted myself fixing that damn car, cursing Boris in every language I know. It took me five hours to get the thing repaired. Arie left early, and I had to wake up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast for her.

Melissa's smile stretches even wider. "Did you meet anyone? Any charming Frenchman sweep you off your feet?" Her boundless energy after a whole morning's work amazes me.

"Alas," I say, placing a hand dramatically over my heart, "my heart remains unmoved." She chuckles, unfazed by my jest, and gives me a wink before returning to the counter. Is she losing her mind, or did I miss something?

Confused, I head into the kitchen. My jaw drops at the sight of a massive bouquet of roses, their fragrance filling the air.

"Mellisa?" I call out, though I already have a vague idea of who might have sent them. Mellisa enters, wearing a smile. "Looks like someone's interested in you," Sometimes I wish our relationship was purely that of employer and employee.

"Who sent these?" I ask Melissa, gesturing at the opulent bouquet. Her only response is a sly smile and a shrug. "Your admirer came in this morning and left them." I sigh, knowing there's no point in interrogating her. Drama is her middle name.

Inspecting the bouquet, I searched for hidden cameras or transmitters, but fortunately, there were none. I place it beside the counter display I haven't replied to my last night's message, I know someone might be impatient to hear from me.

I went back in and reached for my secret phone to check if Tech had sent any information. Opening an email with an attachment, I'm amazed once again by my sweetheart. She wasted no time in gathering all the details about the person I asked about. Age: 24, Nationality: American, Educational Background: Designer currently studying in a Parisian design institute. Many friends, a few ex-boyfriends, currently dating an Italian man. No criminal record, but her mother died when she was just ten.

Beneath the information, Tech's text reads, "No suspicious records found. Did this person send your pictures to Boris?" After reading this, I'm certain she's the one. No one has such a clean record. I quickly text Tech back, "Give me her financial records and find her travel history, even the smallest trips. I want to know everywhere she's been, where she stayed, where she ate. Start with Russia." Finishing my text, I carefully tuck the phone back into my bag.

I reached for my current phone, intending to reply to last night's text, when that person herself called me out, "Dione."

I spun around and came face to face with my stalked, dealer, who's dying to know why I didn't end up in one of Boris Smirnov's rooms last night. Her expression changes into a fake concerned one as our eyes meet. I smirk inwardly; she can't outsmart someone like me.

A sly smirk played on my lips. "Hey, Stella," I greeted, her name tasting like venom on my tongue now.

She sprints toward me, breathless. "I am so sorry for leaving you alone last night," she blurts out, her words tinged with urgency. I feel the surge of anger rising within me. But then I realized she's not worth the effort. She's like a potato—soft, bland, and utterly insignificant. I'd rather focus my energy on bigger prey, like the elusive big fish.