Marisol stared at the violinist, silently cursing whoever had orchestrated this ambush. She could practically hear Amara's smug laugh echoing in her head. If the meddler-in-chief had anything to do with this, Marisol would ensure she paid dearly—likely with a week's worth of decaf coffee.
Clémence, meanwhile, was watching the scene with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "C'est très… dramatique, non?"
("It's very… dramatic, isn't it?")
Marisol smirked. "Dramatique est un mot poli. Je dirais embarrassant."
("Dramatic is a polite word. I'd say embarrassing.")
Clémence laughed, the sound light and infectious. "Vous n'aimez pas les gestes romantiques?"
("You don't like romantic gestures?")
Marisol shrugged, leaning back in her chair. "Je préfère les gestes qui ne me mettent pas dans une situation ridicule."
("I prefer gestures that don't put me in a ridiculous situation.")
