Marisol adjusted her jacket for the third time, glancing at her reflection in the café's window. Her heart raced—a rarity for her, considering she usually exuded unshakable confidence. But this wasn't a business deal or an argument with Amara; this was Clémence.
She stepped into the cozy Parisian café, its warm lighting casting a golden glow over the rustic wooden tables. There, by the window, sat Clémence, her soft brown curls tumbling over her shoulders and a shy but radiant smile lighting up her face.
"Bonjour, Marisol," Clémence greeted, her voice as warm as the coffee cups scattered around the room.
"Bonjour, Clémence," Marisol replied, her usual sharp wit momentarily dulled by the sight before her.
Clémence gestured to the chair across from her, and Marisol slid into it, trying to appear composed.
"Tu as trouvé l'endroit facilement ?" Clémence asked.
("Did you find the place easily?")
