* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in possession of a vast fortune must be an entitled SOB born into money. Either that or a rags-to-riches a-hole who bulldozed his way to said fortune, leaving maimed bodies in his wake.

The ferocious-looking PA returns to her desk. “Monsieur Darcy is still in a meeting.”

“That’s OK.” I smile benignly. “I can wait.”

I place my hands demurely on my knees and stare at the portrait adorning—or should I say disfiguring—the wall across the hallway from where I’m seated.

Pictured is Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, the oldest son of the late Count Thibaud d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice and the inheritor of an estate estimated at around one billion euros. Said estate isn’t your run-of-the-mill stock holdings or start-up fortune. Oh no. It’s made up of possessions that were handed down—uninterrupted and snowballing—all the way from the Middle Ages.

Even Robespierre and his fellow revolutionaries didn’t get their greedy little hands on the d’Arcy fortune.

What are the odds?

Upon his father’s premature demise ten years ago, young Sebastian moved back into the town house in the heart of Le Marais and took the reins of the family’s main business. A twenty-three-year-old greenhorn at the time, you’d expect him to make tons of bad decisions and sink the company or, at least, diminish its value.

But no such luck.

Instead, Sebastian Darcy took Parfums d’Arcy from number three to the number one European flavor and fragrance producer—a feat that neither his illustrious grandfather nor his star-crossed father had managed to accomplish.

According to my research, also about ten years ago, the new count chose to go by “Darcy,” abandoning the apostrophe and the rest of his status-laden name. I’m sure he only did it to fool those beneath him—which includes most everyone in a country that guillotined its royals—into believing that he sees himself as their equal.

The hell he does.

Sebastian Darcy is a stinking-rich aristocrat with instincts of an unscrupulous business shark. This means he qualifies in both the SOB and the a-hole categories.

No, scratch that. He slays both categories.

And I hate him more than words can say.

The straitlaced man on the wall seems to smirk. I shudder, my nerves taut to the point of snapping. Will they kick me out if I spit at the photo? Of course they will. I steal a glance at the PA stationed between me and Darcy’s office. She looks like a cross between a human and a pit bull. I’m sure she’d love to stick something other than paper between the jaws of her sturdy hole punch.

My hand, for example.

But I didn’t come here to fight with Darcy’s PA. I’ll keep my saliva in my mouth, my eyes cast down, my butt perched on the edge of the designer chair, and my knees drawn together and folded to the side.

Like the meek little mouse I’m trying to pass for.

After waiting three weeks, I’m careful not to arouse any suspicion in Pitbull’s mind so she won’t cancel my appointment with Darcy.

Eyes on the prize, Diane! Don’t forget you’re here to declare war by spitting in Count Sebastian Darcy’s face, rather than at his photographic representation.

I look at the photo again, arranged in perfect symmetry between the portraits of his grandfather, Bernard, who founded the company, and his father, Thibaud, who almost put the lid on it. I know this because I’ve done my homework.

During my week-long research, I dug up every piece of information the Internet had to offer about Sebastian Darcy and his family. I was hoping to find dirt, and I did. The only problem was it was already out in the open—common knowledge, yesterday’s news.

And completely useless as leverage.

Pitbull looks up from her smartphone. “Monsieur Darcy is delayed. Do you mind waiting a little longer?”

“No problem.” I smile politely. “I’m free this afternoon.”

She arches an eyebrow as if having a free afternoon is something reprehensible.

How I wish I could stick out my tongue! But instead I widen my already unnaturally wide smile.

She frowns, clearly not buying it.

I turn away and stare at Darcy’s likeness again. In addition to the now-stale scandal, my research has revealed that Darcy is close to his middle brother, Raphael, and also to a longtime friend—Laurent something or other. Our vulture-man even managed to have a serious girlfriend for most of last year. A food-chain heiress, she looked smashing at the various soirées, galas, and fundraisers where she was photographed on his arm. Darcy was rumored to be so into his rich beauty he was about to propose. But then she suddenly dumped him about six months ago.

Clever girl.

He has no right to be happy when Dad’s life is in shambles.

I won’t stop until I crush him, even if it means I go to jail—or to hell—for using black-hat tactics. It’s not as if they’d let me into heaven, anyway. I’ve already broken the arms and legs on Darcy’s voodoo doll.

There’s no turning back after you do that sort of thing.

The next step is to let the world know who he really is and hurt him in a variety of ways, big and small. And then, just before delivering the deathblow, let him know he’s paying for his sins.

That’s why my first move is to show him my face and make sure he remembers it and associates it with unpleasantness. That way, when the shit hits the fan, he’ll know which creditor is collecting her debt.

Pitbull breaks me out of my dream world. “Monsieur Darcy’s meeting is running late.”

“That’s OK, I can—”

“No,” she cuts me off. “There’s no point in waiting anymore. As soon as the meeting is over, he’ll head to the 9th arrondissement, where he’s expected at a private reception.”

I stand up.

She glances at my bare ring finger. “Mademoiselle, I can reschedule you for Friday, December twelfth. It’s two months away, but that’s the only—”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say.

I know exactly which reception Sebastian Darcy is going to tonight.

* * *

“It might snow tonight.” Octave holds my coat while I wrap a scarf around my neck. “Will monsieur be taking his supper at home?”

As always, I wince at “monsieur,” but I do my best not to show it.

Grandpapa Bernard hired Octave before I was born. Roughly Papa’s age and a bear of a man, Octave has worked for my family for thirty-odd years, rising from valet to majordome. He’s seen Raphael, Noah, and me in all kinds of embarrassing situations young boys tend to get themselves into. I’ve asked him a thousand times to call me Sebastian.

All in vain.

Octave Rossi claims his respect for my old family name, my noble title, and my position in society is too strong for him to drop the “monsieur.”

So be it.

“Yes,” I say. “But I’ll come home late, so please tell Lynette to make something light. And don’t stay up for me.”

He nods. “Oui, monsieur.”

Chances are he’ll be up until I get home.

Since I moved back into the town house after Papa’s passing, Octave has been helpful in a way no one, not even Maman—especially not Maman—has ever been. All the little things, from paying electricity bills and hiring help to undertaking necessary repairs and planning reception menus, are taken care of with remarkable efficiency.

When he offered to assist me with my correspondence, I insisted on doubling his salary. My argument was that he’d be saving me the expense of a second PA for private matters.

He caved in only after I threatened to move out and sell the house.

I trust him more than anyone.

“Morning, Sebastian! To the office?” my chauffeur, Greg, asks.

He, at least, doesn’t have a problem calling me by my first name.

“We’ll make a detour,” I say as I climb into the Toyota Prius. “I need to see someone first.”

I give him the address, and he drives me to the Franprix on rue de la Chapelle in the 18th arrondissement. Greg parks the car, and I march into the supermarket, scanning the cashiers’ counters lined parallel to the shop windows.

There she is!

Diane Petit smiles at a customer as she hands her a bag of groceries. She’ll be finishing her shift in about ten minutes, according to the private eye I hired to locate and tail her. I’ll talk to her then.

Right now, I pretend to study the selection of batteries and gift cards on display not far from her desk. What I’m really doing is furtively surveying the firebrand who smashed a cream cake in my face in front of a few dozen people last October. At the time, the only thing I registered about her through my surprise and anger was foxy.

I’ve had ample opportunity to pour over her pretty face and eye-pleasing shape in the numerous close-ups the PI has supplied over the past few weeks. I’ve studied Diane in all kinds of situations and circumstances—at work with her customers, hanging out with her friends, and roaming the streets with her camera, immortalizing everyday scenes of Parisian life. She’s hot, all right, but there’s also something endearing about her, something unsophisticated and very un-Parisian.

In spite of her extravagant outburst at Jeanne’s bash, Diane Petit seems to be an unpretentious small-town bumpkin through and through.

I’ve learned a good deal about her since that memorable evening. I know she works part time at this supermarket, lives in a high-rise in the 14th, and hangs out with her foster sister Chloe, a coworker named Elorie, and a waitress named Manon.

She enjoys photographing random things, going to the movies, eating chocolate, and drinking cappuccino.

More importantly, I know why Diane did what she did that night at La Bohème.

And I plan to use it to my advantage.

Someone gives me a sharp prod in the back.

“Why are you here?” Diane asks as I spin around.

“To give you a chance to apologize.”

She smirks. “You’re wasting your time.”

“No apology, then?”

“You’re here to let me know you’re on to me, right?” She puffs out her chest. “Read my lips—I’m not afraid of you.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“How did you find me, anyway?”

“I hired a professional who tracked you down within days.”

She tilts her head to the side. “And you’ve waited three months before confronting me. Why?”

“I wanted to know what your deal was, so I gave my PI the time to compile a solid profile.” I hesitate before adding, “Besides, your foster sister was shot, and you were busy looking after her. I wanted to wait until Chloe had fully recovered.”

“You’ve met Chloe?” She sounds surprised.

“Of course.” I shrug. “Jeanne introduced us.”

She blows out her cheeks. “What do you want, Darcy?”

“Just to talk.”

“About what?”

“I have a proposition that might interest you.”

She looks me over. “Unless your proposition is to give me a magic wand that would turn you into a piglet, I’m not interested.”

“I obviously can’t do that, but what I can do is—”

“Hey, Elorie, are we still on?” Diane calls to a fellow cashier who passes by.

Elorie smiles. “Only if you and Manon let me choose the movie.”

“Fine with me, but I can’t vouch for Manon.”

While Diane and Elorie discuss the time and place of their outing, I resolve to draw Diane somewhere else before making my offer. Preferably, somewhere that’s on my turf rather than hers.

“Can we go someplace quieter?” I ask Diane after Elorie leaves.

She sighs. “OK, but don’t take it as a good sign.”

“Understood.”

I do take it as a step in the right direction, though.

She follows me outside and into the car.

“To Le Big Ben, please,” I say to Greg.

He nods, and thirty minutes later, Diane and I are seated in a private booth at my favorite Parisian gentlemen’s club, which I also happen to co-own with Raphael as of three weeks ago. We’ve kept the old manager, who’s doing an admirable job. I’ve continued coming here with Laurent or Raph, as a longtime patron who enjoys the subdued elegance of this place and its unparalleled selection of whiskeys. The staff may not even realize the club has changed hands. It’s easier this way—and it removes the need for socializing with them.

“So,” Diane says after the server brings my espresso and her cappuccino. “What’s your proposition?”

“Marry me.”

She blinks and bursts out laughing as if I just said something outrageous. Which I guess it was without prior explanation.

Maybe I should start over.

“Here’s the deal,” I say. “You and I will date through April.” I make air quotes when I say “date.”

She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“You’ll move in with me in May,” I continue. “About a month after that, we’ll get married.”

Diane makes a circular motion with her index at the side of her head and mouths, “Nutcase.”

“A month into our marriage, I’ll cheat on you,” I continue, undeterred, with a quote unquote on cheat. “And then you’ll leave me.”

She gives me a long stare. “Why?”

“It doesn’t concern you. What you need to know is that I’m prepared to pay fifty thousand euros for a maximum of six months in a pretend relationship.”

“Why?” she asks again.

“You don’t need to know that.”

“OK, let me ask you something I do need to know.” She arches an eyebrow. “Why me?”

I shrug.

“If you continue ignoring my legitimate questions,” she says, “I’m out of here before you finish your espresso.”

“You’re perfect for a plan I’d like to set in motion,” I say. “And as an incentive for you to play your role the best you can, I’ll quadruple your fee if my plan succeeds.”

“How will I know if it succeeds if you won’t even tell me what it is?”

“Trust me, you’ll know.” I smirk. “Everyone in my entourage will.”

Diane leans back with her arms crossed over her chest. “Can’t you find another candidate for your shady scheme? It couldn’t have escaped your notice that I humiliated you in public.”

“I assure you it didn’t,” I say. “But what’s really important and valuable here is that it didn’t escape other people’s notice, either. A picture of my cream-cake-covered mug even ended up in a tabloid or two.”

She gives me a smug smile.

“At the time, I told everyone I didn’t know you, but I can easily change my tune and confess we’d been dating.”

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Believe me, it does—a whole lot of sense—if you consider it in light of my scheme.”

“Which I can’t do,” she cuts in, “because you won’t tell me what your scheme is.”

True. “Anyway, I’ll tell everyone we’ve talked it over and made up.”

She says nothing.

“Mademoiselle Petit… Diane.” I lean in. “Your parents—and yourself—are not in the best financial shape right now. I’m offering an easy solution to your woes.”

“Ha!” she interjects with an angry gleam in her almond-shaped eyes. “Says the person who caused our woes!”

She’s right, of course, but not entirely. Before going in for the kill, I did offer to buy out her father’s fragrance company. The offer wasn’t generous by any measure, but it was reasonable given the circumstances. Charles Petit’s artisanal workshop wasn’t doing terribly well. In fact, it was of little interest to me, with the exception of the two or three of his signature fragrances that were worth the price I’d offered. Charles is a lousy businessman—but he’s a true artist. He created the fragrances he sold, and he also created for others. I would’ve offered him a job in one of my labs had I not been one hundred percent sure he’d decline it.

As it happened, he also declined my fifty thousand, calling me a scumbag and a few other choice epithets I won’t repeat in front of a lady. Fifty thousand euros isn’t a fortune, but seeing as he stood no chance against me, he should’ve taken the money.

It was better than nothing.

But Charles Petit proved to be more emotional than rational about his business. And he ended up with nothing. Worse than nothing, actually. I heard he took to drinking, got kicked out by his wife, and had a heart attack. Or was it a stroke?

Anyway, my point is, at least some of those misfortunes could’ve been avoided had he sold his company to me.

I open my mouth to say this to Diane, but then it occurs to me she must already know about my offer. She probably also shares Monsieur Petit’s opinion that it was indecently low.

“Can we skip the whole dating and marrying nonsense,” Diane says, “and go straight to the part where you grovel at my dad’s feet, thrust a check for two hundred thousand into his hand, and beg him to take it in the hopes he might forgive you one day?”

I sigh and shake my head.

She stands. “The answer is no.”

“Why don’t you think it over? I’ll be in touch next week.” I set a twenty on the table. “May I offer you a ride?”

“Thank you, Monsieur Darcy, you’re very kind.” She bares her teeth in a smile that doesn’t even try to pass for a real one. “But I prefer the métro.”

* * *

“Will you remind me again why we’re on a bus just before the rush hour?” Elorie gives me a sour look, hugging her counterfeit Chanel bag to her chest.

I admit, it was a mistake. But I’m not admitting this out loud.

“It takes us straight to the bistro I’ve been telling you about,” I say. “Like a taxi.”

Elorie snorts. “Taxi, my foot! When I take a cab, I sprawl comfortably and give this baby”—she points at her bag—“its own seat. Whereas now—”

She jostles the woman on her left. “Madame, you’re stepping on my foot!”

The woman apologizes and shifts a couple of inches, which is no mean feat, considering how packed the bus is.

Elorie turns back to me. “You said the bistro was in the 9th, yes?”

I nod.

“At this rate, it’ll take us an hour to get there.”

I’m about to suggest we get off and find the nearest métro station when two school kids jump out of their seats and make their way to the exit.

We take their seats immediately.

“Ah,” Elorie says. “This is better. Not a taxi by a long shot, but still.”

We’re on this bus because I’m taking Elorie to celebrate at La Bohème, my favorite bistro in Paris. Perhaps even more than its amazing cappuccinos and out-of-this-world chocolate mousse, I love that bistro because it’s home to two terrific chicks—Manon and Jeanne. Headwaiter Manon is my gym and movies companion, and she’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. Proprietor Jeanne’s personality is so mood enhancing she should charge a supplement every time she tends the bar. Jeanne also happens to have a brother, Hugo, who happens to be my sister Chloe’s fiancé. In other words, she’s almost family.

How cool is that?

Regardless, I’d half expected her to declare me persona non grata for crashing her latest reception and assaulting one of her guests. The guest in question—Sebastian Darcy—is her husband’s friend and political backer, which makes my smashing a cream cake in his face an even bigger affront. But Jeanne just laughed the incident off, saying the bash had been too stuffy and in serious need of an icebreaker.

Which I kindly provided.

The Manon-Jeanne combo makes me feel truly welcome at La Bohème. So much so that I forget I’m far away from home in a metropolis of eleven million people, suburbs included. The vast majority of them are crammed into tiny apartments and deeply convinced they’re the most evolved representatives of the human race. Here in Paris, if you say bonjour to a stranger on the street, they think you’re either a nutcase or a hooker.

“How’s the quest coming along?” I ask Elorie.

The quest is shorthand for Elorie’s newfound mission—locate an eligible billionaire and get him to marry her. Elorie defines “eligible” as currently available, reasonably young, and passably good-looking.

She launched the project three months ago on her twenty-sixth birthday, and she’s been working hard on it ever since. Not very successfully, judging by the sound of it. But what’s three months when looking for a soul mate who meets such high standards and such specific… specifications?

“I’ve made good progress,” Elorie says.

I bug out my eyes. “I want a name!”

“Not so fast, ma cocotte. My progress is theoretical at this point.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t you oh me.” Elorie wags her index finger from side to side. “Would you launch a business without conducting a market study first?”

“I guess not.” I narrow my eyes. “Do you approach all your dreams as a business?”

She shrugs. “Not all—only the ones worth pursuing. Anyway, as the saying goes, if you practice without theory, you shall fall into the ditch.”

“There’s no such saying.”

“You sure?” She puts her chin up. “Well, there should be. Anyway, I stand on much firmer ground today than three months ago all because I’ve done enough research to write a thesis on the topic.”

“Maybe you should write one,” I mutter.

Elorie is the most entertaining person I’ve ever met and I love her, but her pragmatism does rattle me sometimes. Then again, I’m well aware I’m a country-fried prawn who still hasn’t wrapped her head around big-city attitudes.

“Ha-ha, very funny!” Elorie pauses before adding, “Anyway, I’ve now read all the tutorials and how-to articles I could get my hands on, and I’ve analyzed several real-life case studies.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Me, too,” she says with a wink. “I’ve never taken anything so seriously in my whole life.”

“Mesdames, messieurs,” the bus driver says into the speaker. “This bus will not continue beyond Opéra. You can wait for the next one or take an alternate route.”

People gripe and boo and begin to move toward the doors.

I spread my arms in apology.

Elorie rolls her eyes.

We get off and continue our journey using the most reliable means of transportation in Paris—our feet. The air is cold and humid, which is no surprise in February, but at least it isn’t raining.

I look up at the leaden sky and tone down my gratitude—it isn’t raining yet.

“Feel like sharing your theoretical findings?” I ask, tucking my scarf inside my coat in an attempt to shield myself from the cutting wind.

Elorie considers my request. “OK. But only because you’re my friend and you always pay for the drinks.”

“Aww.” I place my hand on my heart. “You put ‘friend’ before ‘drinks,’ you wonderful person.”

“Listen up—because I won’t repeat this,” Elorie says, choosing to ignore my irony. “The single most important action you can take is to hang out where billionaires do.”

“In Swiss banks?”

“For example.” She nods, unfazed. “Don’t tell me you believe Kate would’ve snatched William if her clever mom hadn’t sent her to the University of St Andrews, where the cream of British nobility goes?”

“I must confess I haven’t given the matter much thought.”

“Then thank me for opening your eyes.”

“Thank you,” I say dutifully. “But we have a problem—I’m too old for college, and it isn’t my thing, anyway.”

“That’s OK,” she says. “It was just an example.”

“Phew.” I’m doing my best to keep my expression earnest. “What a load off!”

She glances at me sideways and shakes her head. “What I’m telling you isn’t funny, Diane. It’s precious. I’d be taking notes if I were you.”

“Sorry, sweetie. Go on.”

“I’ll give you a few pointers,” she says. “Go horseback riding, join a golf club, or book yourself into a high-end ski resort. If you’re targeting a specific man, go exactly where he goes.”

“Some people would call it stalking.”

“I call it lending fate a hand.”

“OK,” I say. “What about the rich perverts who frequent BDSM clubs? Should I get a membership for one? And what about the polygamists who make their wives wear burkas? Where do you draw the line?”

“Where he buys me Louboutin pumps, Prada sunglasses, and Chanel purses to wear with my burka.” She arches an eyebrow. “If I can travel the world in his private jet and have my own wing in his palace plus three or four maids at my beck and call, then sure, why not. Bring on the burka.”

I stop and put my hands on my hips.

Elorie stops, too.

“Aren’t you a little too cavalier about this?” My voice betrays my feelings—equal parts incredulity and concern. “Let me be more specific. We’re not talking a burkini here. We’re talking the works with gloves and an eye grid. And other wives.”

Elorie tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Ten maids, my own palace, and my own jet.”

I’m too dumbfounded to speak.

“What?” she says. “Don’t look at me like that. Everyone has a price, and so do you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Of course, you do. You’re just too ashamed to admit it, which is kind of sad.”

Does she really think that?

“Or maybe you’re fooling yourself that your affections can’t be bought,” she says, her expression pensive. “Which is even sadder.”

“Please, believe me when I say I don’t care about money.” I stare her in the eye. “I don’t mind having some—just enough to get by—but I wouldn’t make the slightest sacrifice just so I can marry a rich man.”

Elorie rolls her eyes, clearly not buying it.

“If you want to know the truth,” I say, “I find rich men repulsive. They’re so full of themselves, so convinced of their superiority! They gross me out.”

“What, all of them?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Without exception. They mistake their dumb luck for divine providence and their lack of scruples for business acumen.”

Elorie narrows her eyes. “It sounds like you’re talking about one rich man in particular. And I think it’s Sebastian Darcy.”

The moment she mentions his name, I realize I’ve spent the past few weeks doing exactly what Elorie just advised me to do—researching a rich man. But there’s a difference. I haven’t been investigating him for a chance to marry him. I’ve been probing into his life in the hopes of finding a weapon to destroy him.

I didn’t find any.

And then, three days ago, he showed up at my workplace and handed me one.

Sure, what he’s offered is a stick rather than a hatchet. But it’s up to me to take that stick and sharpen it into a spear. Our ancestors killed mammoths with spears—I should be able to skewer a man.

“He’s superhot, by the way,” Elorie says. “I’d marry him even if he was a mere millionaire.”

“He’s a jerk.”

“Who isn’t?”

I start walking again. “So you meet the billionaire of your dreams, then what?”

“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “Then I make him fall madly in love with me.”

“Of course! How?”

“By being gorgeous, self-confident, and classy.”

I clear my throat audibly.

“What was that supposed to mean?” she asks, turning to me.

“We’re cashiers.” I give her a hard stare. “We may be called cute but gorgeous and classy are beyond our reach.”

I expect her to object that you can be classy on a budget, but instead she puts her arm around my shoulders and gives a gentle squeeze.

“Finally,” she says with an approving smile. “Diane Petit has demonstrated there’s a realist hiding in there, underneath her principles and other bullshit.”

Her words sting a little.

“My dear,” Elorie says as we turn onto rue Cadet. “I’ll reward your bout of honesty by giving you the single most precious piece of advice anyone has ever given you. Or ever will.”

I halt again and fold my hands across my chest. “I’m all ears.”

“I’m sharing this,” Elorie says, “because we’re besties and because I want you to owe me one.”

I shake my head. “You can’t link those two reasons with an and. They’re mutually exclusive. It’s either because we’re besties or because you want me to owe you one.”

She sucks on her teeth for a brief moment. “I want you to owe me one.”

“OK, what’s your precious advice?”

“It’s a shortcut that very few women are aware of.”

“Yeees?”

“You need to develop a real interest and a certain level of competence in what the billionaires you’re targeting are passionate about.”

I pull a face. “Things like football?”

“If that’s what floats his boat.”

“I see.”

“It can be all sorts of things.” Elorie begins to count on her fingers. “Sports cars. War movies. Guns. High tech gadgets. Video games.”

“I think they’re a waste of time,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter what you think. What matters is what you say.” She moves on to her right hand. “Mixed martial arts. Wine. Politics. Porn. Art photography.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

She giggles. “That last one was a mole to check if you were paying attention. Nobody—except you, that is—cares about art photography.”

“I know men who do.”

“Are they filthy rich?”

I shake my head.

“Ha! Thought so.”

We reach La Bohème, and I stop in front of the entrance, pulling Elorie by her sleeve to stop her from walking on.

“OK,” I say. “Let’s finish this conversation before we go in. Let’s say you’ve become a wine connoisseur or a sports car buff. How does that guarantee your billionaire will fall to your feet like an electrocuted wasp?”

“It’s science, dum-dum.” She cocks her head. “Say your man loves Star Wars and football. You give him a well-timed Yoda quote, and his mind goes, ‘Ooh, she’s special.’ Then you give him an analysis of the latest Paris Saint-Germain victory, and his body releases even more happiness hormones. And before he knows it, his brain learns to associate that euphoric state with you. This leads him to conclude you’re Mademoiselle Right, which, in turn, leads him to propose.”

“Neat,” I say.

And what about the billionaire who proposes not because he gives a shit if you’re Mademoiselle Right or Mademoiselle One Night, but because he wants to use you in some shady scheme?

I push open the door to the bistro and decide to keep that last observation to myself.