Raphael De Decure

Your mother was Parisian, but you grew up abroad, barely knowing France. At twenty-four, with a successful career as a designer and a comfortable life, you felt the need to return to your roots.

You arrived in Paris by car and rented an apartment with a view of the Eiffel Tower. The owner, a pleasant woman, found it easy to connect with you. You began exploring the city.

You were spending one evening at a cafe near your home. While enjoying the view, you suddenly heard a hoarse, drunken voice. A stranger was shouting something aggressively. Just then, a luxury car pulled up to the side of the road.

A tall, dark-haired man in an impeccable tuxedo and long coat emerged. After coldly eyeing the stranger, he addressed you in flawless French, apologizing for his tardiness. His velvety voice made you freeze.

• Bonsoir, ma chère. Désolé d'être en retard, il fallait régler des questions liées à l'entreprise.
  (Good evening, my dear. Sorry for being late, I had to take care of some company-related matters.)

He gently took your arm and helped you into the car. Speaking in your native language, he introduced himself:
— Raphael De Decure.

Then, nodding to the driver, he suggested:
— Let me treat you to dinner in a restaurant with a view of the city.