Just A Girl

Chapter 2: Rooftops and Regrets

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Paris, at night, doesn’t sparkle. It smolders. It breathes. And from seven stories up, it pulses beneath your feet like a heartbeat you’re trying to outrun.

But first—it all started with a wardrobe change.

Rebekah’s apartment was basically Eva’s second home, half of her wardrobe already lived there rent-free. As Eva slipped out of her hoodie and into a slinky black bodycon dress that fit like sin, she glanced at the explosion of high heels, perfume bottles, and old takeout boxes scattered across Bekah’s floor.

"This place is one lost shoe away from an archaeological dig," Eva muttered.

“Chaos is just couture that hasn’t been staged yet”. Bekah called from the bathroom, adjusting her lashes with surgical precision.

Eva snorted. “You sound like you got that from a poorly-lit i********: quote.”

Ten minutes later, both of them emerged like fire and dynamite—dresses hugging curves, heels tall enough to offend physics, and confidence sharp enough to slice the Paris skyline.

...

The rooftop venue was effortlessly chic—strings of golden fairy lights, velvet lounges, and the kind of low jazz that made you feel important just for showing up. Rebekah, of course, fit in like she owned the place. She tossed her leather jacket over a chaise, strutted past two men who turned their heads in sync, and grabbed a flute of champagne with the elegance of someone who had done this in heels since birth.

"You’re thinking too much again," she said to Eva without looking.

"And your face is doing that scrunched thing. Loosen up, future Dr. Buzzkill."

Eva scoffed. "It’s called being observant. You should try it sometime."

"I observe everything," she smirked. "Especially how you’re already calculating the sugar content in those macarons."

"They’re aggressively frosted," Eva muttered.

Bekah turned, narrowing her eyes. "So. Mystery suitor? Spill."

Eva groaned. "Lia’s pick. I didn’t even meet him. We forgot to pick her up."

"You forgot—or fate intervened?"

Lia doesn’t suggest people unless they’re annoyingly perfect. "He’s probably rich. And brooding. And good with knives."

"That’s oddly specific."

Bekah countered. “Anyway, sounds promising—”

But her eyes had already drifted toward the bar, where a sharply dressed man was doing shots and shamelessly staring at her like she was the menu.

Rebekah tipped her chin, never breaking eye contact. “I’ll be back in five.”

Eva looked alarmed. “Bekah—”

“Ten, max. If I die, bury me in that sparkly jumpsuit we both fought over last spring.”

And like that, Rebekah disappeared into the crowd… and didn’t come back.

My phone buzzed. A message from Rey.

Rey: Ace is acting weird. Like... extra polite. Send help or a crowbar.

Then another.

Rey: Also, tell Rebekah not to bring back any men who say 'crypto' unironically.

I smiled.

...

Ten drinks later, Eva was still waiting.

Her internal monologue was now operating at 70% sarcasm, 30% chaos, and 100% volume without any filter.

What everybody else thinks of them matters more than keeping their morals. It’s pitiful but true. She sighed loudly, glaring down at her wristwatch. Except… it was blurry.

“What the hell is wrong with my watch?” she muttered.

She huffed, glancing toward the door. “Bekah said five minutes. That b***h is clearly working through the dessert menu.”

Tapping her fingers against the table, she gave herself a silent countdown. If she’s not here in ten seconds, I’m leaving.

Screw five. One... Two—Nope, done.

She flung her bag over her shoulder and stormed out.

The cold air slapped her across the face like a dramatic ex-boyfriend. She fumbled with her leather jacket, muttering about how Parisian nights had too much personality.

“Thirty-minute walk home,” she muttered. “Or… maybe sixty? Who cares. Let’s go, legs.”

Her heels betrayed her five steps in. With a dramatic sigh, she yanked them off, shoved them in her bag like newborns, and whispered, “Behave, demons. Mama’s got a journey.”

People passing by stared.

The sidewalks stretched endlessly. Storefronts shuttered down like sleeping giants. The glow of Paris dimmed to puddles of light under flickering lamps.

A group of teenagers passed her, laughing, giving her sideways glances. One of them muttered something in French. Eva, in full delusion mode, blew a kiss and shouted, “Your mom loved my outfit first!”

“Good parenting should be applauded,” Eva announced loudly.

Then came her. The woman in her forties, with judgment carved into her face like she was auditioning for a role in the Puritan Gossip Hour.

"Girls these days are so irresponsible and shameless. OMG! She's drunk".

Eva turned, grinning. “Yeah, I’m drunk. What’s your excuse? burnt toast energy and unresolved bridesmaid trauma?”

Was she drunk? Technically.

Was she adorable? Probably not.

Was she hilarious? Undeniably.

...

The streets got quieter. Darker. Sketchier.

A chill ran down her spine like ice water poured over a sunburn. The street had gone quiet. Her steps echoed.

And then came the feeling. The skin-prickling paranoia that someone was behind her.

She turned her head slowly—too slowly.

There he was. A man in a hood, walking ten paces behind her. Big. Broad. Heavy steps that didn’t match casual night strolling.

Eva stopped.

So did he.

A breath hitched in her throat. She wasn’t hallucinating. Not this time.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s not die tonight.”

OH MY GOD. RUN. Her survival instincts screamed.

Then she did the dumbest thing imaginable. She spun around.

“HEY!” she shouted into the night. “You got a staring problem or are you just collecting horror movie tropes?”

No answer.

She looked down at her heels tucked in her bag. “Did Mama sound intimidating, babies?”

“You sounded like a ferret on cocaine,” her inner voice replied.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he pulled out something shiny.

Eva squinted. Was that a—

Oh yeah. That was a gun.

You know, Eva, maybe today isn’t the day to sass a stranger with a weapon.

Still.

“Dude. I know you’re following me.”

The man pointed at himself. “Me?”

“No, the streetlamp, genius.”

Before she could turn to run, a second figure stepped from behind him.

This one was older. Sleeveless. Built like he did prison workouts and daydreamed about punching drywall. His gaze locked onto hers with unsettling stillness.

“What’s the hold-up, Ron?” the tank-top guy asked.

Ron. Jesus. Her drunk brain couldn’t resist.

“Ron?” she said aloud. “What is this, Harry Potter and the Two Creeps of Sketch Alley?”

Ron didn’t laugh.

He pointed at her. “It’s her.”

Tank-top guy frowned. “You sure?”

Eva raised a brow. “Am I wearing a name tag I’m unaware of? Did I miss a creepy-kidnapper RSVP?”

“Are you Jasmine?” Ron asked.

“I’m Aladdin, sweetheart. I steal bread and trauma responses.”

They blinked at her. That's when the second guy growled. “Don’t play games.”

“No,” she clarified. “I’m Eva. Eva Reed. And if you two are planning on kidnapping me, I should warn you I’m broke and mildly annoying.”

“We know who you are,” Ron said. “Stop pretending.”

Eva’s humor drained like champagne from a broken glass.

The second guy stepped forward, silent. The gun rose again.

Her buzz collapsed like a house of cards.

“Okay,” she said carefully, hands lifting. “Let’s all calm down. Maybe reschedule this whole stalk-and-shoot thing for... never?”

“No.”

Tank-top guy leveled his own gaze at her. “You’re coming with us.”

Eva’s heart thundered.

“Oh, come on,” she hissed. “I’ve already had ten drinks, a judgmental Karen, and now two rejects from a low-budget spy movie. Can a girl not walk home drunk in peace anymore?”

But even she knew—this wasn’t a joke anymore.

The night had officially gone feral.

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Much Love ❤

Riya