Dusk.

Isabelle Bellafontaine wrapped herself tighter in her blue jeans jacket, shivering lightly and wishing she had chosen something warmer to wear. Icy wind blew her hair backwards, freezing her ears like two icicles, as she walked aimlessly down the narrow road leading out of the Mareille Fashion grounds. It was her first day in this city, Demaitre, and in other circumstances she would have been tempted to do a little sight seeing, if she hadn't been completely exhausted.

Seeing her aunt Jennifer after more than a decade had been anything but a family reunion; a stern, matter-of-fact woman, her aunt had not spared as much as a kiss and an embrace to make her niece feel even slightly welcome; instead she busied herself with her daily assignments, leaving the task of informing Isabelle of her duties and obligations to one of her subordinates, the head designer, Aaron Rush. Rush gave the young woman a tour of the company, pointing out the employees and their jobs, including Isabelle's, which was to help create new designs for that summer's collection. Determined as well as nervous, Isabelle immediately got to work, which in the first stage meant reviewing the work in progress, hundreds upon hundreds of files and sketches piled on her desk. Tedious job, but she couldn't begin without knowing all details first.

"I must go now, dear, I will see you tomorrow, 8 o'clock. Sharp" had been the last words Jennifer Sanders had addressed Isabelle before storming off; looking after her, the young woman could not help but feel utterly unwelcomed. She was, nothing more and nothing less than an employee.

"See you tomorrow, miss Bellfountain" a man's voice called after her; turning her head, Isabelle saw Aaron Rush waving at her from inside his car and answered in a similar manner, not surprised that he had mispronounced her last name. She was quite used to it.

Demaitre felt large and foreign, a labyrinth of streets and walkways that formed an intricate, multicolored pattern of buildings, bright lights and ever moving, ever shifting masses of cars and people. She would have to get used to it, Isabelle said to herself, in an attempt to overcome a sudden feeling of loneliness. Deciding suddenly, she entered a small cafe with tall, gleaming windows and ordered herself a cup of steaming espresso, the warmth enveloping her pleasantly.

Raymond A. Swindell spent a typical day at work, as an investment banker in the large and impressive financial district of Demaitre. As usual, he only spoke to his colleagues when it was necessary for business, and he kept it to the point. The work itself wasn't particularly hard, just tedious. Most of the day was spent researching the business history of a venture capital firm his company was thinking of investing in, and preparing his lengthy assessment of its expected future success. This time he was pretty sure it was success, despite the fact that his boss always gave him the toughest assignments, the ones which hovered on the blurry line between profit and loss.

All that was over by 5pm, at which point he walked the couple of blocks to Cafe Romano, a small, cosy little cafe he visited every day after work. He would drink some coffee, watch the world go by, and think about the ways he would make the people around him suffer.

After a little while a woman came into the cafe, ordered an expresso and sat down at a table near Raymond. She was young and attractive, but more than that, there was something about her that sparked Raymond's interest. Perhaps it was the wavy mane of red hair that cascaded down her back like the smooth waves of a tropical ocean, or perhaps it was the air of nervousness and loneliness she gave off, but something gave Raymond the sudden urge to talk to this woman. He stood up, and went over to her table.

"May I join you?" he asked.
The woman looked up, surprised. She recovered herself, and smiled.
"Of course," she said.
"You're new around here, I take it?"
"Why do you say that?"
"No one has smiled that sincerely to me in quite a while." He smiled. "I'm right, though, aren't I?"
"Yes, you are."
"How rude of me. I'm Raymond Swindell, it's nice to meet you," he said, shaking her hand.
"I'm Isabelle Bellafontaine, and likewise."
"Bellafontaine - what an unusual name." His interest heightened. "Is there any history behind it?"