Europe — Monaco, Monte Carlo
Mornings by the Mediterranean always carried a faint chill.
Sensitive to the cold, Lorette pulled the collar of her beige coat closer around her neck, locked her apartment door, and headed downstairs toward her office.110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsgzHfGSz55
The small white three-story building stood quietly along a Monaco street; the first floor was rented out as a boutique to earn a little extra income.
She entered the passcode on the numeric keypad attached to the door handle.110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdokGAhZ4gD
The antique glass door slid open with a soft, deliberate motion.110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfdqFU5IcWY
On the wall beside it hung a transparent plaque engraved in elegant gold cursive with the French words:
“Arsène Lupin.”
A small sign on the door read Closed.
Lorette often thought that if she were the one naming the detective agency, she would never choose something that sounded so blatantly… lazy.
Her master—nicknamed Arsène Lupin—still hadn’t resurfaced.110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3mT8W63uPc
She sighed inwardly. The children working under him had all been taken in and raised by her master, trained as informants. Unlike old London, where street urchins were plentiful sources of gossip, Europe required a more refined network. Though none of the children had been formally adopted, they were well cared for and placed in schools across various European cities. It was unlikely any of them would withhold information from her.
She had taken over the agency simply because she was the oldest.
Grabbing her tablet, Lorette stepped back outside.110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnSBOfpMQcS
By habit, if she had no morning appointments, she would head to Miss Chloe’s café on the corner for breakfast.
“Morning,” she said.
Without missing a beat, Chloe greeted her while already setting down Lorette’s usual—freshly made café au lait and a buttery croissant.
The Black family’s young master—Chloe’s cousin and a former doctor—was always lecturing that Lorette shouldn’t start her day with nutritionally empty carbohydrates.
“Morning,” Lorette replied, opening her tablet to skim the news.
Just then, the Black family’s young master approached from a distance, newspaper in hand. The moment he spotted Lorette—this so-called French woman from the East—once again eating croissants and sipping lattes in his cousin’s café, his brow twitched.
“Hey! You menace!”
The croissant vanished from Lorette’s hand mid-air.
“Chloe,” he said coolly, raising the stolen pastry. “Give this woman some fruit oatmeal.”
He took a bite.
Chloe rolled her eyes, her expression clearly saying I cannot deal with you.
“I don’t like oatmeal!” Lorette sprang up, lunging to reclaim her croissant.
“Croissants have no nutritional value.”
“Give it back!” She jumped again, trying to snatch it, but the Black family’s young master was tall. He lifted his arm effortlessly, and no matter how much she hopped, she couldn’t reach it.
“Farewell, little rabbit!” he laughed, strolling away.110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTLZiOZRtDu
In one hand, he waved the croissant—now missing a large bite.110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtpbDSlb1OB
In the other, he held her paper cup of coffee, which he had also quietly taken.110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOLcQrPrh20
The newspaper was tucked neatly under his arm.
“Damn it!”
“Don’t mind him—here, have this,” Chloe said calmly, already used to the daily morning spectacle.
How dare her cousin criticize her croissants?110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPrNcbu7SaE
She was a graduate of a French culinary academy—not some amateur who learned halfway.
and then Add to home screen.