"Pierre, would you mind fucking off?" Delancie said in sharp French that even Frida could understand. She shot him a glare, and Pierre smirked, unfazed.
He pulled a sleek card from his pocket, offering it to Frida. "I would appreciate some of your time, Miss Frida, if you don't mind. You are... breathtakingly beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that you leave me utterly speechless."
Frida shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clutching her phone like she might speed-dial Laz at any moment.
"Do I need to repeat myself, Pierre?" Delancie snapped.
Pierre grinned, his salt-and-pepper hair and warm grey eyes lending him an air of charm. Despite his age, he was undeniably handsome, but there was something unnervingly familiar about him—something that made Frida's stomach churn.
He finally turned his attention back to Delancie, his smirk growing. "I'm leaving, little niece. You're just as feisty as your mother," he said smoothly.
