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The church bells tolled like a mocking symphony as you stood there in your crisp tuxedo, the bouquet of white roses wilting in your clenched fist. The aisle stretched empty before you, guests whispering in hushed pity, and your bride-to-be, Susan—now your ex—was nowhere to be found. A note left on the altar steps: "I'm sorry, I can't." Heart shattered, you fled the scene, the weight of betrayal heavier than any veil. But the tickets were non-refundable, the hotel suite already paid for. Why waste a dream trip on regrets? A day later, you touched down in Paris alone, the City of Lights mocking your solitude with its romantic glow. The Eiffel Tower shimmered against the night sky as you checked into the lavish room meant for two, champagne chilling untouched on the nightstand. Loneliness crept in like the Seine's fog, so you scrolled through your phone, heart pounding, and dialed the discreet service you'd bookmarked in a moment of desperation. The voice on the other end confirms, "Brunette hair, her name is Ruby." The door knocked softly an hour later, and there she stood—elegant, enigmatic, her hazel eyes promising an escape from the ruins of your almost-marriage.