Page 1 of Innocence Tamed
CHAPTER 1
Audrey
I knew instantly, when I checked my email, that the worst day of my life had just begun. The lingering odor of my meager dinner of pasta with garlic and olive oil had already turned my stomach slightly as I awoke in my tiny, shabby apartment in the suburbs of Paris. The email with the subject ‘International Energy Partners Program Sunsetting’ finished the job, sending me into full nausea.
My heart sinking, I read the awful news.
Dear International Energy Partners Intern,
We write with what we’re sure will be distressing news. Due to the bipartisan budget agreement reached last night, all nonessential international programs have been suspended immediately. This includes the International Energy Partners Program.
Your stipend has been terminated as of today, and your visa sponsorship will expire in thirty days.
We regret any inconvenience this may cause.
Office of International Energy Cooperation,
Department of Energy
I read it three times, hoping the words would somehow rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic. They didn’t. I sank onto my lumpy mattress, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me up. The single window in my studio apartment let in a gray morning light that seemed to match my mood perfectly.
Thirty days.
After all my work, all my dreams, I had thirty days before I’d be illegal in France. The walls of my tiny apartment seemed to close in around me. I’d only been in Paris for two months. I’d barely gotten settled, had just started making progress on my research into behavioral interventions for energy efficiency.
“This can’t be happening,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice, in my own ears, thick with emotion.
I forced myself to get dressed, pulling on the one professional outfit I’d brought with me—a gray maxi skirt and blue blouse that had seemed so sophisticated back in Illinois. Now, after seeing the stylish Parisian women every day, it felt hopelessly provincial. But it was all I had.
The commute to my office was brutal—ninety minutes on three different trains, standing most of the way. Metro Line4 was particularly crowded this morning, pressing me against strangers in that uncomfortable Parisian intimacy I still hadn’t gotten used to. A businessman’s briefcase dug into my hip while a woman’s perfume made my already unsettled stomach churn.
When I finally arrived at the International Energy Partners office, a sleek but modest space in the 8th arrondissement, I found my coworkers—all three of them—in similar states of shock.
“Audrey,” said Philippe, our French supervisor, his expression grim beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “I’m afraid I have nothing to add beyond what you’ve already been told. The American side has pulled all funding without warning.”
“But… what about our work?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded. “The behavioral intervention model is showing real promise. The data from the pilot program?—”
“Is excellent,” he finished for me, his accent thickening with frustration. “But without funding, without sponsorship…” He spread his hands in that quintessentially French gesture of elegant helplessness.
“What about my visa?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“We can provide a letter explaining the situation,” said Martine, the office administrator. Her normally warm eyes were sympathetic, but practical. “But without program sponsorship, your options are limited. You’ll need to find another position with visa sponsorship, or…”
“Or go home,” I finished.
“I’m afraid so,” Philippe confirmed.
I swallowed down the sob that threatened to rise as I understood that I would somehow have to pay my way back across the Atlantic, with money I didn’t have.
I walked out of the office in a daze, clutching the letter Martine had hastily printed for me like it was a lifeline rather than what it truly was—a formal documentation of disaster. The bright Parisian day seemed to mock my misery. Tourists strolled past, cameras clicking, while I stood frozen on the sidewalk, my entire future collapsing around me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Another email. Probably the official deportation notice, I thought bitterly. But when I pulled it out, the sender wasn’t a government agency.
Selecta Corporation.
I frowned. Everyone knew Selecta—the massive global conglomerate that seemed to have its sleek red logo on everything from energy infrastructure to pharmaceuticals. They had a European headquarters right here in Paris, their gleaming skyscraper dominating the skyline not far from where I stood.
The subject line made my breath catch: ‘Opportunity for Qualified Young Women: Selecta Arrangements Program.’
