“France is protesting against Emmanuel Macron’s plans to raise the retirement age. After months of strikes and protests, tension reached its peak on Thursday, with some violent outbursts in Paris that brought back memories from the months-long Yellow Jacket movement.” —Politico

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Emily’s big product launch at Gabriel’s Chez Laveau bistro is nearly ruined when tear gas completely spoils the vibe—and the leg of lamb. Luckily, she has a plan: diners post selfies of their involuntary tears with the hashtag #sogoodicried. Emily’s eyebrows perfectly offset her smeared Dior mascara. Her post gets 6.2 million likes, including from President Macron himself.

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Emily’s latest meet-cute is interrupted by a skirmish between protesters and French police forces. She stops a passing gendarme, tripping adorably through halted French to ask, “Excusez-moi! How do you say, ‘Please do not burn my car. This purple McLaren belongs to an important client’ en Français?”

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Winning Alfie back is placed in severe jeopardy when a stray rubber bullet grazes Emily’s brand-new Prada stilettos. “Quel… quel RUDE!” she pouts. The light from the nearby City Hall arson dances across her perfect, furrowed eyebrows as she collects the spilled contents of her fuzzy Pierre Cadault clutch that cost more than the average French pension from the desperately romantic cobblestones.

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Emily’s dreamy night out in the third arrondissement exploring novelty museum installations with Gabriel is totally upended when ten thousand angry protesters—and an even angrier Camille—show up to la fete. “I don’t understand what everyone is even yelling about!” says Emily. “The people are angry because Macron is trying to raise the age of retirement from sixty-two to sixty-four, totally bypassing parliament to invoke a special constitutional power,” retorts Camille. “And I am angry because you are a two-faced bitch!” Emily opens her mouth to reply, then stops, stunned. “Why would anyone want to stop working,” she whispers into the twinkling Parisian night.

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Determined to set things right for the country and her career, Emily takes a side job in Emmanuel Macron’s office in an attempt to rehab his image. Despite the success of Emily’s “Macarons from Macron” campaign, netting a 13 percent uptick in local sentiment, Emily’s boss Sylvie gets wind of her moonlighting and fires her yet again. Blazer draped over her shoulders, Sylvie lights another cigarette and coolly quips, “The only president you should be worried about is me, the President of Savoir. Or whatever we’re calling this agency now, I can’t keep track.”

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The pundits and politicians all agree that there is only one person powerful and influential enough to quell the growing unrest: JVMA luxury fashion scion Nicolas de Leon. But will he use his impossibly pillowy lips to unite France, even if it displeases his father? And what if Mindy happens to be playing at the jazz club tonight? Will he even have time??

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Chaos has broken out during the latest protest at the base of the Eiffel Tower, and the police are quickly losing control as trash fires begin to ignite along the once picture-perfect boulevard. Until—what’s this? A lone amp crackles to life as Mindy starts to sing an arresting arrangement of Bette Midler’s “The Rose” backed by her lithe band of street buskers. The street falls instantly silent. By the time she croons, “I say love, it is a flower, and you its only seed,” the protesters have laid down their arms and have begun dancing in the street with the hotter members of the Police Nationale. Emily is there to livestream the entire thing. She gains forty thousand new followers. (Six of them are French.)

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Thanks to Emily and the gang, the vote to raise the pension age from sixty-two to sixty-four is halted, and the protests finally ebb just in time for the country to take off the entire month of August. It is decided that Emily has (despite all efforts to stop her) worked enough during sexy parties for all of France. Sylvie rehires Emily. The grateful nation erects a beautiful statue in her honor and includes a touching inscription. Unfortunately, due to Emily never bothering to learn much French despite being immersed in the culture for more than a year, she isn’t able to read it.

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Season 5 (a thirty-year time jump): Emily eventually wins love on her own terms, fitting it in on hasty lunch breaks and French national holidays. She works seventy-two hours a week until her late fifties, when her exhausted heart bursts at her desk while eating a dry salad. Her frenemy co-worker Julian commemorates the moment with a very sad selfie for his upcoming pitch deck for a luxury eyewear brand, captioning it, “Emily died as she lived—in Paris. #deathbecomesyeux.”