The more Rico, a soul loving immigrant from the banlieue, pushes his unlikely aristocrat lover Laure away, the more Laure begs him to stay. In an attempt to keep him by her side, Laure urges Rico to join her and her family on a weekend trip to Normandy. He declines. At a loss but still determined to somehow hold him under her sway and in her debt, she proposes that Rico stay at her townhouse while they’re away. Rico nonchalantly accepts. “Pack your bags. We’re going on a vacation,” Rico tells his longtime, working class girlfriend Jo. That evening the two are sipping expensive wine and living it up in Laure’s big, empty house across the tracks. While playing dress up in Laure’s gowns, Jo seduces Rico into a promise to follow through with her plan. If he truly loves her, he’d marry the other woman, get her money, divorce her soon after, then all of this would be theirs. Cornered and coerced, all Rico can do is agree. They fall asleep in the master bedroom, dreams of wealth in Jo’s head, strange and fearful premonitions in Rico’s. Neither can imagine what lies around the corner of an hour. What transpires can only be described as “some kinda fuckery”