Chapter 13
ELLA
The adrenaline from the café didn’t fade the way adrenaline usually did.
It lingered.
Followed me.
Sat in my chest like a live wire long after Kane disappeared down the street and I turned in the opposite direction, folder clutched under my arm, pretending my life hadn’t just shifted on its axis.
I walked three blocks before I remembered to breathe normally.
Three blocks before my brain finally caught up with my mouth.
You.
God.
I slowed at a crosswalk, Paris traffic gliding past in orderly streams, and pressed my lips together to stop the smile threatening to surface.
What kind of woman blurts that out to a man she just met?
Apparently … me now.
The light changed, and I crossed with the others, my reflection flickering in shop windows—camel coat, purposeful stride, hair loose around my shoulders. Competent. Composed.
Meanwhile, internally?
Complete chaos.
Because beneath the embarrassment, beneath the shock at my own boldness, something else pulsed steadily.
Satisfaction.
I’d meant it.
And that realization refused to scare me the way it should have.
For years, I’d measured myself. Controlled impressions. Played it safe emotionally and romantically and professionally. Hank had fit perfectly into that version of me—predictable, kind, respectable.
A man you married.
Not a man who made your pulse spike in clinic waiting rooms.
Not a man who looked at you like he could ruin you and you’d thank him for it.
Not a man whose presence alone made your body remember it was alive.
I reached the metro entrance and hesitated.
Rose.
The folder.
Reality.
Right.
Focus.
I descended into the station, the familiar rumble of trains grounding me. I found a spot near the wall and opened the folder again, scanning until my eyes found the line that had knocked the air out of me earlier.
Visitor present: étienne Moreau.
A name.
A real person.
The man who’d been with my sister when she died.
The man who’d taken her belongings.
The man Randy—and my parents—knew nothing about.
My stomach twisted.
Who were you, Rose?
The train arrived in a rush of wind and noise, and I boarded automatically, finding a pole to grip as we lurched forward.
The earlier heat from the café faded, replaced by something heavier.
Responsibility.
I needed answers. Needed to understand what my sister had built here—and why it mattered enough that she’d hidden it from everyone back home.
And yet …
Every time my thoughts quieted, they slid right back to Kane.
To the way his voice dropped when he spoke close.
To the look in his eyes when I told him what I wanted.
To the way his attention locked onto me like I was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
I shifted my grip on the pole, heart doing something stupid at the memory.
Stop.
He was probably already gone. Back to whatever mysterious, dangerous job he’d hinted at. Back to his own life.
Men like that didn’t linger.
Men like that didn’t come back.
Still.
My phone felt heavy in my pocket.
I’d given him my number.
Which meant …
If he called, it would be because he wanted to.
Not because I chased him.
The thought settled oddly in my chest.
Hopeful.
Terrifying.
I shoved it aside as the train slowed near my stop.
One crisis at a time.
The funeral service handling Rose’s cremation occupied a narrow, quiet office tucked between a pharmacy and a tailoring shop. Neutral sign. Discreet windows. A place designed not to intrude on the living.
Inside, everything was hushed.
A woman greeted me kindly—thank God—and switched easily to English when my French faltered.
Paperwork followed. More signatures. More forms.
Death, as the doctor had said, was administrative.
My sister was reduced to documents and procedures and official stamps.
The ashes, she explained gently, would be released once final authorization cleared. Another day or two.
“Was she … alone?” I asked before I could stop myself.
The woman’s expression softened. “No.”
Relief and grief tangled painfully.
“She had someone with her. A man.”
My breath caught.
“Do you know who he was?”
“I’m sorry. We do not keep personal records like that.”
Of course, they didn’t.
Still.
Not alone. They’d confirmed it.
I clung to that as I stepped back outside.
Rose hadn’t faced death alone.
Someone had seen her through to the very end.
Someone had known.
And that certainty reassured something inside me I hadn’t realized was still clenched tight.
I walked without direction for a while, letting the city carry me. Crossing streets. Passing cafés and boulangeries and flower shops. Life layered over grief in the strange, beautiful way Paris seemed to do everything.
And slowly, something else surfaced.
Loneliness.
Not the sharp grief kind.
The quieter realization that when I finished here—when the paperwork was done, when answers were gathered, when Rose’s affairs were settled—
I would go home.
And Kane would stay a stranger in Paris.
The thought settled heavily in my chest.
Why does that bother you so much?
Because …
Because I hadn’t felt like that before.
That instant, undeniable pull.
The sense of recognition.
As if some primitive part of my brain had taken one look at him and gone, Yes. I want that one.
I stopped on a bridge overlooking the river, watching water slide beneath me.
There was a time when I would have talked myself out of this.
Told myself attraction wasn’t enough.
That chemistry faded.
That relationships required compatibility and safety and shared goals and …
And what?
Predictable sex twice a week and polite dinners and eventual quiet resentment?
I thought about Hank again. The way our breakup had felt less like heartbreak and more like resignation. Like admitting something that had been true long before either of us said it out loud.
He was good.
Just not for me.
And Kane—
Kane was everything Hank wasn’t.
Dangerous where Hank was safe.
Watchful where Hank was relaxed.
The kind of man who stepped between you and traffic without thinking.
The kind of man who’d handle trouble instead of avoiding it.
The kind of man who made your pulse trip just by looking at you.
A man who would never, ever bore you.
The thought sent warmth through me.
I checked my phone again.
Nothing.
Of course, nothing.
He’d said nothing about calling.
And still …
I smiled faintly.
“Okay,” I murmured to the wind. “We’ll see.”
By late afternoon, exhaustion finally caught up to me.
Grief. Paperwork. Emotional whiplash. Attraction I didn’t know what to do with.
I climbed the stairs to Rose’s apartment and unlocked the door, stepping into quiet.
Her quiet.
I set my things down on the table and slipped off my boots, shrugging out of my coat.
For a moment, the day replayed in fragments.
Clinic.
Kane’s voice.
Coffee.
His hand around mine when he helped at the counter.
The look in his eyes when I said I wanted him.
Heat curled low in my stomach again.
God.
I dropped onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
What are you doing?
Grieving your sister and fantasizing about a stranger.
And yet …
The fantasies came, anyway.
Kane’s hands on my hips.
His mouth against mine. Those lips.
The feeling of being pulled flush against him, solid muscle and heat and control.
My breath hitched.
I shifted, pressing my thighs together instinctively, embarrassed even though I was alone.
This was ridiculous.
But also …
Alive.
It was the only word for it.
And after the numbness of the past days, maybe alive was exactly what I needed.
My phone buzzed.
I jolted upright.
Hope flared instantly—and then faltered when I saw my mother’s name.
I answered, anyway.
We talked. Carefully. About paperwork. About Randy. About practicalities.
I didn’t mention Kane.
Not because I was hiding anything.
Because whatever that was … felt like mine.
After we hung up, quiet settled again.
The kind filled with absence.
I sat there for a minute, phone still in my hand, staring at the blank screen as if it might suddenly offer clarity. Instead, it reflected my own tired face back at me—hair slightly windblown, eyes still shadowed with grief and lack of sleep.
Rose should have been here.
Curled in that armchair with a glass of wine, asking too many questions, teasing me about something stupid, telling me I worried too much.
Instead, I was alone in her Paris life, trying to piece together a version of my sister none of us had known.
The apartment felt different now that the morning’s adrenaline had worn off. Smaller. Heavier. Like the walls themselves were holding secrets.
I pushed myself off the sofa.
Sitting still wasn’t going to help.
If Rose had built something here—another life, another version of herself—then it was in this apartment. In drawers and closets and forgotten corners.
And I owed it to her to understand it.
I started in the bedroom.
Not out of strategy. Just instinct.
Her suitcase still sat half-open near the foot of the bed, clothes folded inside from what must have been her last trip. A neat stack of blouses. Work dresses. Practical heels.
Corporate trainer in Europe.
That was the story she’d told us.
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the suitcase fully, sifting through what remained. Nothing shocking. Business attire. Toiletry bag. Chargers.
But tucked into the side pocket, folded small, was something that didn’t fit.
A silk scarf.
Not Rose’s usual style. Too soft. Too romantic. Deep navy patterned with tiny gold constellations.
And definitely not business.
I ran it through my fingers, imagining her buying it somewhere along the Seine, laughing, maybe with someone beside her.
étienne Moreau?
The name still felt foreign in my mind.
I folded the scarf carefully and set it aside, then moved to the dresser.
The top drawer held jewelry—simple pieces she wore at home. Earrings. Watches. Rings. Nothing remarkable.
The second drawer held paperwork. Receipts. Business cards. Ticket stubs.
I paused.
Ticket stubs.
Not work travel tickets. More theater tickets. Concert entries. Museum passes.
Dates scattered across months.
Not just occasional visits.
Regular ones.
She’d definitely been living here.
Not just visiting.
The realization settled slowly.
Rose hadn’t been flying around Europe for work.
She’d been coming back to Paris.
Again and again.
To this apartment.
To someone.
I swallowed, guilt pricking unexpectedly.
Had she been unhappy with Randy? Or just … different here? Free in a way she couldn’t be at home?
The thought hurt more than I expected.
Because I understood it.
The desire to slip into a version of yourself no one else knew. To choose something reckless and alive instead of safe and predictable.
My chest tightened.
Had she tried to tell me? Had I missed it?
I opened the final drawer.
And froze.
Photos.
A small stack, rubber-banded together.
Rose smiling on a bridge. Rose at a café table. Rose laughing, head thrown back.
Always in Paris.
Always happier than I’d seen her in years.
And in a few—
A man.
Never fully facing the camera. A shoulder. A hand. A reflection in glass. A silhouette beside her.
Deliberately obscured.
My heart thudded harder.
She’d been protecting him. Or protecting herself.
Or both.
I sat back slowly, photos trembling slightly in my hand.
You really had another life here.
A knock sounded suddenly from the apartment next door, muffled through the wall, and I jumped, pulse racing.
God.
I laughed shakily at myself and set the photos down.
Okay.
Okay.
Next step.
Find out who étienne Moreau was.
I pulled out my phone, hesitating only a second before opening my messages.
Michelle Baskin — Magazine.
My editor. My friend. The woman who always knew how to find people when necessary.
I typed:
Hey. Random question. Need help tracking down someone in Paris. Name: étienne Moreau. Might be tied to corporate consulting or training networks in Europe. Can you work your magic?
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Michelle:
Jesus, Ella. Hello to you, too. Aren’t you supposed to be grieving in Europe?
I smiled faintly.
Ella:
Working on that. Also working. Long story.
Pause.
Michelle:
I’ll ask around. Give me a few hours.
Also … you all right?
I hesitated.
Then:
Ella:
I will be.
I set the phone down, exhaling slowly.
One step at a time.
Answers were coming.
And somehow, in the middle of grief and secrets and unfinished business …
A dangerous man with dark eyes and stitched skin had walked into my life.
I glanced toward the sofa, where my phone lay silent.
And wondered when he’d walk back into it again.