Chapter 15
ELLA
Night settled over Paris slowly, like the city was reluctant to let the day go.
By the time Kane hung up after telling me he’d found étienne, the last of the evening light had drained from the sky. Streetlamps glowed gold outside Rose’s apartment windows, reflections smearing across the glass as cars slid past below.
Thirty minutes, he’d said.
I checked the time on my phone again.
Twenty-three minutes now.
Not that I was counting.
I paced the living room, anyway, nerves humming under my skin. The apartment felt different tonight—less like a museum of my sister’s life and more like a place suspended in expectation.
He was coming.
The thought sent an entirely inappropriate flutter through my stomach.
God. Get a grip.
I stopped in front of the hallway mirror, taking stock. Jeans, sweater, hair loose from running my hands through it too many times. Light makeup from earlier, smudged now at the edges.
Not trying.
Which somehow felt worse.
I darted into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, dabbed concealer under my eyes, brushed my hair quickly. Not a full redo. Just … less like a woman unraveling alone in her dead sister’s apartment.
By the time I stepped back into the living room, fifteen minutes remained.
And suddenly—
What if he didn’t come?
The thought landed out of nowhere, sharp and unwelcome.
Men say things all the time. Promise help. Promise to show up.
Then life intervenes. Work calls. Better options appear. Interest fades.
Hadn’t I just told myself men like Kane didn’t linger?
I sank onto the sofa, phone in hand, trying not to stare at the dark screen like I could will it to light up.
You were way too forward.
The memory replayed instantly.
You.
God.
Heat crawled up my neck even now. Who says that? Who looks at a stranger and admits desire like that?
Grief does strange things, a voice whispered. Makes you reckless.
Maybe Kane realized that, too.
Maybe he’d stepped back into his own life and decided not to get tangled up in mine.
A small, humiliating ache settled in my chest.
Don’t be stupid. You just met him.
Still …
It stung more than it should.
To distract myself, I stood and wandered back toward Rose’s bedroom. The half-open drawers and scattered items from earlier still sat where I’d left them.
Proof she’d been living two lives.
I picked up the stack of photos again, flipping slowly through them.
Rose on a bridge at sunset. Rose in a café, chin in her hands, laughing at something off-camera. Rose standing in front of Notre-Dame, bundled in winter clothes, cheeks flushed with cold and happiness.
And always—
Someone with her.
Never fully visible. A shoulder here. A reflection there. A blurred figure in motion.
Deliberate.
She’d kept him hidden.
From us? From Randy?
My stomach tightened.
I set the photos down and moved to the closet, sliding open the door.
More clothes. Boxes. Shoes.
And on the top shelf, slightly out of place, a small storage bin.
Curiosity tugged.
I dragged a chair over, climbed up, and pulled it down carefully, dust puffing faintly into the air.
Inside—
Papers. Old mail. Documents.
And beneath them, something softer.
Not fabric. Not photos.
A leather-bound notebook.
I frowned, lifting it out carefully. It was worn at the edges, the kind of thing that lived in purses and backpacks and got used often. A thin elastic band held it closed, slightly stretched from repeated use.
Rose’s?
It didn’t look like something she’d carry to work. Too personal. Too casual.
I climbed down from the chair and sat on the edge of the bed, turning it over in my hands. No name on the cover. No label.
Just a notebook someone hadn’t wanted easily found.
A prickle of unease slid along my spine.
Why hide this?
I hesitated, thumb resting against the elastic.
Sorry, Rose.
Then slid it off and opened the first page.
Not a diary.
No emotional entries. No confessions.
Instead—
Dates.
Locations.
Times.
My brow furrowed as I flipped pages.
Hotel lobbies. Office buildings. Café names. Metro stops. Addresses scrawled quickly, some circled, some crossed out.
Beside many entries were short notes.
Late again.
Didn’t show.
Different car tonight.
Followed? Not sure.
Meeting moved.
A cold knot formed in my stomach.
This wasn’t travel journaling.
This was … tracking.
Like she’d been keeping tabs on someone.
Or something.
I flipped faster now, pulse ticking up.
Some entries were mundane—work travel, conference notes, flight numbers. But scattered between them were stranger ones.
Argued.
Bad.
Don’t trust him.
Needs to end.
And then, a page half torn out.
Only the bottom half remained.
… if he finds out, it’ll get ugly.
Need to tell someone.
My mouth went dry.
Who?
Who was she afraid of?
I flipped to the last written page.
Nothing dramatic.
And beneath it:
If anything happens, this matters.
A chill crawled up my arms.
Anything happens?
A knock sounded at the door, making me jump so hard the notebook slipped from my lap and hit the floor.
For a split second, fear flashed.
Then logic caught up.
Kane.
Relief and irritation tangled together. I glanced at the clock.
Forty-eight minutes.
He was almost twenty minutes late.
Which meant …
He almost didn’t come.
That humiliating ache from earlier stirred again, sharper now.
I crossed the apartment, trying to compose my expression into something casual instead of wounded.
You don’t care.
You barely know him.
Still.
My hand hesitated on the door handle before I pulled it open.
Kane stood in the hallway, breath faintly visible in the cooler night air, jaw tight, hair slightly disheveled like he’d moved fast to get here.
And there—just beneath the streetlight glow—
A fresh bruise darkened his knuckles.
His gaze found mine immediately.
Something in his expression softened.
“Got held up,” he said quietly.
Not an excuse.
A statement.
But I’d been sitting in this apartment, overthinking every possible reason he might not show.
My chin lifted slightly, wounded pride sneaking in before I could stop it.
“I figured.”
His eyes narrowed, as if reading more than my words.
“Everything all right?”
I hesitated.
Notebook. Rose’s secrets.
Fear threaded through my earlier excitement.
“No,” I admitted softly. “Not really.”
His posture shifted instantly.
Alert.
Protective.
“Talk to me.”
And suddenly, I was very aware of how late it was.
How quiet the building felt.
How alone I’d been until he knocked.
And how much safer the apartment felt with him standing in the doorway.
So, I stepped aside.
“Come in.”
He walked in, and I closed the door behind him, the soft click of the lock suddenly loud in the quiet apartment.
For a second, we just stood there.
Too close.
The hallway narrow enough that his body heat brushed mine through layers of clothing. The faint scent of cold air and something darker—soap, leather, smoke maybe—clinging to him. Real. Solid.
My pulse jumped like a teenage girl’s.
Focus.
I moved to pick up the notebook, grateful for the excuse to put space between us before my brain fully short-circuited.
“I found something,” I said, straightening and holding it up.
His gaze flicked to the notebook, then back to my face. “That what spooked you?”
“Yes.” I hesitated. “And no.”
He shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair like he belonged here already, like he’d stepped into strange apartments late at night a thousand times before.
Probably had.
“Show me.”
We moved into the living room. I sat on the sofa, notebook open on my lap. Kane stayed standing for a second, scanning the room automatically—windows, door, sightlines—before finally sitting beside me.
Close.
Too close.
Our thighs brushed.
Heat shot straight through me.
Ridiculous.
I forced my attention back to the pages, flipping to the entries that had unsettled me.
“This,” I said quietly. “Rose wasn’t journaling. She was tracking someone. Meetings. Locations. Notes about being followed. Arguments.”
Kane leaned in slightly, shoulder pressing into mine as he read.
His presence was overwhelming. Controlled. Focused. Dangerous in a way that made every nerve in my body wake up.
“She thought something was wrong,” I continued. “Or someone was wrong. And then this.”
I turned to the torn page.
“… if he finds out, it’ll get ugly. Need to tell someone.”
Kane’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Who’s ‘he’?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” I swallowed. “Said it mattered if anything happened.”
He studied the page a moment longer, then leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing as pieces clicked together in his head.
“étienne. Do you think he’s in trouble?” I asked quietly. “Or … involved?”
Kane considered that, expression unreadable.
“Don’t know yet. But tomorrow we find out.”
Tomorrow.
Relief and nerves tangled in my chest.
“We’re just … going to show up?”
“Not exactly.” A faint smirk touched his mouth. “We’ll scope the place first. See who comes and goes. Figure out what we’re walking into before you knock on anyone’s door.”
The casual way he said it made something inside me settle.
He’d done this before.
Handled situations like this.
Handled danger.
My gaze dropped to his hands.
To the bruised knuckles.
“You didn’t just get held up,” I said quietly.
His eyes lifted to mine again.
A beat passed.
“No,” he admitted.
I raised an eyebrow. “Want to tell me?”
“No.”
At least he was honest.
I exhaled slowly. “You get into fights often?”
“When someone makes me late.”
My lips twitched.
“Is that supposed to make me feel special?”
He shrugged, but something dark flickered behind his eyes. “Depends how you take it.”
Silence stretched.
Heavy. Charged.
The notebook slipped from my lap onto the coffee table, forgotten.
Because suddenly all I could think about was how close he was.
How easy it would be to lean in.
How much I wanted to.
“You worried I wouldn’t show?” he asked quietly.
My stomach dipped.
I hesitated, then forced honesty past pride.
“Maybe.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Why?”
Because I wanted you to.
Because I’m already too invested.
Because I hate how much it mattered.
Instead, I said lightly, “Men flake.”
“I don’t.”
The certainty in his voice sent heat sliding down my spine.
I turned toward him fully now, one knee tucked under me on the sofa.
“Good to know.”
His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth.
My pulse stumbled.
God.
We were inches apart.
I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The cut near his cheekbone. The tiny scar at his lip.
Real.
Dangerous.
Alive.
“You always this forward?” he murmured.
“Only when I know what I want.”
His gaze darkened.
“And what do you want right now, Manhattan?”
The air thickened.
My brain screamed at me to slow down.
My body ignored it completely.
I let my gaze drift deliberately over him. The broad shoulders. The strength coiled under his T-shirt. The hands that looked like they knew how to hurt people—and maybe how to hold them, too.
Then I met his eyes again.
“You.”
The word came out softer this time.
But no less true.
A muscle flexed in his jaw.
For a second, I thought he might actually kiss me.
He leaned in slightly, breath warm against my cheek.
Every nerve in my body lit up.
Then he stopped.
Control snapping back into place.
“Dangerous timing,” he said quietly.
I swallowed. “Grief does strange things.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It does.”
But he didn’t move away.
And neither did I.
Our knees pressed together now, heat building between us. My heart thudded so hard I was sure he could feel it.
“You regret saying it?” he asked.
“No.”
His gaze held mine.
“Good,” he murmured.
Another beat.
Then he shifted back just enough to break the spell.
“We go tomorrow morning,” he said, voice back to business.
The sudden change of topic almost made me laugh.
Almost.
“Okay.”
He stood, grabbing his jacket.
Disappointment hit harder than I expected.
You are ridiculous.
He moved toward the door, then paused, glancing back at me.
“You going to be okay tonight?”
The question was simple.
But the concern behind it wasn’t.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
A beat.
Then, because apparently my filter was permanently broken now:
“I’d be better if you stayed.”
His gaze snapped back to mine.
Silence stretched.
Tension crackled.
For a second, I thought he might say yes.
Instead, he shook his head once, slow.
“Not tonight.”
Rejection stung—but something in his tone softened it.
Not tonight.
Not no.
Just … not yet.
He opened the door, cool hallway air spilling inside.
“Sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow could get messy.”
He stepped out, then paused again.
“And Ella?”
“Yes?”
His eyes slid slowly over me, heat unmistakable now.
“You keep looking at me like that …”
My breath caught.
“… and one of these nights, I’m not leaving.”