Chapter 20
KANE
We found the right apartment on the third floor after climbing stairs that smelled faintly of lemon polish and old wood and decades of people living.
The building was old but well-maintained in that distinctly European way that made everything feel permanent and solid.
Like it had been here for a hundred years and would be here for a hundred more.
Cream-colored walls with ornate molding.
Polished hardwood floors that creaked slightly underfoot in a comfortable, lived-in way.
Brass fixtures on doors and railings that actually shined instead of gathering tarnish.
The kind of place that cost real money in this part of Paris.
The kind of place where people built actual lives instead of just passing through on temporary assignments.
Then she just stood there, completely frozen.
I watched her hand tremble slightly, fingers curling and uncurling like she was trying to gather courage that kept slipping through her grasp like water.
Without thinking—without asking permission or considering whether it was smart—I reached out and took her hand in mine.
Her fingers were cold despite the warmth of the building. Small in mine. Delicate but not fragile. Strong in their own way.
She looked up at me, eyes wide with something between fear and hope and a dozen other emotions I couldn't name but recognized, anyway.
I could imagine what she was thinking.
What if he doesn't know anything useful?
What if this makes everything worse instead of better?
What if I don't actually want the answer I'm about to get?
What if the truth is uglier than not knowing?
I wondered briefly how pissed Connor was going to be when he inevitably found out I'd slipped out this morning despite him telling me very clearly—in that calm, measured tone that meant he was serious—that going anywhere wasn't a good idea right now.
That staying put at The Sanctuary while Ellsworth handled surveillance and protection was the smart tactical move. The safe move.
But I wasn't going to break my promise to Ella.
Strike that.
I wasn't going to break either promise I'd made to myself somewhere between meeting her yesterday and standing here now—to help her find out what really happened to her sister, and to keep my fucking hands off her while I did it.
Though the second promise was getting harder and harder to keep with every passing minute. Every conversation. Every look. Every accidental touch that didn't feel accidental anymore.
Even now, standing in this quiet hallway looking down into her eyes, I could see straight down her top where the red sweater dipped slightly at the neckline. The soft curve of her breasts. The shadow between them. The pulse beating visibly at the base of her throat.
Fuck.
She had absolutely no idea how beautiful she was. Nervous or confident. Grieving or smiling. Maybe especially like this—vulnerable and brave at the exact same time, about to walk into something that might break her heart all over again.
"You think this is a good idea?" she asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper in the empty hallway. "Maybe we should just ... let him be. Leave him alone. Not disturb whatever he's dealing with."
"No," I said firmly, meaning every word.
"You deserve answers. Real ones. This is your sister we're talking about.
Your family. And who knows—" I paused, choosing words carefully even though I wasn't sure I believed them.
"It might help him, too. Whatever he's carrying around.
Sometimes talking about it makes it lighter. "
I didn't exactly believe that last part. Not really.
Grief was grief. Heavy and permanent. Talking about it rarely made it weigh less, in my experience.
But I was trying very hard to be a good guy here. The kind who helped people instead of taking advantage of vulnerable moments. The kind who offered support instead of complications.
Not the kind who ripped off her clothes and fucked her against the nearest wall like my body kept insistently suggesting every time she got within three feet of me.
She nodded slowly, turning back to face the door with visible determination.
Then she paused mid-turn.
Turned back to me instead.
Smiled slightly, something nervous and brave and reckless flickering across her beautiful face.
"Can you kiss me?" she asked softly, eyes locked on mine. "Once. For good luck."
My brain short-circuited completely for half a second.
Every rational thought I'd been carefully maintaining just ... stopped.
I knew I was pressing my own luck here. Knew this was objectively a terrible idea. Knew I should say no, redirect gently, maintain professional distance like I'd been trying to do.
But I'd be a complete prick to refuse that request, right?
That's what I told myself as I bent down, closing the distance between us.
Our lips met.
Soft. Tentative. Perfect.
And oh shit it took every single ounce of control I possessed to pull back after just a few seconds instead of deepening it like I desperately wanted to.
She tasted like coffee and something sweeter underneath. Her mouth opened slightly against mine—just enough, just barely—and want slammed through me like a freight train I had no hope of stopping.
Her hand came up instinctively, fingers curling slightly into my jacket, holding on.
I forced myself to step back before I did something profoundly stupid. Before I pushed her against the wall right here in the hallway and forgot entirely why we'd come. Before I stopped being helpful and started being completely fucking selfish.
Before I took what I wanted instead of what she needed.
"You felt that, too?" she whispered, eyes dark and slightly dazed, lips still parted.
Of course, I fucking felt it.
The lightning bolt that shot straight to my toes and my balls and every nerve ending in between.
The way her mouth fit against mine like it had been specifically designed for exactly that purpose.
The soft, surprised sound she'd made when our lips first touched.
The warmth of her breath. The taste of her.
All of it.
But I had to stay professional here. Had to be what she needed instead of what I wanted.
She needed a friend right now. A supporter. Someone solid and dependable who wouldn't make this complicated situation even more complicated.
Not a heavy-cocked prick who couldn't think past getting inside her at the earliest possible opportunity.
"Knock on the door," I said roughly, voice coming out harder and more strained than I'd intended. "Just get it over with."
She studied my face for another long second, like she was reading something there I didn't particularly want her to see. Something about want and restraint and how thin the line between them had become.
Then she turned back to the door and knocked.
No answer.
Just silence from inside the apartment.
"Again," I said quietly, encouragingly.
She knocked harder this time, more confident, knuckles rapping sharply against wood.
This time we heard someone respond in muffled French from inside. Movement. A chair scraping. Footsteps.
The footsteps approached the door.
A lock clicked.
Then another.
The door opened slowly, cautiously.
A man stood there in the doorway, backlit slightly by the apartment lights behind him.
Mid-thirties. Light brown hair cut professionally short but not severely.
Wearing casual but clearly expensive clothes even at home—dark jeans that fit well, a button-down shirt in pale blue with the sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows.
Exactly like his file photo but somehow more real.
More three-dimensional. More human than a surveillance image could ever capture.
étienne Moreau.
His eyes went from me first—automatically assessing, cautious, clearly recognizing a potential threat when he saw one—to Ella standing beside me.
And froze completely.
All the color drained from his face in an instant.
His expression shifted through a dozen emotions too fast to track—shock, recognition, pain, something that looked almost like relief mixed with dread.
"Ella," he said.
Just her name. Quiet. Shocked. Reverent almost.
Like he'd seen a ghost he'd been simultaneously expecting and desperately hoping wouldn't appear at his door.
"You know who I am?" Ella asked, voice unsteady, confusion bleeding through every syllable.
How did this stranger know her name? How did he recognize her on sight?
étienne's eyes watered immediately, tears forming without falling. His throat worked visibly like words were physically difficult to form or force past the emotion blocking them.
He nodded slowly, unable or unwilling to speak yet.
Then there was a high-pitched voice from somewhere deeper inside the apartment, followed immediately by the distinct tap-tap-tap of little running feet on hardwood floors.
A girl appeared suddenly in the hallway behind étienne, moving fast.
Maybe five or six years old. Long dark hair that caught the light. Big expressive eyes. Wearing pajamas covered in cartoon characters I didn't recognize.
She ran straight to the door without hesitation and wrapped herself completely around étienne's leg with the unselfconscious affection and absolute trust of a child who felt completely safe with this man.
Who loved him without question or reservation.
She said something in rapid, excited French, looking up at him with obvious adoration.
I didn't catch all the words, but one came through crystal clear.
Papa.
Daddy.
My gaze shifted from the child to étienne, then back to Ella.
Confusion spread slowly across Ella's face as she stared down at the little girl. Her expression shifting. Processing. Trying desperately to make pieces fit together that didn't seem to make any sense yet.
Trying to understand what she was seeing.
étienne was the one who finally broke the silence that had stretched too long and become uncomfortable.
"My sweet Sabine," he said quietly, voice thick with barely contained emotion. His hand dropped automatically to rest on the child's head, protective and gentle. "She looks like her, don't you think?"
Like Rose, he meant.
Like her mother.
Ella nodded slowly, mechanically, like her body was operating on pure autopilot while her brain struggled desperately to catch up with reality.
Tears filled her eyes—immediate and unstoppable—as she crouched down slowly to get a better look at the girl.
At her niece.
At the family member she hadn't known existed until thirty seconds ago.
And that's when everything clicked completely into place for me.
All the pieces Rose had been hiding. All the secrets she'd kept. All the reasons she'd maintained two completely separate lives that never touched.
The little girl wasn't just étienne's daughter.
She was Rose's daughter, too.
Ella's niece.
A child that no one back home—not her parents, not her husband, not anyone in her American life—knew existed.
Rose had built an entire secret family here in Paris. Had a daughter. Had a partner. Had a whole life so completely separate from her other existence that the two had never overlapped until death forced them together.
Until Ella came looking for answers and found more truth than she'd bargained for.
And what kind of fucking worms just got dumped in poor Ella's lap?
What kind of secrets was she going to have to carry now?