Chapter 25
ELLA
For a long time after, neither of us moved.
Sunlight had shifted across the bedroom floor, sliding from pale morning into something warmer, brighter—midday light that made everything feel too exposed and too real after the cocoon of sheets and skin and breath.
Kane lay on his back, one arm under his head, the other draped lazily across my hips where I’d sprawled half over him without remembering how we’d ended up like this. My cheek rested against his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady under my ear.
It was heaven.
Finally, my mind wasn’t racing.
No panic about what I should do next.
Just warmth. Quiet. The faint smell of soap and sex and Rose’s lavender detergent.
I listened to his breathing.
To the city outside.
And let myself exist in the rarest thing grief gives you—
A pause.
Eventually, reality seeped back in.
Sabine’s smile.
The crayon drawing.
Rose laughing in that framed photo.
My sister holding a baby I hadn’t known existed.
My chest tightened slowly, grief threading back in, softer this time but heavier somehow. More complicated.
Kane’s thumb moved lazily against my hip.
“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.
I smiled faintly against his skin. “You say that like it’s optional.”
“For you?” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Apparently, not.”
I tilted my head to look up at him. His eyes were still closed, face relaxed. Without tension, without that constant readiness coiled beneath his skin.
He looked younger like this.
Safer.
Which was ironic, considering what I knew about him.
“What happens now?” I asked quietly.
One eye opened.
“About?”
“Everything.”
His gaze studied my face, searching for something.
“You want the honest answer?”
“Yes.”
“We figure it out one piece at a time.”
Not dramatic.
Not comforting.
Just practical.
And oddly, that helped.
I traced one of his ribs with my finger.
“You’re not what I expected to find in Paris,” I admitted.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “What were you expecting?”
“A few awkward meetings. Paperwork. Closure.” I swallowed. “Not … this.”
His arm tightened slightly around me.
“Regretting it, Manhattan?”
I shook my head against his chest.
“Nope.”
And the truth of it surprised me with its certainty.
Not even a little.
Even with everything else spinning wildly out of control, the connection between us felt … right.
Ill-timed.
Dangerous.
Complicated.
But right.
Silence settled again, companionable this time.
But my mind refused to stay quiet for long.
Because another question slid in, one that hadn’t fully formed while we’d been at étienne’s apartment, while Sabine’s existence rearranged everything I thought I knew about my sister.
Why did Rose keep this place?
I stared at the ceiling, sunlight tracing lines across cracked plaster, and tried to make it fit.
She hadn’t been living here, not really. Not if Sabine was with étienne full-time. Not if mornings looked like breakfast tables and school runs and crayon drawings on refrigerators somewhere else.
So, why pay rent on an entire apartment in Paris? Why keep clothes here, dishes in cabinets, books stacked beside the bed like she’d be back tomorrow?
A backup life? A backup to a backup?
I shifted slightly, Kane’s arm sliding absently across my hip as he adjusted, unaware my brain had started running again.
Rose hadn’t been reckless with money. She’d always been careful. Practical. The one reminding me to save receipts and cancel subscriptions I forgot about. Maintaining two homes in one of the most expensive cities in the world didn’t match that version of her.
Unless she thought she needed it.
The thought made my stomach tighten.
Unless this place wasn’t just convenience.
Unless it was protection.
I pushed myself up onto one elbow, staring at the closed bedroom door as if answers might appear there.
Had she kept this apartment separate so no one connected her American life to étienne and Sabine?
So, if someone came asking questions, they’d find this version of Rose—corporate trainer, independent expat, neat, professional, unattached.
Not mother.
Not partner.
Not part of a family.
A decoy life.
My pulse ticked faster.
The notebook flashed in my mind. Her warnings. The sense she’d been afraid of something I still didn’t fully understand.
Was she protecting them?
Or hiding from someone?
A cold thread slid down my spine.
Had she thought someone might come looking?
And if they did, she’d rather they found her alone than found her daughter?
The idea lodged deep in my chest, heavy and unsettling.
Rose had always been brave in quiet ways. Not loud or dramatic, but stubborn when it mattered. Protective.
Had she built this separation deliberately?
A firewall between danger and her child?
Between consequences and the people she loved?
And if that was true …
Then leaving now—closing up this apartment and going home—felt wrong.
Like erasing something she’d chosen to keep.
Like abandoning a line of defense she’d built for a reason.
My gaze drifted across the now familiar details of the room. Her books. Her scarf draped over the chair. The lamp she’d probably bought at some flea market and bragged about getting for a steal.
This was the space she’d kept for herself.
The space where she was just Rose. Not daughter. Not wife. Not mother.
Just her.
And suddenly, leaving felt impossible.
I didn’t want to pack this life into boxes and hand the keys back to a landlord who never knew her.
I didn’t want to return to New York pretending Paris had been a sad detour.
Everything important seemed to be here now.
Sabine.
Answers.
The truth about Rose.
And, whether I liked how quickly it had happened or not—
Kane.
The realization settled slowly but firmly.
I wasn’t ready to go home.
I wanted to stay.
Stay in this apartment. Walk the same streets Rose walked. Understand who she’d been here. Be part of Sabine’s life in whatever way étienne would allow.
Finish what Rose hadn’t gotten the chance to.
And maybe, selfishly, figure out what this thing between Kane and me actually was before real life pulled us apart.
I exhaled slowly, decision clicking quietly into place.
“I’m staying,” I murmured, mostly to myself.
Behind me, Kane shifted slightly. “Staying where?”
I glanced back at him.
“Paris,” I said softly. “Here. In this apartment.”
His brow creased slightly as he focused on me.
“For how long?”
I hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
“I don’t know yet.”
But not knowing didn’t feel like panic.
It felt like possibility.
Good.
Then my stomach growled.
Loudly.
Kane huffed a laugh, the sound vibrating under my cheek.
“Hungry people make bad decisions,” he said.
I groaned. “So, you’ve said.”
“Yep.”
Reluctantly, I pushed myself up, dragging the sheet with me. Cool air hit overheated skin, and I shivered.
Kane’s gaze tracked me automatically as I stood, the look slow and appreciative in a way that sent heat curling low in my belly all over again.
“Careful,” I warned.
His brow lifted. “About?”
“We’ll never leave this apartment if you keep looking at me like that.”
His mouth curved slightly. “Not seeing the downside.”
I rolled my eyes, grabbing Rose’s oversized sweater from the floor and pulling it over my head.
The familiar scent hit instantly.
And with it—
A stab of grief.
I froze for half a second, fabric tangled around my arms.
Rose had worn this.
Walked around this apartment in it. Made coffee. Answered emails. Probably FaceTimed our parents in this exact sweater while her daughter colored at another kitchen table across the city.
My throat tightened.
Behind me, the mattress shifted.
Kane’s voice softened. “Hey.”
I finished pulling the sweater down and turned.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed now, watching me carefully.
Not pushing.
Just present.
Grief welled up unexpectedly, sharp and sudden.
“I missed so much,” I said quietly. “Five years of her life. And I didn’t even know.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“You didn’t choose that.”
“She did.”
The words tasted bitter.
Kane considered that.
“Maybe she thought she was protecting you.”
“From what? Happiness?”
His jaw flexed slightly.
“From judgment. From conflict. From losing both worlds.”
That landed uncomfortably close to truth.
I sank onto the chair by the window, suddenly tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix.
“She must have been lonely,” I murmured.
Kane didn’t answer right away.
“When you live in two worlds,” he said finally, “you’re always alone in one of them.”
The quiet understanding in his tone made me look up.
There it was again.
That sense he knew exactly what that felt like.
I studied him.
“You do that,” I said slowly. “Don’t you?”
His expression shuttered slightly.
“Do what?”
“Live in two worlds.”
Silence stretched.
Then he shrugged, but it wasn’t casual.
“Occupational hazard.”
I didn’t push.
Not yet.
Instead, I stood and headed toward the kitchen, needing movement. Something normal. Something that didn’t involve grief or secrets or the fact that I’d just upended my entire life.
Kane followed a minute later, pulling on his jeans as he walked, expression settling back into that familiar controlled calm he wore outside the bedroom.
I opened cabinets, pretending I was looking for something specific.
There was nothing here but olive oil, dried pasta, and a half-empty box of crackers.
My stomach growled again.
Kane leaned a shoulder against the doorway, watching me.
“You’re not actually going to cook, are you?”
I turned slowly. “In this emotional state? Absolutely not.”
“Good.”
He stepped further into the kitchen and scanned the counter once, eyes sharp, assessing like he did everything.
And then I saw it.
The takeout container.
White cardboard. Folded top. A small red logo stamped on the side. I’d barely noticed it before, buried in the recycling bin.
But now it clicked.
Rose had ordered from there.
Recently.
I crossed the room and pulled the flattened box free.
Kane’s gaze sharpened.
“What?”
“I saw this yesterday,” I said quietly. “It’s from somewhere close. I remember because I thought about how domestic it looked. Like she’d ordered dinner and eaten it on the sofa.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“She had places she went,” I murmured. “ Routines.”
I turned the box over.
An address printed neatly on the side beneath a clean, understated logo:
Maison de Verre.
Three streets over.
Kane glanced at the address, then back at me.
“You want to go?”
“Yes.”
It felt important. Not because of the food.
Because it was hers.
Because if I was staying—and I was—I needed to know this city the way she had.
The ordinary parts. The hopeful parts, like the ones I’d focused on when I first arrived.
He studied me for a second, measuring.
Then nodded once.
“Okay.”
I set the box down carefully, almost reverently.
“We’ll start there,” I said. “Lunch. Something simple.”
His gaze softened slightly.
“You sure you’re staying?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
The word came easier this time.
“I’m not leaving Sabine. Not yet. And I’m not shutting down this apartment like it was just a temporary rental. If Rose kept it for a reason, I want to understand why.”
He didn’t argue.
But his jaw tightened faintly.
“What?” I asked.
“If you stay,” he said carefully, “you stay knowing things might get … complicated.”
My eyes narrowed slightly.
“You keep saying that.”
“And you keep not asking what it means.”
“Because I know if I push, you’ll shut down.”
A pause.
He didn’t deny it.
I stepped closer.
“Then give me something,” I said quietly. “Not the full file. Just … you.”
His eyes held mine.
Something shifted there. A calculation. A decision.
“There’s a friend of mine,” he said finally. “Connor Ward.”
The name landed with weight.
“Friend,” I repeated. “Or coworker?”
“Both.”
“And I should meet him? Because?”
“Because if you’re staying in Paris …” His voice lowered slightly. “You should know who’s in your corner.”
Something in my chest tightened.
“In my corner,” I echoed.
“Yes.”
“And you are?”
His gaze darkened.
“You already know the answer to that.”
Heat flared between my legs despite the seriousness of the moment.
I stepped away before that energy tipped us back toward the bedroom.
“Lunch,” I said firmly.
“Lunch,” he agreed.
We dressed properly this time. Jeans. Boots. I kept Rose’s sweater on, grounding and protective all at once.
When we stepped out into the hallway, the apartment door clicking shut behind us, something settled inside me.
This wasn’t a visit anymore.
This was the beginning of something.
Outside, Paris hummed with midday life—bicycles, café tables filling, conversations spilling into the street.
Three streets over.
A restaurant Rose had chosen enough times to leave evidence of it in her trash.
I slipped my hand into Kane’s without thinking.
He looked down at it, then back at me.
“You good?” he asked.
“I’m … steady.”
That was the best word for it.
Not healed. Not fine.
But steady.
He squeezed my hand once.
“We’ll eat,” he said. “Then I’ll explain more.”
“About you?”
“About what you’re standing in.”
The phrasing didn’t escape me.
What I was standing in.
Danger.
Or something close to it.
I glanced at him as we walked.
“And this Connor,” I said lightly, though my heart thudded once harder than normal. “Does he approve of you dragging civilians into whatever this is?”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
“Probably not.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
The simplicity of it sent a strange thrill through me.
He didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t hedge.
Didn’t soften.
Three streets over, the Maison de Verre sign came into view—small, understated, the kind of place you’d only find if someone told you about it.
Or if you lived here.
Kane slowed slightly as we approached.
“You ready?” he asked.
“For lunch?”
“For the rest of it.”
I looked at the door.
Then at him.
“Yes,” I said.
And I meant it.