Chapter 6 #2
Consent and possession, tangled.
My breath caught.
“This artist,” Amaya murmured, “he is controversial.”
“Because it’s … violent?” I asked softly.
“Because it’s honest,” she corrected.
I stepped closer to one photograph—an image of a woman’s throat, head tipped back, a man’s hand around her neck. Not squeezing. Holding. Claiming. The woman’s mouth was parted, not in fear, but in something that looked dangerously like surrender.
Heat slid through me, low and unwelcome.
I wasn’t prudish. I understood desire. I’d had lovers. I’d been wanted.
But this—this was something else. This was being held on the edge of choice.
My mind flashed to Connor again. The way his eyes had lingered. The way he’d stepped aside as I passed, courtesy wrapped around restraint. The way he’d gone still when his full name was spoken.
The man in the photograph looked like he knew exactly what he could take without asking.
And the woman looked like she’d already given permission without saying a word.
My fingers tightened around my camera strap.
Amaya watched me watching. “This speaks to you,” she said.
“It shouldn’t,” I said automatically.
Amaya’s smile was slow. “Shouldn’t is boring.”
I swallowed. “I’m not—”
“Not what?” she asked, genuinely curious.
I couldn’t finish the sentence. Not out loud.
Not the real version: I’m not the kind of woman who wants to be possessed.
And yet my body, traitorous, hummed in agreement with the image.
I forced myself to look away and found Luc in the corner, staring at a painting with such intensity it seemed like he was in a private argument with it. His earbuds were gone. For once, he looked approachable.
“Luc,” I said, tentative.
He glanced at me. “Mila.”
“Do you … like this?” I gestured at the room.
He shrugged. “It’s not for liking.”
“What is it for?”
He studied me for a moment. “For telling the truth you pretend you don’t have.”
My stomach flipped. “That’s ominous.”
Luc’s mouth curved faintly. “Art is ominous. Life is ominous. Paris is …” He searched for the word, then gave up. “Paris.”
I laughed softly, surprising myself. It loosened something in my chest.
Luc nodded toward my camera. “Did you take pictures?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
I hesitated. Because it felt rude. Because I felt exposed. Because taking a photograph meant admitting that something mattered.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Luc’s gaze flicked over my face, quick and sharp. “You are distracted.”
I felt my cheeks warm. “Is it that obvious?”
He shrugged. “Your eyes … they keep looking for a door.”
A door.
My pulse kicked.
I forced myself to breathe. “I like doors,” I said, attempting lightness.
Luc didn’t smile. “No,” he said softly. “You like what’s behind them.”
I couldn’t answer that. Not truthfully.
Amaya called my name from across the room, saving me. I turned away, grateful, and followed her toward a small table where someone had arranged wine and tiny bites of food that looked too pretty to eat.
We stayed for another hour, maybe two. Time became slippery. Conversation drifted in and out, my French improving slightly once I stopped trying so hard. I said the wrong word for embarrassed and instead announced I was pregnant to a woman with silver hair and amused eyes.
Amaya nearly choked on her drink laughing.
“No,” I corrected quickly, mortified. “Not pregnant. Embarrassed. Très … embarrassed.”
The woman smiled indulgently. “C’est mignon,” she said, like I was a child.
My face burned for ten minutes.
And still, underneath it, I felt … alive.
Not safe. Not comfortable.
Alive.
When we finally left, the air outside was cooler, the city darker. The group had thinned—Luc had disappeared at some point without telling anyone, as if he’d evaporated. Sanna left with a friend. Henri drifted off toward the metro, already on his phone.
It ended up being just me and Amaya walking through the night.
“You did good,” she said, hands tucked into her coat.
“I announced a fake pregnancy,” I reminded her.
Amaya laughed. “Yes. Very American.”
I groaned. “I’m going to die here.”
“No,” she said. “You will be reborn. That’s why you came.”
The simplicity of her certainty hit me harder than any teasing. I stared at the sidewalk as we walked, my breath clouding in front of me.
“I don’t know if I’m making friends,” I admitted quietly.
Amaya glanced at me. “Do you want friends?”
“Yes,” I said immediately. Then I hesitated. “I think. I don’t know. I want … something.”
“Something,” she repeated, amused.
I exhaled. “Something that makes me feel like I’m not just passing through my own life.”
Amaya nodded, serious now. “Then stop passing.”
We reached a corner where we had to part ways—Amaya heading toward the canal, me toward the Marais. She squeezed my arm once, firm.
“Text me when you get home,” she said.
I blinked. “Why?”
Amaya’s expression didn’t shift, but her eyes sharpened in a way that made my stomach tighten. “Because you’re new,” she said. “And because tonight you looked at art like you wanted it to touch you.”
“That’s not dangerous,” I said, though it sounded weak.
Amaya tilted her head. “In Paris? Everything is dangerous. Even beauty.”
She leaned in, cheek-kissed me, then stepped back. “Bonne nuit, Mila.”
“Bonne nuit,” I echoed.
I walked home alone, the city stretching around me like a living thing. The streets in the Marais were quieter at this hour, but not empty. Couples moved in shadows. A motorbike roared past. Laughter spilled from a bar doorway and vanished as quickly as it came.
My boots clicked on the wet stone.
I kept thinking about Amaya’s words—attention versus intention. Hunger versus patience.
And I kept thinking about Connor Ward.
Not because I’d seen him tonight. I hadn’t.
Because not seeing him felt like absence in a way I didn’t like.
He’d asked if he could come find me after.
He hadn’t.
Maybe it had been a line. Maybe he’d been polite. Maybe he’d said it because he wanted to and then the world got in the way.
Or maybe the world he lived in didn’t allow for simple things like after.
The thought sent warmth skimming low through my stomach, and I hated it.
I wasn’t supposed to want danger. I was supposed to want peace. I’d come to Paris for work, for reinvention, for quiet obligation and art-forward conversations.
Not for a man who made my body feel like a question.
By the time I reached my street, my phone buzzed.
A new message.
My heart jumped stupidly.
It wasn’t Connor.
It was a number I didn’t recognize.
I stopped walking.
The street was empty in both directions, just the muted glow of lamps and the dark outlines of parked cars.
The message was short.
You should lock your door.
My pulse slammed once, hard.
I stared at the screen, my breath catching. My brain tried to supply reasonable explanations—wrong number, prank, some automated warning.
But the words felt intentional. Like someone had typed them slowly.
Like someone had chosen them.
I forced myself to keep moving, but my body had already shifted into awareness. My hand tightened around my phone. My gaze flicked to windows, to shadows, to the narrow alley between two buildings.
I walked faster, boots striking the stone with sharp, echoing clicks.
I told myself not to look behind me.
I looked, anyway.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No figure. Just the city, indifferent.
I reached my building and fumbled my key, fingers suddenly clumsy. The door opened. I slipped inside and pulled it shut behind me, my back pressing against the wood as if it could hold the world out.
My chest rose and fell too quickly.
I looked down at my phone again.
Another message hadn’t come through. The first one sat there like a bruise.
I didn’t know who had sent it.
But the timing felt wrong. Too precise.
I climbed the stairs faster than usual, legs burning, breath catching, my mind racing ahead of my body.
On the fourth floor, I reached my door and unlocked it with shaking fingers. I stepped inside and turned the lock. Then the chain. Then I checked it twice, as if repetition could make it truer.
Only when the apartment was sealed did I let myself breathe.
The silence pressed in around me. The familiar pale walls. The desk. The uncomfortable chair. The window with its slice of sky.
Safe.
I told myself I was safe.
My phone buzzed again.
I nearly dropped it.
This time, it was Amaya.
Did you get home?
I swallowed hard and typed back: Yes. Home.
A beat later:
Amaya: Good. Lock your door.
My stomach dropped.
I stared at the screen.
My fingers hovered, numb.
Why? I typed.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Finally:
Amaya: Because Paris is nearer than you think.
I walked to the door and pressed my palm against it, as if I could feel through the wood whether something waited on the other side. The apartment was silent. The hall outside was silent.
But my body didn’t believe silence meant safety anymore.
I moved to the window and looked down at the street.
Nothing.
Just lamplight, wet stone, the faint blur of a couple walking too close together.
My breath eased slightly.
And then, across the street, in the dark glass of a shop window, I saw a reflection that didn’t belong.
A man.
Not close enough to see details. Not close enough to be sure.
But my body knew the shape of him the way it knew the sound of my own name when he’d said it.
My throat tightened.
I held my breath, staring, trying to make the reflection hold still long enough to confirm what my instincts were already screaming.
Then the figure moved, disappearing into the darkness like he’d never been there at all.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I stood at the window, shaking, my mind caught between fear and something that felt dangerously like anticipation.
If it was him—if Connor was out there—what did that mean?
Was he watching me?
Protecting me?
Or was he simply … unable to stop?
The worst part was the truth I couldn’t deny, even alone in my apartment with my door locked and chained.
Somewhere under the fear, under the uncertainty, under the warning texts and the shadows—
I wanted him to come closer.
I wanted to know what would happen if he did.
And I wanted it enough that it scared me more than the possibility of danger ever could.