Ophelia
Eighteen months earlier | Paris, France.
One thing about France is that even the country itself has style.
We drive along the quai by the Seine, sunlight slits the water into bright, silver ribbons. Between the buildings the Eiffel Tower’s needle, Paris looks almost too perfect to be true.
Beside me my father scrolls through his phone, expression closed and habitual. He hasn’t said a word since we left the villa.
When the car slows he finally lowers the screen and, without meeting my eye, tells me, “You have three hours, find your own way back. I expect you at the villa by seven. Don’t give me cause to regret letting you loose.”
I nod, long accustomed to the sting of his indifference.
He slips his phone into his coat pocket. “I never had an issue trusting your sister. But you…”
The words land sharply, though I keep my eyes fixed ahead, my chest tightening. “Yes, father,” I say, restrained and polite, like the dutiful little daughter I’m meant to be.
The car slows to a halt before the tower. As the driver reaches for the handle, I push the door open myself and step out, bag in hand.
The air is cool and faintly sweet, carrying the scent of pastries and early spring flowers.
The Eiffel Tower rises before me, magnificent and impossibly grand. Photographs never come close to capturing it.
I scan the area for the ticket counters, hoping they offer some form of priority access, the queue stretches so far it could easily swallow an hour, perhaps more.
I check the time, four o’clock. That gives me exactly three hours, and I’d rather see more of Paris than spend them waiting in line.
I tighten my coat belt and glance up again. The air is soft for March, warm enough to wander without freezing, yet the last bite of winter lingers in the breeze.
The trees nearby are already flirting with blossom, small bursts of white and pink along the avenue.
After securing the tickets and ascending the Tower, I find myself at the top with a glass of champagne in hand, a single strawberry balanced on the rim, ridiculously overpriced, yet worth every euro for the view. I take a few photos for my Instagram story.
After that, I make my way to the Louvre. A quick check on the map tells me it’s a fair distance, so I catch a bus for a few stops to shorten the walk, time is slipping again.
I doubt we’ll stay another day, father rarely bothers to share the itinerary. I may as well see the landmarks while I can. Overrated or not, they’re still Paris.
I reach the Louvre and join the queue for tickets, surrounded by tourists in glossy coats, all talking over one another in a dozen different accents.
Once inside, I move with the crowd until I find the room housing the Mona Lisa. It’s impossible to get close, hundreds of phones are already in the air, snapping the same photograph.
Octavia will murder me when she finds out I came here without her. She breathes art, and I can already picture how furious she’ll be that I visited Paris without her.
The thought makes me smile, but only for a moment before it fades. I don’t know why she isn’t here with me. Father said she had other plans, but I’m not sure I believe him.
I didn’t have the chance to talk to her, and she hasn’t replied to any of my messages.
After visiting the museum and managing to see a few of its most famous pieces, I give up on the idea of covering it all.
The Louvre is enormous, you could spend an entire day there and still miss half of it.
I wander back toward the river as the city eases into evening, thinking I should find somewhere to eat before heading back. Somewhere with a view, something beautiful.
A café catches my eye, a small terrace draped with string lights, the Tower visible in the distance. Inside, the hostess greets me in French, takes my coat, and shows me to a table by the window.
I scan the menu, divided neatly between French and English, and order an oat milk latte and an avocado tartine with roasted cherry tomatoes and olive tapenade.
I set my phone aside and let my gaze drift to the view beyond the glass. The Eiffel Tower glows gold now, its lights shimmering against the deepening sky while the low hum of Paris moves around me, soft laughter, the clink of cutlery, faint jazz threading through the air.
It’s then that I sense it, that subtle shift in the room, the awareness that someone is looking. My skin prickles before I even turn my head.
Across the room, a man is watching me. He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet, if anything, the look deepens.
He’s seated a few tables away, relaxed, a half-finished glass in front of him. His suit is charcoal grey, perfectly tailored, the collar of his shirt open.
There’s something in his stare that holds me still, like he’s looking through me rather than at me.
My pulse slips, uneven, and a shiver runs down my spine. I swallow and, without thinking, offer a small smile.
I have no idea who he is, but there’s something about him, an intensity I can’t name, that ties me in knots.
He doesn’t smile back. But his lips curve, just slightly, an acknowledgment, a promise, or maybe a warning.
And it shouldn’t have the effect it does on me.