Chapter 4
ASTRID
The hum of the engines is soft, as if off in the distance. When I open my eyes, the cabin is dim, quiet.
We’ve landed.
My seat is reclined, the blanket still draped over me. The space beside me—the one that held a devastatingly handsome man with a Russian accent and hands that made me forget my own name—is gone.
No note. No trace.
I sit up slowly, blinking against the dry air. My mouth feels like it’s been lined with cotton, and every inch of my body feels warm, heavy. There’s a dull ache low in my belly, and I press my knees together reflexively.
Reality settles in—that wasn’t a dream.
I just lost had sex with the mysterious, sexy stranger on an airplane.
I wrap my arms tightly around myself and glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of everything and everyone.
There are four passengers left in first class.
A man across the aisle is asleep with noise-canceling headphones on.
The woman in front of him is busy scrolling on her phone, seemingly in no hurry to exit the plane.
He just disappeared.
I should feel relieved—no names, no strings, no nothing. A moment suspended in time, far above any consequences. Yet I feel a strange and hollow ache, as if I’ve misplaced something I didn’t know I needed.
I shift in my seat, heart knocking against my ribs as the memory of his hands on my body floods back—hot and wild. I reach up, brushing my fingers against my lips. They’re still tender. Still tingling.
Still his.
A shadow crosses my line of sight. I glance up to see the flight attendant from earlier, the one who asked if I was okay during the turbulence. She doesn’t say a word, just gives me a faint, knowing look as she collects discarded water bottles.
My face reddens and I want to disappear into the seat.
I gather my things—my carry-on, my laptop bag. My dignity, if I can find it.
I step off the plane into the gray morning that has settled over Charles de Gaulle airport, straight into a slow, steady drizzle.
Paris.
The City of Lights, mystery, and—if I’m lucky—answers.
As the wind lifts my coattails and the rain beads on my skin, all I can think about is the man who just vanished like a dream.
The cab ride into the city is a blur of rain-slick streets and my own spiraling thoughts. I try to focus on the passing buildings, the signs in French, the gray charm of a city that’s supposed to change your life if you let it.
But my brain keeps drifting. Back to the plane. Back to him.
Snap out of it, Astrid.
I didn’t come here to get tangled up with some mystery man. I came here to find out the truth about who I really am.
My hotel is small but stylish, tucked between a deliciously-scented boulangerie and a boutique with a window showcasing expensive silk scarves.
The concierge barely glances at me as I check in, which suits me just fine.
I’m too tired to make small talk, and my French is decent but not conversational.
The room is clean and quaint. A little corner of normalcy after twelve hours of turbulence and one reckless, unforgettable decision at thirty thousand feet.
I drop my bag by the dresser and close the door with a soft click. As the hush of the room wraps around me, I begin to feel the weight of everything—adrenaline, nerves, of what I did and who I did it with.
I peel off my blouse and swap it for a cozy ,worn sweater, then pull my hair into a bun with weary fingers. I should unpack. I should set up my laptop, tether to my hotspot, and open my research files. But all I can do is sit at the edge of the bed and try to catch my breath.
The mattress dips soft beneath me, inviting and impossible to resist. I lie back fully clothed, the ache of exhaustion deep in my bones. I close my eyes, remembering the way he kissed me like he owned me. Like he didn’t need a name to stake his claim.
Outside, the Paris rain falls steadily, tapping against the window like a lullaby.
I turn onto my side and pull the blanket up to my shoulders. My limbs feel heavy as my pulse slows.
As the sound of rain folds into the rhythm of my breath, I drift off with the taste of him still on my lips, wondering who the hell he was.
A few days later…
The municipal archives are located in a stately old building that reminds me of medieval times. Marble floors, high ceilings, shelves stacked with paper and decay. I present my credentials—Harvard Business School graduate, independent researcher—and flash my most trustworthy smile.
I’m granted access to the digital records and microfilm.
It takes hours to comb through the data, and even longer to decode the tangle of French bureaucracy, but I find it.
Thierry Devereaux. Melanie Devereaux. My parents.
Deceased. Twenty-two years ago.
Listed cause of death: Carbon monoxide poisoning due to a malfunctioning fireplace in their countryside home.
I spot a red-stamped note buried in the scanned police report that says: Investigated due to unusual gas line cuts. Case closed.
I sit back in my chair, heart in my throat.
Someone tampered with the scene.
Buried deeper in the probate filings, I find a list of donations made from the Devereaux estate after their deaths. Charities with vague names and shadowy board members. I search through them; the trails appear to have gone cold.
Except for one.
Ivanov Holdings Donor Acknowledgment—Foundation Saint-Laurent. A shell charity registered in Luxembourg but closed two years later.
I stare at the screen, jaw clenched.
The Ivanovs.
I knew it was a possibility, I just didn’t expect to find it so easily.
I screenshot everything and save it to a secure, encrypted folder titled, “Devereaux.” Seeing my surname feels foreign to me, like a ghost tapping me on the shoulder.
In that moment, I don’t feel like Astrid Jones anymore.
It’s dark by the time I leave the archives. The streetlamps reflect off wet cobblestone, a chill in the air causing me to tug my coat tighter as I make my way back to the hotel.
Just before I reach the corner, I pass a man in a dark tailored suit holding a briefcase. He has a sharp jawline and chiseled features. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps on walking.
Still, my breath catches.
For a brief second, I wonder if it’s the man from the plane. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s gone. Even though I know it wasn’t him, my skin prickles anyway, and I walk faster.
Back in my hotel room, I drape my soaked coat over the chair and plug in my laptop. The Ivanovs are involved in some way. I don’t have proof of guilt yet, but I have suspicion.
I sit back, exhaling.
If my parents were murdered—and I’m starting to believe they were—somebody made damn sure to cover their tracks, to ensure no one would ever find out. Someone who profited from their deaths.
And now that I’ve found this breadcrumb, I can’t stop looking. I won’t.
My mind racing, I slip out of my clothes and step into the shower. The hot water scalds the chill from my skin, but it can’t touch the deeper cold settling into my bones.
I wrap myself in one of the hotel robes and sit cross-legged on the bed, my laptop warming my thighs.
I begin updating my notes.
At the top of the document, in bold, capital letters, I type my birth name: ASTRID DEVEREAUX.
It looks fake, like I made it up. A placeholder in a story I’m still trying to believe is mine.
I highlight it.
Hit backspace.
I type Astrid Jones.
Then undo it.
I don’t know who I am tonight. Harvard grad, future finance exec, unwanted orphan, child of two dead parents with dangerous connections. The only thing that feels remotely real is the pulsing ache in my core and the memory of a stranger’s mouth on mine.
I squeeze my eyes shut and groan.
I open a new file and title it DEEP DIVE_PRIVATE. I encrypt it and start typing everything I found at the archives. Dates. Names. Donation paths. Every piece of digital evidence I uncovered.
It feels empowering, like building armor out of information.
Then I check my email. There’s one from my foster mom, Mara Jones. It’s a sweet check-in asking about Paris, if I’m eating enough, and if I’ve taken any pictures yet. My throat tightens.
Mara and Carl gave me everything they could. A home. A name. A second chance. I became Astrid Jones instead of just some girl chasing a bloodstained legacy.
But now I wonder if that legacy is going to come knocking no matter what name I use.
I close my laptop and go to bed, trying to breathe around the lump in my throat.
I can’t sleep. I try, but my thoughts are like fireflies—darting around in unpredictable patterns, impossible to trap.
I get up and throw on a pair of jeans, slip into my boots, and head out into the Paris night.
The city looks different after hours. The streets near the Seine are quiet, glistening with residual rain. Cafés hum with a few lingering locals and night owls nursing espressos and cigarettes.
I stop at one on instinct and sit at a tiny iron table. I order a hot tea just to have something in my hands.
I pull out a small notebook—my analog backup for sensitive data—and scribble down key names. Thierry Devereaux. Melanie. Ivanov Holdings. Foundation Saint-Laurent.
I underline Ivanov three times.
The waiter brings my tea. I thank him and glance across the street.
That’s when I see him.
A man in a dark suit standing by a lamppost, just far enough away to be inconspicuous. He’s not smoking, not scrolling through his phone.
He’s watching the street.
Watching me?
My pulse skips at the thought. I look back at my notebook and tell myself I’m just being paranoid. I’ve been digging into dangerous things, chasing shadows, and it’s messing with my head.
When I glance up again, he’s gone. Vanished into the night like the man on the plane. Like the man I passed on the street earlier.
I pack up fast, tip too much, and hustle back to my hotel.
Every click of my boots on the pavement sounds like a warning. Every passing pedestrian feels like a threat. I check over my shoulder three times before reaching the entrance.
Back in my room, I double-lock the door and flip the latch.
Then I open my encrypted file and start typing again, faster this time, documenting the man in the suit. He was too far away to identify any defining features.
I just have a feeling, and my gut is usually correct. Something tells me I’m on someone’s radar. Whether it’s the Ivanovs or someone else entirely, I don’t know.
I lie in bed, phone on my chest. Before I know it, I’m asleep. Just like every night since our encounter, my last thoughts are of him, that wicked smirk on his face right before he kissed me.