The Girl He Noticed in Paris

That afternoon, after a ton of work and smiling till my cheeks hurt, I sat by the single window of my small staff apartment, tucked on the tenth floor of the Valenrose staff quarters.

The wind blew gently against the glass, rattling the old pane as I stared out at the glittering skyline of Eastbridge City.

Somewhere out there, just across from where I sat on this rickety bed, my husband—Jake Daniel—was probably sitting in his air-conditioned office, sipping fine coffee from a sleek ceramic mug, reviewing billion-dollar projections, while I was here… in a two-by-four-meter room, eating instant noodles in silence.

I wasn’t forced into this life.

No.

This was the life I chose.

A choice I made long ago, when I decided that being his wife wasn’t enough—I wanted to be my own woman first.

My eyes drifted to the skyline, but my mind… my mind drifted further—to another city. Another time.

To Paris.

How we started in Paris.

It started in the spring.

I was in my final year at one of the top hotel management institutes in France. The kind of school that only accepted twenty students per year and expected perfection in return.

It was exhausting. It was thrilling. It was lonely.

That month, the school was hosting its biggest event of the year—L’Exposition Hôtelière, a weeklong international masterclass. Only the top six students were selected to attend, and I had somehow clawed my way to fifth place.

I didn’t know what to expect from the event.

But I wasn’t expecting him.

Jake Daniel walked into the seminar room like he owned it—which, funny enough, he almost did. Everyone in the hospitality world knew his name. CEO of Valenrose Suites, one of the fastest-growing five-star chains in the world. Young. Ruthless. Private. Rich.

And to crown it all—handsome.

He wasn’t on stage yet, just walking through the room, escorted by the program director.

The girls in my class whispered and adjusted their blazers. One even reapplied her lip gloss when she thought no one was watching.

But I just stared at the file in front of me, rereading my handwritten notes. My blazer felt a little tight at the shoulders, and I kept adjusting the hem of my skirt, trying to ignore the nerves bouncing in my chest.

When he finally stepped onto the podium, the room fell so silent, you could’ve heard the cap click on a pen.

And when he spoke?

His voice was deep, steady, controlled. The kind of voice that could make an investor give up half his company or a boardroom go silent with one sentence.

But he wasn’t arrogant. No smirking, no showboating. He talked about risk, innovation, and pushing past boundaries. He talked like someone who’d built something with his own hands—not just inherited it.

I listened closely… holding something in it to myself.

Halfway through the session, he invited the audience to ask questions.

A few students jumped up eagerly—asking what it felt like to own a luxury chain, what cars he drove, what celebrities he hosted.

Useless questions. Flattering ones.

I wasn’t planning to raise my hand. But my heart nudged me forward before my brain could stop it.

I stood slowly and asked,

“If a five-star hotel receives complaints about customer emotional experience—even when the facilities are perfect—how would you handle that? Beyond giving discounts, I mean.”

There was a beat of silence.

Jake looked directly at me.

And he smiled.

Not a big one. Just a small, curious flicker at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s a good question,” he said. “Emotion isn’t a department. It’s not something you budget for. It’s built into the walls… or it isn’t. Most hotels fail not because of bad service—but because no one cared enough to notice the small things.”

I nodded.

He didn’t move on to the next person.

“Do you agree?” he asked.

I paused, then answered honestly,

“I think guests remember how they felt more than how much they paid.”

The way he looked at me shifted slightly—as if I’d said something he wasn’t expecting. I dropped my gaze and sat down, heat crawling up my neck.

The seminar moved on.

But from then on, I could feel his eyes flicker toward me more than once.

I didn’t think anything of it.

Until later that evening.

After the session, I stayed behind to clean up my notes and slipped out to the courtyard just before sunset. It was quiet there, surrounded by trimmed hedges and old iron benches. I needed air. A break. Some space from the pressure.

I didn’t realize I had forgotten my notebook until someone cleared their throat behind me.

I turned, startled.

Jake Daniel stood there in a charcoal coat, holding my notebook in one hand.

“You left this,” he said.

I blinked. “Oh. I—thank you.”

He didn’t hand it over right away. Instead, he flipped it open to a random page.

“Is this your sketch?” he asked, pointing at a rough drawing of a hotel layout I had scribbled in class. “Boutique concept. Rooftop herb garden. Seamless tech check-in…”

I felt a flash of panic.

“It’s just something I was working on during my leisure time. Nothing serious.”

He looked at me.

“It’s impressive,” he said simply.

I didn’t know what to say. Compliments from classmates I could handle. Compliments from Mr. Jake Daniel—the owner of one of the fastest-growing luxury hotels in my country?

That was another thing entirely.

He sat down on the bench, surprising me. After a hesitant second, I joined him.

“I like your questions,” he said. “They’re not flashy, but they show you think beyond the surface.”

I shrugged.

“I just… don’t see the point of asking things we can G****e.”

He chuckled—quiet and warm.

I didn’t expect that either.

For the next half hour, we sat there, talking. About hotels, yes—but also about other things. Dreams. Burnout. What makes people stay. What makes them leave.

And he went deeper into the question I asked earlier that day.

Somehow, we started talking about family background.

I told him, without going into detail, that I came from a powerful family that never really saw me. That my six older brothers fought for a legacy I didn’t want. That I wanted to build something on my own.

I went on to say,

“Why should I join them in fighting for a piece of meat, when I can build and own the abattoir?”

He didn’t ask questions. He just listened.

That night, under the Paris moonlight, something shifted between us.

It wasn’t romantic—not yet. It wasn’t even flirty.

It was something deeper.

Recognition.

A soft, quiet understanding between two people who had learned to carry the weight of expectation with silent strength.

That was how it began.

Not with a kiss.

Not with a date.

But with a notebook.

A bench.

And a kind of honesty that felt too rare to be accidental.

—

Back in my Eastbridge apartment, I blinked out of the memory.

The sun had set now. The room was darker, quieter. The bowl of noodles beside me had gone cold.

Somewhere, in that gleaming Valenrose tower, my husband might be thinking of me.

Or not.

Maybe he had already left his office to park somewhere nearby so I could meet him and we’d go home together.

That was always our usual routine.

He’d leave the office earlier, park his car on the next street, and I’d meet him there.

Then we’d go home together—as a sweet couple—after having entirely different days at Valenrose.

One of us having a day in a well-conditioned office, sitting in a luxury chair, attending meetings, signing billion-dollar projects…

While the other bows all day, smiling to please VIPs.

I chose this life. I wasn’t forced.

But sometimes, when the nights get too quiet and the city lights blur,

I remember how it all began.

Not as his employee. Not as his wife. But as the girl he noticed in Paris—and fell in love with

And that… was only the beginning.