Chapter 38: The Ghost of Paris

 

The dinner party ended in a strange, heavy silence. As the guests left, Richard Vance didn't say goodbye to Isabella. Instead, he stared at Harper one last time, his eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and hope, before getting into his limousine.

Isabella was furious. She stormed into the living room, throwing her expensive clutch onto the sofa. "That little... peasant!" she screeched. "She embarrassed me! And Dad! Why was he looking at her like that? Like she was a ghost!"

Sebastian rolled in, holding a glass of whiskey. Harper walked beside him, looking tired but victorious.

"Maybe," Sebastian said coolly, "your father appreciates authenticity. Something you lack, Isabella."

"Authenticity?" Isabella scoffed. "She's a noodle girl who memorized a few French phrases! Dad is probably just senile."

"Isabella," Sebastian’s voice dropped an octave. "Go to your room. Before I forget you are a guest and throw you out."

Isabella glared at him, then at Harper. She stomped up the stairs, her heels banging like war drums.

Harper sighed, collapsing onto the sofa. "That was exhausting. I think I used up all my brain cells for the next month."

Sebastian handed her his whiskey. "You were magnificent. 'Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.' Where did you read that?"

"Leonardo da Vinci," Harper took a sip, grinning. "But I think it sounded better in my broken French."

Sebastian looked at her, his expression turning serious. "Harper... about what Richard said. The 'artist in Paris'. Do you know who he was talking about?"

Harper shook her head. "No idea. My parents have never left the country. They've run that noodle shop since before I was born. Paris? They probably think it's a type of bread."

"It was strange," Sebastian mused. "Richard Vance is a shark. He doesn't get rattled easily. But when he saw you... he looked like he saw a dead person."

He took her hand. "Maybe you should ask your parents. Just in case."

---

[The Question]

The next day, Harper went to the guest suite to visit her parents. They were packing their bags.

"Mom, Dad, why are you packing?" Harper asked. "You can stay as long as you want."

"No, no," Mr. Evans waved his hand nervously. "This place is too big. Too fancy. We are not used to it. The shop needs us."

"But the shop is being repaired," Harper said. "Sebastian sent a construction crew."

"We just want to go home, Harper," Mrs. Evans said, her voice unusually sharp. She wouldn't look Harper in the eye.

Harper sensed something was wrong. She sat on the bed. "Mom. Yesterday at dinner... Richard Vance said something weird."

Mrs. Evans froze while folding a shirt. "What did he say?"

"He said I look like someone he knew in Paris. An artist. He asked if I had any family there."

Crash. Mr. Evans dropped the suitcase he was holding. It hit the floor with a loud thud.

"Paris?" Mr. Evans laughed, but it was a high-pitched, forced sound. "What nonsense! We are from here! We've never been to Paris! We don't know any artists!"

"Dad," Harper frowned. "You're sweating."

"It's hot in here!" Mr. Evans wiped his forehead frantically. "Rich people keep their houses too hot!"

Mrs. Evans walked over and grabbed Harper’s hands. Her grip was tight, almost painful. "Harper, listen to me. Rich people... they like to make up stories. They think everyone is connected to them. Don't listen to him. You are our daughter. You are Harper Evans. That's it."

"I know I'm your daughter, Mom," Harper said gently. "I just..."

"Promise me!" Mrs. Evans’s eyes were wide with fear. "Promise me you won't talk to that man again. Stay away from Richard Vance. He is dangerous."

Harper looked at her mother’s terrified face. This wasn't just about a rich man's rambling. Her mother was hiding something. A secret so big it made her hands shake.

"Okay," Harper lied softly. "I promise. I won't talk to him."

---

[The Investigation]

But Richard Vance had no intention of staying away.

In the backseat of his Rolls Royce, Richard was holding the faded photograph again. It showed a beautiful woman standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, holding a paintbrush. She was smiling—a radiant, carefree smile. She had exactly the same almond eyes as Harper.

He picked up his phone. "Get me my private investigator. The best one."

"Yes, sir."

"I want a full background check on Harper Evans. I want her birth certificate. I want her parents' medical records. I want to know where she was born, exactly, to the minute."

Richard stared at the photo. "Catherine..." he whispered to the woman in the picture. "Could it be? Did you... did you keep the baby?"

Thirty years ago, Richard Vance had a passionate affair with a struggling artist in Paris named Catherine. But his family forced him to leave her and marry a wealthy heiress (Isabella's mother) to save the bank. When he went back to find Catherine a year later, she was gone. Vanished. He thought she had moved on. He never knew she might have been pregnant.

---

[The Lockbox]

Back at the Villa. Harper helped her parents load their bags into the car. Sebastian had arranged for a temporary apartment for them while the shop was fixed.

As Mr. Evans was putting his old, battered leather satchel into the trunk, the clasp broke. The contents spilled out. Old receipts, a thermos, and... a small, rusty metal box.

"Oh!" Mr. Evans scrambled to pick it up. He looked panicked.

"Let me help," Harper reached for the box.

"No!" Mr. Evans snatched it away. "Don't touch it! It's... it's just old tax papers!"

But Harper had seen it. For a split second, she saw the engraving on the lid of the rusty box. It wasn't Chinese characters. It was a faded, elegant French inscription: Pour Mon Amour, Paris, 1995. (For My Love, Paris, 1995.)

Harper stood frozen as the car drove away. Her father, who claimed he didn't know Paris from a loaf of bread, had a box engraved in French from 1995. The year she was born.

She turned to look at the massive mansion behind her. She suddenly felt like the ground was shifting beneath her feet.

She wasn't just a noodle shop girl. And the storm that was coming wasn't just about business. It was about blood.