Behind Closed Doors B.a. Paris Novels & Stories

After they closed Alexandre's door, Reina looked at Xavier's face with a smile, her cheeks hot as she tucked her hair behind her flushed ear, and said, “Umm, so goodnight?” Xavier took her hand and said, “Come, I want to show you something.” Reina smiled, looking at Xavier's face dazedly as she nodded. Xavier led her to his study. He pressed a button, and the concealed door in the wall opened, and they entered the darkness. However, as the concealed door closed behind them. The lights started to flick on.

my uncle answered, pointing his finger at the square box drawn on the right side of the paper map. "The hidden courtyard is right behind my mother's old sitting room, Uncle, so if we take the back kitchen stairs through the service yard, we can bypass the main front gates completely," Fantine explained, using her pencil to draw a thin line from the back fence line straight into the inner garden area. "Is that service yard gate locked with heavy chains, Fantine, or can Silas's spearmen break through those latches without using explosives that would make a loud noise?" I asked, leaning over the paper map beside her while my shoulder brushed against hers.

Walking down the corridor, I hear Tristan sigh loudly and it takes a few moments for him to close the door and catch up to me. We exit the hotel and head north. It's a beautiful day: a story-book perfect day in Paris. The warm air swirls with the chatter of people in the streets, skinny girls walking in their trendy jeans and vintage bags, lanky boys with their scruffy hair and cigarettes, old couples with their droopy dogs.

CHAPTER 90: A NIGHT OUT IN PARIS VENUS: I was excited when we stepped out of the room, casually dressed and heading off to the club. Paris glowed like a dream, its lights glimmering off the Seine and dancing across every glossy window we passed. Maxine and I stepped out of the sleek black car, our hands entwined as we stood at the entrance of a stylish lounge located just off the Champs-Élysées. The night was crisp, alive with music and movement, and everything felt like a page torn straight out of a romance novel.

The next afternoon, the pull was too strong. I told myself I was going to the studio to "discuss Charity’s new tutor options," but the lie felt thin even to me. I parked the Renault three blocks away and walked the rest of the way, the humid Paris air making my hair stick to the back of my neck. I climbed the rusted stairs, the metal groaning under my feet. When I reached C302, I didn't knock. The door was slightly ajar, the scent of turpentine and something else—something warm and salty—wafting through the crack.

The massive crowd surged forward, carrying cameras, microphones, and livestream equipment as they followed me around to the side of the building, where a wide open lawn lay. I stopped, turned to face the crowd, and pointed toward the floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor. "Everyone, look up. That's Amanda Sutton's office. As for what's happening inside… I'll leave that for all of you to judge." Instinctively, everyone raised their heads only to fall completely silent the next second, for in front of that enormous floor-to-ceiling window…

He was around the other side of his desk, and he gestured for her to come and have a look at something on the computer screen. She walked over feeling a little apprehensive and tried to stay as far away from his body heat as possible. “I meant we need to look at these,” he said and pressed a key, and what looked like a property page came up with pictures of houses and gardens. “They are all houses and apartments for sale around Paris, mostly around Montmartre. The other day, you mentioned that you liked that area.” “I… well… I like it, but what do you mean? Why are we looking at these?’

“Entrez, entrez.” We walk inside. He quickly shuts the door behind us, then latches all the chains and bolts and locks in quick succession like he’s done it a thousand times before. The place is gigantic, a beautiful, high-ceilinged room with hardwood floors and tasteful furniture. There are massive French doors that lead out to a 10 by 20-foot stone balcony and a stunning, picture-perfect postcard view of Paris. Aside from Grant’s palatial penthouse in NYC, it’s probably the most beautiful apartment I’ve ever been in.

Kaycee and Thelma both left the kitchen and went straight to the double doors down the hallway. Kaycee became a gentle man and allowed Thelma in before following from behind, inside this passage were four rooms, each holding different backstage dress up and makeup facilities. Thelma took notice about the positions, colour and decorations of each door. There were two doors at the left wall, one painted in wine with mystical designs surrounding the words ‘costume written on it and the other a green door only having an Algerian writing ‘shoes and accessories’ written boldly on it. And there, at the right wall there was a dim yellow door but she could not see the words written on it because Kayc

Ann’s mother asked. “Fine, Jessica was at school,” Ann said, throwing her backpack to the side. “You know it does not go there,” her mother said with her hands on her side. With a sigh, Ann picked her backpack up and walked up the stairs. She goes into her room and got a fright when she puts her lights on. “Alexa, lights on.” “You will give me a heart attack!” Ann said, almost too loud, at the sight of Paris. “Close the door,” Paris said, sitting on the windowsill.