Lost In Paris Book Novels & Stories

A year since that day I ran away from home and decided to die on an island. I had the perfect idea of the perfect death. It was not unsuccessful. In fact, the lost soul, Brieanna died and is still submerged down the ocean floor. I never retrieved my backpack, it's my grave.

Hello my lovely Readers!! I just wanted to thank each and everyone of you!! His Lost Love was my first book but somewhere, I lost the spark and foolishly decided to stop writing it. It was the most stupidest thing I have ever. I wouldn't have finished it if not for your faith on me. You have been showering me with your constant love and support throughout the journey. Some of you have even motivated me to continue the story when I had lost hope as a writer. I am grateful to all those amazing readers!! You don't know what it means to me.

Paris believed maybe her little sister haven't received the letter and again wrote to her, again there was no reply. Paris was sad and soon felt depressed having no one to talk to. She found a love for reading and would read as many romance novels as she could. She would cry something wishing Archer was like the male characters who would do anything for the female characters. It had been 1 year and 11 months and almost 2 years Archer had gone. Perusing romance novels had become too much for Paris to take, it was allowing her to miss Archer too much. "Perhaps, getting a pet would be good now," she told Mandy.

The next day, Jean-Baptiste picked me up in a vintage car, looking even more handsome in casual clothes. "Ready for real Paris?" he asked. "As ready as I'll ever be." He took me to a bookshop that was part library, part café, part time capsule. Books in French and English covered every surface. Readers sprawled in chairs, sipping coffee and completely absorbed. "This place is magical," I breathed. "Yes. I come here when I need to remember why I love this city." He ordered us coffees. "So, American girl. What brings you to Paris looking so sad?"

Months later, Paris smelled like fresh rain and cigarette smoke. The city had a way of holding onto contradictions, of being both soft and sharp, warm and cold, alive and aching with ghosts. For Sherry, it mirrored exactly what lived inside her. It had been four months since she walked out of Enzo’s life, since the night she left behind the quiet devastation of his father’s office and booked a one-way ticket to Paris. She remembered the cold glass of the plane window pressed against her cheek that night, the blur of lights fading beneath her, and the way her body felt like it was made of glass, fragile, breakable, yet somehow still holding together.

The day after the day after, the atmosphere had settled into a new kind of quiet, a working quiet that was more unsettling than the tension that had preceded it. I was in the library, a room of dark wood and leather-bound books that smelled of dust and time. I was dusting the shelves, my movements efficient and precise, but my mind was not on the task. It was on a map, a map of a city I had never seen but was suddenly, irrevocably bound to. Paris. The word itself was a collection of images from books and films, a romanticized idea of a city I never thought I would see. And now I was going, not as a tourist, not as a free woman, but as a possession in a gilded cage. That changed everything.

And definitely not a romance. Wedging the book back between its friends, she stood. Stopped. Rose on tiptoe and reached, bringing down a larger book. This one bound in creased red leather. Beneath the dust the title was French. The words—and, with zero illustrations, it was nothing but words—all French. Her French sucked. She skimmed the story about a woman in a city—Paris?—trusting a man, a kind stranger. Following him? Elle le suivit. She—elle—followed—suivit—him—le.

I dropped my head, staring at the floor, my voice shaking as I whispered to myself, “Why did Vincent pretend? Why act like he didn’t know? Why lie to our faces?” Paris is in more danger than any of us realize. She doesn’t see it yet but I do. And I won’t let that monster hurt her too. Not again. PARIS POV The morning light slipped through the curtains and touched my face. It felt soft. For a second, I forgot where I was. Then everything came back, last night, his touch, his voice. Vincent.