Lost In Paris Book Novels & Stories

Warm sunlight spilling across the city. People crowded the pavements. Tourists filled cafés. The perfect Paris afternoon. Jessica stopped at a small bookshop she'd grown to love. Spent twenty minutes browsing. Bought a novel. Then continued walking. Everything felt normal. Until she reached her apartment building. There, resting against the entrance door, sat a single white rose. No card. No note. Nothing. Just a rose. Waiting. Jessica froze. Every sound seemed to disappear. The city faded into the background.

“That will be 27 euros, madame.” I handed her the exact amount, and she gave me the receipt. I returned to my table, knowing a waiter would bring my order once it was ready. I put my sunglasses on my head and watched the cars and people passing by. This is what I love when I’m here. I always feel inspired to write. For me, this place is peaceful and gives me peace of mind. I was currently writing LOST IN PARIS. The story is about a woman who applied as a teacher in Paris, but her agency scammed her. Afraid of getting arrested in a foreign country, she ended up applying as a tutor for the child of a billionaire single father.

Paris, the city of lights, beckons with promises of opportunity and adventure. “Paris... It's been too long since I've visited”. He gazes out the window, lost in contemplation. Serena? Come in here? My heart was excited about Paris, I was smiling with teeth wide open, and I maintained composure as soon as I noticed I was acting weird. “Cancel my appointments for next month. I'll be in Paris. “Paris, sir? Are you sure”? “I know you were listening in the other line, so don't act surprised. It's time for a change of scenery”

The hurt still lingered when I saw the note lying carelessly on the bed — the note telling me that she could not continue to pretend for the mate bond, the note that officially rejected me as her mate. The plane had already landed when she woke up, and as usual, she tried her best to ignore my stare, looking down at her shoes instead. I had Collins book the best hotel because I wanted the perfect spot for my trip here — my trip to the city of love, Paris. “I made reservations for two, please,” I said, watching the receptionist check for my name. “Well, sir, your name is on the list, but your female friend does not have a room booked with us,” the woman said with a very thick French accent.

he hissed. I gave a small, bitter smile. "What manners could I have when I was born with parents but never raised by them? My own father and brother sent me off to dig mines to appease an imposter. What kind of upbringing do you expect from me?" Guests nearby had gathered by the entrance, whispering among themselves. "I heard the Gervaises had a biological daughter who went missing for years. Could that be her?" "How pitiful. If that impostor hadn't stolen her place, she'd be the one engaged to the oil prince today."

Tears of joy spilled down my face as I thought myself the happiest woman alive. It wasn't until much later that I learned of Tristan's greatest regret—that he'd never handed that glass of whiskey to Winnie. A bitter smile crossed my lips. Now, at last, maybe he could. Memories surged up in relentless waves, and a bone-deep weariness dragged me under. I sank into a troubled, uneasy sleep. When I opened my eyes again, the car was already sitting in the villa's garage. Winnie was gone. She must've slipped out without me noticing.

I felt weird, felt like some electric shock. I can’t move. I just stared at him. Until he pulled me up to sit. And I unconsciously grab his hand making him look at me. Then our eyes meet again. And again my world stops spinning. I’ve seen his face like everyday but I doubt if I ever get tired of it. Like I said, he looked like an angel. And just like the other times, when my eyes landed on his, I couldn't look away, I felt like drowning.

I didn’t know what I found more offensive: the fact Ronan smoked next to a shelf of first editions, or that I would have to share this space with himfor however long he kept me here. The first book I pulled off the shelf was Paradise Lost by John Milton. How ironic. The novel was a set of poems depicting Satan as arrogant and instrumental to his own downfall, and, eventually, he lost the fight against God. I dropped the book on Ronan’s desk on the way out. The one glaring thing the house lacked was electronics. I didn’t find a single telephone, radio, or computer. Either the frequencies disrupted Ronan’s communications with the underworld, or he got rid of any way I could reach out for help.

Paris muttered. “What do you mean, miss?” “I’m canceling the table,” Paris whispered to the waiter, slipping fifty dollars into the pocket of his vest. “I was never here.” Without waiting for a response, Paris turned and walked quickly—almost running—out of the café. She put her sunglasses back on, lowered her head, and slipped away before Matteo or Rose could turn toward the door.

“So what? That doesn’t change anything. If you’re so in love with her, why isn’t she here?” That hit harder than I wanted to admit. “Tell me something, Logan. Do you really think she’s coming back to you?” A muscle in my jaw twitched. “That’s none of your business.” Paris grinned like she had just drawn blood. “Oh, but it is my business. You’re wrecking my life over her, so forgive me if I’m just a little invested in how this plays out.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “You wrecked your own life, Paris. You made a choice when you dragged Isabella through the mud. You thought you could control the narrative, but now you’re learning what happens when you cross the wrong person.”