Paris Daillencourt Is About To Crumble นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Standing beside his car. Looking up. Right at me. My heart slammed violently against my ribs. “I’ll see you soon,” Damien said softly before ending the call. The line went dead. I stood frozen, phone still pressed to my ear, my reflection staring back at me from the glass—wide-eyed, shaken, and dangerously aware of one terrifying truth: Damien Grey wasn’t bluffing. And Paris was about to become very, very complicated.

I exhaled and slumped—flat again. Maybe that was it. Just food. Paris was in fourteen days. Fourteen. I counted every day silently, like a runner pacing for a race. The Collab of the Year event was locked in. The first launch would be in that famed gallery on Rue Saint‑Honoré; walk‑through with Maison’s design team in three days; fittings in two. It all felt surreal. And thrilling. And… terrifying.

“Did you hear?” Daniel asked in a bewildered tone of voice, from where he was sitting next to Rose, in the changing rooms, as they finally caught their breaths after a tumultuous shift. She had already changed into her day clothes. Daniel, on the other hand, was of those nurses who didn’t bother and actually went home in scrubs. “Hear what?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “There was a short-circuit at La Duchesse, and it caught fire. It was all over the news. Damages are estimated at over 500.000$,” he told her, eyes wide, sounding totally baffled.

“And after that?” Ayesha’s voice was steady. “We make sure he knows he’s not untouchable.” Paris: A City of Secrets Less than 48 hours later, the team landed in Paris, blending into the city like ghosts. Leena led them through the narrow streets of the 6th arrondissement, where power brokers met behind closed doors. Their target—Marcus Delacroix—was hosting a private gathering in a luxury penthouse. And they were going to crash it. A Silent Infiltration

**The War That Never Ended** Paris, France – A City on Fire The black SUV sped through the rain-slicked streets, its tires screeching as Leo took a sharp turn. Inside, Isabella sat rigid, her mind replaying every second of the château disaster. Marcella had planned everything—the trap, the spectacle, the power move. And worse? She had survived. Again. Dante chuckled from the back seat, wiping a smear of blood from his knuckles. “I have to admit, that was fun.”

Daniel I stand at the entrance of the café where I asked Aurélie to meet me. The place is nearly deserted, the usual patrons nowhere to be seen, as if the city itself is holding its breath. The soft afternoon light filters through the curtains, casting gentle shadows on the walls. Everything is calm—too calm—but inside my mind, it’s pure chaos.

It had gained significant popularity in Casier and was one of the most profitable subsidiaries under the Duncan Corporation. Just three hours ago, news broke on the internet about an incident at a newly delivered property of Casier Real Estate. During the renovation, a floor collapse resulted in injuries to the workers, causing them to be rushed to the hospital. The news rapidly spread across the internet, reaching the top of the trending hashtags. It sparked intense discussions among netizens, many of whom criticized and condemned Casier Real Estate.

“You should have breakfast and then we’ll head out to see them.” By that evening Cassandra’s head was spinning. She’d seen stunning art-deco ground-floor apartments in the Latin Quarter. She’d seen beautiful townhouses in Montmartre, with idyllic gardens tucked away from prying eyes. She’d seen opulent, airy, studio-style apartments near the Eiffel Tower. Then she’d seen some more in the upmarket eighteenth-arrondissement. All of them had the same thing in common: they were all exclusive and awe-inspiringly, jaw-droppingly expensive. The crème de la crème of Paris real-estate.

"Crystal blue eyes. Built like a tank. French accent." Paris choked on her wine. "French? Blue eyes? Built like a tank?" She leaned closer to the camera. "Honey, what is his name?" "Lucien," I said. "Monsieur Aurelien." The line went dead silent. Paris froze. Her wine glass halted halfway to her mouth. Even London looked up from her paperwork, her expression sharpening. "Did you say... Aurelien?" Paris whispered. "Yes. Why?" Paris looked at London. They shared a look—a silent conversation that sisters do. It was a look of pure shock.

I walk. The city moves around me, early Saturday morning Paris, unhurried and particular, the bakeries open and doing their business, the flower stalls setting up, the specific demographic of the early morning park joggers nodding at each other with the acknowledgment of people who share a secret. I think about Talia. About the dinner earlier this week, the way she said Claudine's friend in Paris as if the phrase was unremarkable, the specific quality of her composure when I said Bellamy Inc and her hand on the wine glass going very still before it relaxed again.