Paris Novel Novels & Stories

“I am so sorry, I had no idea. I just started working as an intern here, so I don’t know much about Mr Grayson except that he’s a no-nonsense individual.” I give her a tight-lipped smile. “It’s fine—” Callum pokes his head in again, and clears his throat. “Mrs Grayson. Time’s running out.” “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m coming in right now.” The moment he leaves, Paris scoffs, clicking her tongue in distaste. “Sounds like you know this man, Paris,” I say, heading toward the second room. “I don’t.” “Are you sure?” “One hundred. He just rubs me the wrong way, you know?”

I scoffed “A woman?” I hung up immediately and the room fell quiet again. I stared at the dark phone screen for several seconds then tossed it onto the couch carelessly. Paris.The word alone dragged memories up like poison. All I could think about was the blood on marble floors and gunshots echoing through expensive halls. Men smiling while planning murders over dinner. My family had built empires there and buried bodies beneath them. I walked toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city as rain tapped softly against the glass.

"Yes, this is Paris' very first bar, steeped in history and intrigue. Did you know it originated in 1614 as La Pissote, a humble watering hole for King Louis XIII's coach drivers?" Tyler's eyes widened as Roselyn continued, "These drivers would pause for a quick drink and, ahem, bathroom break before continuing to Palais Royale, the epicenter of royal power and politics." Tyler shook his head, impressed. "How do you know so much about this place, Roselyn? Your knowledge of Parisian history is astounding." Roselyn's laughter was infectious, filling the air with joy. "I've always been fascinated by Paris, its secrets and stories. I've read extensively about its hidden gems, and this city has a

FELIX ------ It had been a week since Paris, Rafael and I had that encounter outside the library. I was so quick to assume Paris was late that I didn’t even try to listen to her. The security guard had to tell me that she was actually an hour and half earlier than I was, I didn’t even notice the clean office, arranged files and the coffee in her hand. I was too busy trying to be rude to her. Later on, I was told there was a camera and a recorder in my office other than the ones we install.

A morning like this should be foggy, misty at the least, but in contrast to their mood it looked determined to be a story-book perfect day in Paris - only without any glances shared between them. Ever since the moment they arrived in Paris, Grace noticed a shift in Maverick’s mood. She tried not to glance his way as the driver approached a multi-storey hotel. la grâce. The red neon sign read as the car stopped. Maverick had surprised her with many things today. First his private jet and now his hotel in Paris. She knew he was rich, but now she was pondering if he was a billionaire. Maverick opened the door and with his long legs, he stepped outside. Grace gulped scrambling over to his side a

“It gives people the wrong impression.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My mind was still replaying the way Diego had looked at me, like he could see through every lie I’d ever told. Two days later, I met Grace at our usual spot—the small café tucked between the bookstore and the apothecary. She was already at a corner table, her strawberry-blonde hair catching the morning light like spun gold. “You look like hell,” she said by way of greeting as I slid into the chair across from her.

Past servants who bowed and wolves who nodded and everyone who saw me as the Luna, the victor, the woman who had everything. I walked until I reached my chambers. My beautiful chambers, with their silk and gold and the lingering scent of roses. And then I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself. Perfect hair. Perfect face. Perfect gown, ruined now, dirtied by that cell, but still beautiful. And eyes that held something they had never held before.

A year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of watching the world from behind a stranger's face. Adrian stared out his penthouse window at the sprawling grid of New York City, a metropolis of light and life that felt as gray and desolate as a graveyard. This face, this body, was a choice—a desperate, last-ditch effort to claw his way back from the abyss.

What made it hurt the most was that, I knew that Dante would never allow me to be away from him if he knew about the things that were happening. If he had his memory, Dante would never let me out of his sight, which was comfort enough for me. I knew for sure that his mind belonged to me, whenever he remembered me and our memories, he would definitely come looking for me. Paris wasn’t the city of lights and romance I’d read in books and watched in films, it was a city of stone and rain, of hurried footsteps on slick cobblestones and a language that swirled around me like a dense fog, isolating me in my own bubble of grief.

I was always going to end up here. In this street. With this man. With this small certain person between us who arrived with opinions and a grip like something permanent and morning light in her room and a father who already loves her more than he knows what to do with and a mother who is still learning and a garden that needs work and a city that receives them all without ceremony and keeps going. Paris doesn't stop for anything. But it holds everything. We go inside. The door closes behind us. The city keeps going. So will we... End.