The Book The Paris Wife Romane & Geschichten

Ivy had told me another time. “How did you know this?” I had asked. “Because she has appeared as one of the flamboyant wives in Paris,” Ivy had responded. “I didn’t know that,” I had responded. “That is because you are not a woman, and this was posted on the Paris women’s magazine,” she had said.

As I lowered the phone, another notification slid across the screen. BREAKING: CEO DANTE REYES SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY WOMAN AT SEATTLE HOTEL. My stomach twisted. “No…” I tapped the article, the picture loaded and my entire body went rigid. It was me and Paige frozen in one perfect, damning frame. Her arms were wrapped around my waist, my hands weren’t touching her but that wasn’t what the camera captured, it captured exactly what people wanted to believe. Fuck. My jaw clenched so hard it hurt as I remembered the moment immediately, she had grabbed me after I dismissed her and I had pushed her away seconds later.

Paris felt different after the wedding. It was not the Paris I knew when I was younger. Then Paris was a city with a lot of fancy hotels and closed windows. People went to Paris to be seen. They did not really see anything. Now Stephen and I were two people walking along the Seine. We stayed in an apartment in the Marais. The floorboards. We could smell fresh bread from the street in the morning. There were no bodyguards, no phones and no strangers following us into cafes.

Poise and elegance have never been a problem for Paris and she is never afraid to let her wealthy upbringing show in her manner of approach. The young waiter nods in understanding. “This way.” He leads us to a table where Paris takes her sits. He smiles and walks away. I do not dare to take a seat, well, until. “Come on and take a seat, Taylor, don’t want anyone thinking you’re my bodyguard,” Paris says and I sit down. We both waited a few minutes and in the while of waiting, Paris didn’t stop looking at her phone. I felt tempted to play Candy Crush, too.

POV: RED The Parisian air was different. It was not the thick, salt-laden breath of the island, but a dry, cool current that carried the distant scent of baking bread and exhaust fumes. It was the air of a million lives lived in close proximity, a constant, low-level hum of existence that was both a comfort and a threat. I had been in the house for a week, a week of careful observation and quiet adjustment. The house was a masterpiece of understated luxury, a fortress of discretion, and I was its most valuable, most closely guarded prisoner.

She calmly sipped her tea, maintaining a composed expression while Aaron watched her closely, waiting for a crack in her calm. Finally, Paris sighed and looked at Aaron as if she pitied his stupidity. “You invited me here, waved around evidence that violates my privacy… for what? To accuse me of hiding a fugitive?” “Stop denying it, Paris. Romilda has no money. You’re the one funding her,” Aaron pressed. “Listen, Mr. Smart Ass,” Paris said sharply, placing her cup down with a loud clink. Her expression turned serious. “Helena is my cousin.” Aaron paused. “Your cousin?”

Angela Romero-Fernan is an ideal wife. A perfect Type-A wife to be exact. A loving wife to her husband Sebastian Fernan. A caring mother to their only son Thomas Romero Fernan. Angela also fulfills the duty of a CEO on their own family business. You see, she is the perfect ideal wife any man could wish for. But her husband Sebastian saw all those things from a different perspective. And indeed up cheating on her perfect wife Angela. And now shady things happened that their perfect marriage is at risk.

When you stay alone for as long as I did, what better way is there to spend part of your time so you won't feel alone? I clear my throat. "What is the book about?" I say, pointing to his hands. "It's about a man who has to decide between saving his wife or his newborn son in a fire outbreak." I wince. That sounds harsh. Only if I understood French. I ran my hands over the front cover, mulling over what I was about to say next. "Can I ask you a question?" "Isn't that what you've been doing since we got to France?" "I meant something personal this time."

Daughter of congressman Ellis Laurent and the woman I’ve been seeing for the last five years. She strolled into the ballroom as though she owned the place, her blood red mini dress clung to every curve, her smirk daring anyone to stop her. For a heartbeat, our eyes locked, and I saw the spark of chaos in her eyes, she wore the damn thing like a badge of honour, like a damn trophy. Her long thin blonde hair hung down all the way to her waist. There was a reason I didn’t tell her about tonight. Because she would do anything to stop it from happening. She found out anyway. I sent her and her friends to Paris for the week, gave her the jet and everything. I gave her my damn credit card and every

“Are you that girl?” Rachel turned, puzzled, to see a woman two beds over pointing a bony finger at her. "Excuse me?" Rachel asked, frowning in confusion. "You’re Nicholas Anthony’s fiancée, right? The shopaholic?" the woman said with a mocking grin, her tone dipped in scorn. "Shopaholic?" Rachel felt her face burn, her ears going red. "You pawned your parents' house certificate just for shopping? You’re *impossible*..." the woman scoffed, shaking her head and barely containing her laughter.