The Paris Apartment: A Novel Novels & Stories

High enough to see the city lights. The key was waiting at the security desk. She rode the elevator up. The hallway was quiet a potted plant outside someone's door, a welcome mat reading G'day in cheerful yellow letters. Apartment 7B. She unlocked the door. The apartment was small but bright. Floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. A compact kitchen with white cabinets. One bedroom. One bathroom. It smelled faintly of dust, and the previous tenant had left scuff marks on the walls. Clara didn't care. It was hers. Hers alone. No cold husband. No cruel first love. No maids who looked through her like she was already a ghost.

The luxurious penthouse overlooking the glittering Eiffel Tower was bathed in soft golden light from crystal chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the iconic monument sparkling against the Paris night sky. The air carried the faint scent of expensive perfume, polished marble, and the distant aroma of rain on Parisian rooftops. Genevieve Laurent, a 24-year-old French heiress, stood trembling in the center of the living room wearing only a sheer black negligee, her heart hammering with dark, shameful anticipation.

The table fell silent. “Not now Please. Turn around and go back to whatever fucking hell hole you were in.” My heart skipped. I hadn’t even turned yet. But my body already knew. I inhaled. Leather. Soap. Memory. Something familiar I had tried so hard to forget. Suddenly the restaurant noise faded. The clatter of dishes blurred. Conversations disappeared. I wasn’t here anymore. I was back in that Paris bar, dim lights, amber reflections on glasses, a stranger standing beside me, a life beginning without my permission.

Ava’s POV Sleep was a stranger that night. I had tossed and turned until the moon itself had traveled halfway across the sky, the glow through my curtains mocking my exhaustion. My wolf stirred restlessly beneath my skin, as though aware of my turmoil but refusing to share its calm with me. Every breath in the dark felt stifling, every thought circling back to Diego, to Sage, to the chains of my family’s expectations. I finally pushed the covers off with a sigh and padded to my balcony doors. The air outside was cool and heavy with the faint scent of rain. The courtyard below looked peaceful, but peace was the last thing inside me.

Bernice The New York skyline glittered like a string of jewels against the inky night sky as I stood at the window of our penthouse apartment. It had been three weeks since our return from Paris, and the city's energy was slowly seeping back into my veins, igniting a creative spark I hadn't felt in years. "Still up, love?" Christian's voice came softly from behind me. I turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, his hair tousled from sleep, concern etched on his face.

I am looking forward to finding out what I eat for breakfast when nobody is watching and what I watch on television when the remote is entirely mine and what the Paris morning looks like from a window that belongs to me. Small things. Enormous things, actually. My mother has helped me find the apartment online, a third floor walk-up in the eleventh arrondissement that the listing describes as cozy and characterful, which I know from experience means small and in need of attention, but the pictures show a window with a view of rooftops and that is enough for me right now.

I stared out the window as the city unfolded before us, a blur of old stone buildings, narrow streets, and chic Parisians walking with purpose. The apartment was charming—small, but cozy. It had large windows that opened to a view of the street below, the scent of fresh bread and coffee wafting in from the bakery across the road. Claire had already stocked the fridge with essentials, and there was a vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen table. She had thought of everything, hoping this place would feel like a safe haven. “Home sweet home,” Claire said with a grin, tossing her bag onto the couch. “What do you think?”

“Entrez, entrez.” We walk inside. He quickly shuts the door behind us, then latches all the chains and bolts and locks in quick succession like he’s done it a thousand times before. The place is gigantic, a beautiful, high-ceilinged room with hardwood floors and tasteful furniture. There are massive French doors that lead out to a 10 by 20-foot stone balcony and a stunning, picture-perfect postcard view of Paris. Aside from Grant’s palatial penthouse in NYC, it’s probably the most beautiful apartment I’ve ever been in.

explained the man. Paris again looked at the door. She wasn't at the wrong apartment. "I'm sorry," she apologized as she walked away disappointed. "Probably the person who used to live here no longer dwells here for I have rented this apartment three weeks ago," said the man as Paris returned in the elevator. Paris cried. How could Greyson know that she truly loved him when he was no longer in New York?

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.