Novel & Cerita The Paris Apartment: A Novel

Officially, the place was under Paris’s name, since they couldn’t be official just yet. A former mob member and a cop? How would that relationship sound? So to avoid suspicion from Paris’s department, they had kept the house in Paris’s name and Rico was content with that. He was happy as long as Paris was happy. However…he wasn’t quite content with his friend following him around like some lost puppy. “There’s definitely something wrong.” Paris sighed under his breath. Rico heard the little complain, but didn’t say anything. They reached their apartment within the next few minutes and took the elevator to the eighth floor. Rico walked a bit ahead of him, getting in before Paris and he placed

“This can’t be true. Isn’t Charlene a poor student? How could she afford it?” “That’s right. This apartment must belong to Jacob. He drives an expensive car, and he dresses in luxury brands. Jacob, hurry up and explain!” Jacob pursed his lips as sweat covered his forehead. Meanwhile, Prissy nudged him anxiously. “Jacob! It’s clearly written on the document that you gave me the apartment. Why is he saying that it belongs to Charlene?! Tell me now!” I sneered at Prissy as she stomped her foot, and I slowly said, “Obviously, that deed is fake!”

I grabbed my jacket. "Come on, let's go to the apartment." We soon arrived at the neighborhood. The door to the apartment I had carefully renovated was wide open. Bertha was directing several workers as they carried out the furniture I had bought. She said, "Be careful. Everything's expensive. They'll sell for a lot." When she saw me, she smiled smugly. "Well, well. If it isn't Ms. Shaw. Here you see your unit? Too bad for you. This place belongs to the Carters now."

I had gone back to sleep before I could think about it too much. The room they brought us to was on the top floor. I walked in ahead of Dominic and stopped in the middle of the sitting room and just stood there for a moment. It was enormous. All cream and beige and soft gold, the kind of colour palette that made everything look like it was being lit from inside. The sitting room alone was almost as large as the entire apartment I had shared with two roommates before everything changed. Floor to ceiling windows on one side, all of Paris spread out beyond them like someone had arranged the city specifically for this view. The Eiffel Tower was visible from where I was standing. I could see it w

As long as I had enough, that was all that mattered. Over the next few days, Julie and I visited several new developments and looked at a few high-end apartments, about 1,290 square feet each. The apartments were fully renovated, with floor-to-ceiling windows and access to a residents' clubhouse. Julie stood on the balcony of one of the model units, staring outside. Her eyes lit up for a moment, but her excitement didn't last for long. "What's up? You don't like this place?" She shook her head. "I do like it."

PAST - 10 YEARS AGO PARIS, FRANCE – OLIVIER'S MANSION Two years. Two years inside that white prison, breathing the same sterile air, hearing the same silence broken only by the noise of machines and the distant footsteps of nurses. Two years being treated like an invalid, a corpse that stubbornly refused to rot. But now I'm home. My mansion on the outskirts of Paris is silent, almost ghostly. The curtains remain closed; the bulletproof glass filters the sunlight, turning it into something pale and harmless. There are no servants, no visitors. Just me, the walls, and the ghosts that have accompanied me since that night.

“Liam and Adrian, check the bathroom and see if the water still works. Ava and I will search for a fire extinguisher.” The four of them scattered across the suite immediately. Winona opened cabinet after cabinet while smoke thickened around them. “Who designs a luxury hotel without visible safety equipment?” “Rich people love suffering aesthetically,” Ava coughed while searching near the wardrobe. “I loathe this place so much.” A loud crack echoed nearby as another section of the bookshelf caught fire. The countdown reached: 03:41 Then Ava suddenly froze. “Wait.” Winona turned immediately. “What?” “I think I found it.”

The small devices I use for surveillance — the ones that didn't stay in the hotel room, the ones I couldn't bear to leave behind — go in the false bottom of my suitcase, locked and hidden and waiting for instructions I haven't given yet. I stand at the window of my temporary bedroom and look out at the Paris afternoon. The light is thin and grey, November doing what November does, and the city has the quality of a photograph taken through gauze. I think about the fact that I'm standing in Celeste Laurent's home, in a room she prepared for me, in a building where every surface has been chosen to reflect her taste and her wealth and her particular relationship with the world. At noon, Celeste

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.

He had only stayed here for a few days. As soon as they walked in, the double-height entryway chandelier lit up, casting a warm glow over the space. The apartment was a blend of classical French elegance and modern sophistication—ornate hand-painted ceilings, rose-gold-trimmed walls, and Versailles parquet flooring. Among all their properties, this wasn’t the biggest. But it had the best location—from the living room, she could see the Eiffel Tower. Raphael had heard that his wife liked lively places, which was likely why she chose to live here.