The Paris Apartment: A Novel Novels & Stories

That was four months ago. I walked to the sitting room and poured coffee from the pot room service had left. It had gone lukewarm. I drank it anyway and stood by the window looking down at the street below. I had given up everything for this. My apartment in Paris. My position at the firm there. A life I had built carefully and deliberately. I had left all of it behind the moment Marcus called and said he was ready. That the plan was moving. That soon we would finally be together properly and everything would be worth it.

Here, I was simply the quiet American in apartment 4B who paid her rent on time and smiled politely and ordered her coffee with two sugars. It was, I decided, exactly what I needed. My apartment was small. Smaller than the walk-in wardrobe at the penthouse. The walls were the colour of old cream, and the radiator clicked and hissed at odd hours of the night, but the window above the kitchen sink looked out onto a narrow cobbled street and caught the light just right in the late afternoon. That mattered. Light had always mattered to me, even when nothing else did. Weeks into her Paris life...

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.

“Now rest. We’re almost at the apartment. It’s a nice place. Quiet. Good light for painting. You’ll like it.” The car pulled up to a modern building. Pierre helped me with my suitcase and showed me to the apartment. It was small but beautiful — a living area, a bedroom, and a studio space with big windows. “Get some sleep,” Pierre said at the door. “We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon. Call me if you need anything.” “I will,” I said. “Thank you again.” He nodded and left. I closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed, looking around. Paris. A new start.

~002 He Can’t Forget Her --- The morning sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Xavier Louis’s penthouse, golden rays casting long shadows across the stark, modern furniture. The skyline of Paris stood still, dignified, unbothered by the turmoil of one man. But within those high-rise walls, Xavier couldn’t shake the feeling of disruption. He sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, a tumbler of aged whiskey in hand even though it was barely past eight.

She was in PARIS! The apartment was waiting. It was the first thing she had booked days back, even before her flight. She chuckled as she remembered the so many luxurious apartments she had to skip before picking that very humble one, her fingers trembling as she clicked “Confirm” late at night, making the reservation like it was a lifeline. She would later jump for joy after her request was processed and accepted.

Until, she subconsciously begins to slow. The pounding in the pavement softens, and her feet begin to slow to a walk. She stands before the green street sign. 'Florence Street,' it reads. The same street she remembered crossing the night before, the scene of the crime, so to speak. Hesitantly, she presses further down the street, her overactive mind once again craving answers. One foot carefully placed in front of the other until she is standing at the entrance to the park. The first thing she notices is the dark spot on the ground. It's long, and a shade of dark burgundy. Something crunches under her sneaker and she slowly lifts her leg to find glass. Actually, now that she looks around the

I picked my way past the bloodstains and made my way to apartment 603. "Hey, are you home?" I pushed the door open. It was dark inside. The soft patter of rain and the low rumble of thunder answered me. The living room was dark, but the bedroom light was on. A warm yellow glow spilled from the doorway, casting a rectangle of light across the floor. I kept my guard up. The door was left open, after all. The guy in 603 had clearly seen someone at my door, so why would he open his? In the bedroom, a man was lying on his side on the bed. It looked like no one else was in the apartment. I hurried over and tapped the man.

**Six months later - Paris** The apartment was tiny. A fifth-floor walk-up in the Marais district with a window that looked out at other windows and a bathroom so small I had to turn sideways to use the sink. Nothing like the Moore mansion. Everything like freedom. I woke up at 5 AM to the sound of Clara’s alarm in the other room. We’d been sharing this shoebox for six months, working three jobs between us, barely scraping by. And I’d never been happier.

Isabella's POV My apartment is old but the view out of the window is amazing and soothing. I am sitting on a cane chair, looking out of the window, imagining what my life would have been if it was this beautiful. Beautiful like this magnificent view of Paris. But it isn't. I am living in an old building that has no elevator to ease my every morning exercise of going to a bookstore to get a new book to read for the day to keep me company or going grocery shopping.