The Paris Apartment Novels & Stories

He was around the other side of his desk, and he gestured for her to come and have a look at something on the computer screen. She walked over feeling a little apprehensive and tried to stay as far away from his body heat as possible. “I meant we need to look at these,” he said and pressed a key, and what looked like a property page came up with pictures of houses and gardens. “They are all houses and apartments for sale around Paris, mostly around Montmartre. The other day, you mentioned that you liked that area.” “I… well… I like it, but what do you mean? Why are we looking at these?’

Isayanna The apartment is a relic. It groans under the weight of the wind, the floorboards shrieking like rusted hinges and the plumbing protesting every time I turn the tap. The walls are paper-thin, offering no sanctuary from the world, yet the view from my window is a masterpiece. Paris sprawls beneath me—a jagged horizon of zinc rooftops and church spires, with the Seine shimmering like a ribbon of spilled silver in the distance. It is a view that lies to me. It tells me life is perfect, while I sit here in a frayed cane chair, tracing the velvet rot of the armrests. My life is not a masterpiece; it’s a wreckage of "what-ifs."

Saint asked as he came up behind me. I nodded. Torn between tears and giggles, a watery snort escaped before I could calm myself down. Perfect copies of my apartment sat like some kind of building project a little kid put together. Rows upon rows, columns after columns of my apartment lined the street. And they weren't only covering the warehouse where Scarlet used to hide away. No, these apartments were running the length of the street in both directions. Stacked about five apartments high along the full length of it. The worst part was the fact that the wall that faced the street...huge walls of windows. Anyone walking down the street could see into them.

When Maisie was at work that day, she made some points about what was happening to her apartment. It seems illogical that someone will try to freeze her on her apartment. But she couldn't deny the knowledge that something was sure going on. And when she reached her apartment to see if she could stay there that night or at least make sure she had a proper attire for the next day of work. She just snapped when she felt the usual cold. What she didn't expect was to see the most beautiful man she had ever seen appear in front of her.

Cynthia could hardly believe how much time had passed. Months. Actual months in Paris. Sometimes she woke up still expecting to see the old room back home, the soft curtains she chose with Louisa, or even the lake house walls where she recovered from the darkest moments of her life. But each morning she opened her eyes to the sun melting through the tall French windows of their apartment — the one Xavier insisted on getting so she wouldn’t feel like a visitor in the city.

An awkward silence ensued between them. “Look, it’s top secret and you wouldn’t want to deal with this group, so I can’t say,” she replied. The elevator made a ding sound, opening up to Paris’ apartment and there Paris stood wrapped in the arms of a man in a robe. “Guilia Guerra!” Paris squealed, rushing to meet Guilia “Look, I’ve got to go,” she said, ending the call as Paris threw her hands around her. “Beat it, John.” She snapped her hands, and the man was gone.

"Then I’m coming with you." He met her gaze. "Are you sure? This might destroy everything." "Or it might heal something you didn’t even know was still bleeding. Either way, we face it together." Paris was a different world romantic, timeless, haunting. The city carried echoes of stories whispered through the centuries, and now, it would carry theirs too. They stood outside a modest building in Montmartre. The address was scrawled in his mother’s handwriting, tucked between old letters found in the Zurich apartment. Sebastian stared at the door for a long time.

The apartment sat above a bookshop on a narrow street in the 11th, nothing grand about it, nothing designed for tourists, which was exactly right for both of them. "There are twenty-two stairs," Isla announced, halfway up on the first evening, one hand braced against the wall. "I counted." "You could have told me that before I let the movers unload the crib on the fourth floor." "It was a discovery in progress." Paris in February wasn't performing for anyone — grey sky, cold air, the city just being itself in winter light, and Isla loved it immediately, standing at the kitchen window that first morning looking down at the street below.

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...

The apartment was a new, modern cage on the 14th floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a breathtaking, glittering view of the city Sloane had been drowning in just days before. The air smelled of new paint and money. Her footsteps echoed on the polished concrete floors as she explored, a ghost in her own new life.