The Paris Apartment Novels & Stories

My throat closed around the memory: two teenage girls splitting a stolen croissant, giggling as rain dripped through the roof. The car swerved onto Rue des Alpes. Number 17 stood unchanged—a shabby fourth-floor walkup with peeling blue shutters. My chest ached. Lina stirred as Jeff killed the engine. "Is she here?" "No." I touched her shoulder. "But we'll find answers." The apartment door was unlocked. Inside, dust motes danced in our flashlight beams. The place had been frozen in time: my old sweater still draped over a chair, Daniela's hairbrush on the dresser. And on the kitchen table—

I had the best intelligence network in the world. Admission records for the Beaux-Arts in Paris. A lease for an apartment by the Seine. Her French phone number... I found it all. When I kicked open the door to her Paris apartment, I expected her to throw herself into my arms and say she missed me. But she just looked at me calmly. Those foxy eyes that used to be full of me were now empty. She looked at me like I was a stranger. I waited downstairs for three months. I sent black roses every day.

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 small apartment felt unusually quiet when Gian unlocked the door. It was on the seventh floor, with a balcony overlooking the city park. Not very big, but comfortable enough for two people. The living room and kitchen shared an open layout, furnished with modern minimalist pieces. Shades of gray and cream dominated the space, giving it a calm yet slightly cold atmosphere.

She was now reclining on the rich green leather sofa, pointing the remote control at the widest television screen Clare had ever seen, which brooded in the opposite corner. ‘They’ve got a great porn channel here,’ Francesca commented. ‘Just in case we can’t think of anything better to do . . .’ A bottle of chilled champagne was waiting in a silver bucket on a glass-topped table. Clare popped the bottle open and poured two glasses. ‘Vive la France,’ Francesca sighed happily, raising her glass to the view. ‘I love these big windows, don’t you?’ She had leapt up from the sofa and was now drawing back the raw silk curtains and looking down on the street below. ‘And Paris is the perfect place for

Steadied my nerves slightly. We flew in silence. Jasper focused on his laptop. I stared out the window. Clouds below. Sky above. Nothing but space between us and Paris. Thinking about Vivienne. About what she'd planned. What we'd find. Would she be there? Would we finally catch her? Or would she be gone again? Always one step ahead? Several hours into the flight, Jasper looked up. "I found three possibilities. All third-floor apartments in Marais. All near Place des Vosges."

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

Dashiell took my hand in his and led me to the opened car door, "Glad to be the reason why France is already added to that list," JOAN APARTMENT BUILDING. An hour of snuggling later, we arrived at a five-bedroom luxury penthouse which had an expensive mahogany flooring, plush leather dining seats, soft beds and couches, television sets in all the rooms. And, one of the master bedrooms had a large glass that overlooked the city, thereby giving a better view of the Eiffel Tower.

Satisfied with how I look, I open the door and walk out of the living room and start waiting for Aspen. He arrives half an hour later and walks to the spare room to get ready; he does all this without saying a word to me. I move toward the wall-size window in the apartment, which is opposite the Eiffel tower. The apartment is on the fortieth floor and has the best view. In the morning, when I had moved the blinds away from the window, I was mesmerized by the view in front of me. At night the Eiffel tower is decorated by lights all over, I can't describe it's beauty in words.5