Page 119 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
Once inside, I move with the crowd until I find the room housing the Mona Lisa. It’s impossible to get close, hundreds of phones are already in the air, snapping the same photograph.
Octavia will murder me when she finds out I came here without her. She breathes art, and I can already picture how furious she’ll be that I visited Paris without her.
The thought makes me smile, but only for a moment before it fades. I don’t know why she isn’t here with me. Father said she had other plans, but I’m not sure I believe him.
I didn’t have the chance to talk to her, and she hasn’t replied to any of my messages.
After visiting the museum and managing to see a few of its most famous pieces, I give up on the idea of covering it all.
The Louvre is enormous, you could spend an entire day there and still miss half of it.
I wander back toward the river as the city eases into evening, thinking I should find somewhere to eat before heading back. Somewhere with a view, something beautiful.
A café catches my eye, a small terrace draped with string lights, the Tower visible in the distance. Inside, the hostess greets me in French, takes my coat, and shows me to a table by the window.
I scan the menu, divided neatly between French and English, and order an oat milk latte and an avocado tartine with roasted cherry tomatoes and olive tapenade.
I set my phone aside and let my gaze drift to the view beyond the glass. The Eiffel Tower glows gold now, its lights shimmering against the deepening sky while the low hum of Paris moves around me, soft laughter, the clink of cutlery, faint jazz threading through the air.
It’s then that I sense it, that subtle shift in the room, the awareness that someone is looking. My skin prickles before I even turn my head.
Across the room, a man is watching me. He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet, if anything, the look deepens.
He’s seated a few tables away, relaxed, a half-finished glass in front of him. His suit is charcoal grey, perfectly tailored, the collar of his shirt open.
There’s something in his stare that holds me still, like he’s looking through me rather than at me.
My pulse slips, uneven, and a shiver runs down my spine. I swallow and, without thinking, offer a small smile.
I have no idea who he is, but there’s something about him, an intensity I can’t name, that ties me in knots.
He doesn’t smile back. But his lips curve, just slightly, an acknowledgment, a promise, or maybe a warning.
And it shouldn’t have the effect it does on me.
Chapter 41
Arlo
Eighteen months earlier | Paris, France.
I hate everything love stands for.
What is that, even?
A word people worship, a lie they pass around like fine wine, sweet for a moment, then bitter when it’s gone.
Love at first sight?
Bullshit.
One person for life?
A delusion fed by Hallmark films and desperate women clutching romance paperbacks.
People don’t fall in love. They fall into possession, convenience, power. Everything else is a story you tell yourself to make the loneliness sound poetic.
Even parental love isn’t real. I should know.
