Chapter Two: The Parisian Escape
1086 Words
The golden afternoon light spilled through the tall windows of Maison d’Or, wrapping the restaurant in a soft, honeyed glow. Crystal glasses clinked, and the slow, mournful notes of a violinist filled the air.
It was the kind of place where romance lived in the spaces between candlelight and stolen glances.
Livia Sinclair knew this world well. It was one she had carefully built—a life of silk dresses, whispered promises, and never letting anyone close enough to see the cracks beneath the perfection.
Across from her, Ethan Laurent watched her with the kind of quiet intensity that made women weak in the knees. Dark hair tousled just enough to look effortless, a strong jaw, lips that knew how to smile at the right moments, hands that knew how to touch.
He reached across the table, brushing his fingers over her knuckles, slow, lingering. “I booked us a weekend in Santorini next month.” His voice was low, smooth. “Just you and me. No work, no distractions. You deserve a break, mon amour.”
His touch was warm. Familiar.
Livia let her gaze drop to his fingers tracing soft circles over her skin. She could still feel the heat from last night—his mouth on her neck, his hands gripping her hips, the way he whispered in French when she came undone beneath him.
Ethan was perfect. On paper.
He was the kind of man who made love feel like a slow dance—like it was meant to be cherished, tasted.
But Livia wasn’t the kind of woman who fell into softness.
She smiled, tilting her head. “You’re always so thoughtful, Ethan.”
His fingers tightened around hers, thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse. A small, knowing smile touched his lips. “You don’t have to say it back, you know.”
Her breath caught.
Ethan always knew.
He knew she wasn’t the kind of woman who whispered je t’aime in the dark. That love wasn’t something she had ever learned to hold.
But still, he stayed.
And then he reached into his pocket.
Livia’s entire body stilled.
The air shifted, the waitstaff subtly turning their heads, the hush of nearby diners sensing what was about to happen.
A small velvet box.
No.
Ethan exhaled, eyes locked on her. “Livia, I—”
Her phone rang.
The piercing sound shattered the moment like a stone through glass.
Livia blinked, pulse racing as she glanced at the screen.
Darcy.
Her heart dropped.
She hadn’t spoken to her stepbrother in years. The last time had been… messy. Painful.
There was only one reason he would be calling.
“Ethan, I—” She was already rising, ignoring the way his face fell. “I have to take this.”
“Livia, wait—”
But she was already stepping onto the open-air balcony, the Parisian skyline stretching around her, the cool evening breeze rushing against her skin.
She pressed the phone to her ear. “Darcy?”
His voice was tight. “Livia… it’s Luna.”
Her breath hitched.
Luna. Her little sister.
The only person she had ever truly loved.
“She collapsed.” A pause. “She’s in the hospital. It’s bad.”
Livia gripped the railing. “Tell me everything.”
“She needs blood.”
Her stomach turned to ice.
“O-negative,” Darcy continued, voice cracking. “And Livia… if she doesn’t get the transfusion soon, she might not make it.”
The world blurred.
O-negative. The same blood that had once tied her to a family that had discarded her.
Her hands trembled.
She could still hear Luna’s tiny voice from years ago—Don’t go, Livvy. Please don’t go.
But she had gone.
She had been sent away.
Her mother had remarried into a world that never welcomed her. The Sinclairs had treated her like an inconvenient reminder of a past that didn’t belong to them.
And Roman…
Roman had been the worst.
Cold. Detached. The untouchable heir who had barely looked at her before erasing her from their world completely.
And now?
Now they expected her to care.
No. They didn’t. None of them thought she would come.
Except Darcy.
She exhaled sharply, gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“I’ll be on the first flight.”
Darcy let out a breath of relief, but Livia had already tuned him out.
She ended the call, shoving her phone into her purse just as Ethan stepped onto the balcony. His brow furrowed. “Livia, what’s wrong?”
She swallowed. “I have to go.”
“To New York?”
She nodded.
Ethan studied her, his sharp mind piecing things together. His voice softened. “This is about your family.”
Livia flinched. He never asked about her past. Never pushed. And she never offered.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t owe them anything, you know.”
“I know.”
But she owed Luna.
Ethan exhaled slowly, stepping closer until there was barely any space between them. His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up. “Will you come back?”
Livia hesitated.
Because she wanted to say yes.
Ethan wasn’t just a safe choice. He was a good man. He was warm mornings and whispered laughter, hands on her waist as he kissed her slow.
But her past had never allowed her peace.
So instead of answering, she lifted onto her toes, pressing her lips against his in a way that told him everything she couldn’t say.
Ethan groaned, his grip tightening as he pulled her flush against him, deepening the kiss. His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as he kissed her with something dangerously close to desperation.
She let herself get lost in it for a moment—his warmth, his certainty, the way his mouth claimed hers like he knew she would slip away.
When she pulled back, he searched her face. “Livia—”
“I’m sorry.”
His jaw clenched. “I know.”
She turned before she could change her mind.
As she stepped out onto the streets of Paris, her heart was already miles away.
Back to the place she had sworn never to return to.
Back to the man she had spent years trying to forget.
Back to Roman Aldridge.
And if he had a problem with that?
He could burn.
- Writer
