Twilight in Paris

searching for twilight in Paris

​The slip of paper in Charlotte’s hand felt heavier than lead. It was an address—a luxury high-rise in the financial district. Ryan had emailed it to her three weeks ago, begging her to come see the new life he was building, promising that he had cut ties with his past mistakes. She had ignored it then. Now, with the pink-and-white plastic stick safely buried at the bottom of her trash can, that address was her only destination.

​She had to tell him. It was a matter of basic human decency, a trait she refused to let him strip away from her, even if he possessed none of it himself.

​The cab ride was a blur of gray skies and anxiety. When she arrived at the gleaming glass building, the concierge simply nodded her toward the elevators; Ryan had left her name on the permanent guest list, a pathetic, arrogant presumption that she would eventually cave.

​She rode the elevator to the penthouse level, her stomach churning with a mix of dread and morning sickness. Stepping into the hushed, carpeted hallway, she found door 502.

​It was cracked open.

​Charlotte paused, her hand hovering over the brushed steel handle. The faint sound of clinking glass and low laughter drifted out from the gap. She pushed the door open, stepping into an entryway that smelled of expensive cologne and sterile, new furniture. It didn't smell like cedarwood. It didn't smell like Ryan.

​"Ryan?" she called out softly, her voice trembling.

​There was no answer, just the muffled sound of movement from the bedroom down the hall. Charlotte’s heart began to hammer a frantic, terrifying rhythm against her ribs. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck as a sickeningly familiar sense of déjà vu washed over her.

​She walked down the hallway, her footsteps silent on the plush carpet. She reached the open bedroom doorway.

​The world stopped spinning. It just dropped.

​The bed was a massive, modern island in the center of the room. The silk sheets were tangled, and lying there, completely intertwined, were Ryan and Julian Vance. Vance’s hand was lazily tracing the line of Ryan’s bare spine, while Ryan had his face buried in Vance’s neck. They weren't in the middle of a frantic, panicked transaction. They were lounging. They were comfortable.

​Ryan had taken the partnership. And he was paying the ongoing price.

​Charlotte couldn't breathe. The first time she had caught them, it had shattered her heart. This time, it pulverized whatever dust was left. He hadn't changed. He hadn't been drowning without her. He had simply learned to breathe a different, toxic kind of air.

​A choked gasp escaped Charlotte’s lips before she could stop it.

​Ryan’s head snapped up. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a ghost. "Charlotte," he breathed, scrambling backward, ripping the silk sheet up to cover his chest.

​Julian Vance merely turned his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well. The persistent high school sweetheart returns. You really need to start locking your doors, Ryan."

​"Shut up, Julian," Ryan snapped, his voice cracking with sheer panic. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants off the floor, pulling them on as he stumbled toward the doorway. "Char, please, wait. Let me explain. I thought you were never coming back—"

​Charlotte was already backing away, her vision blurring with hot, furious tears. "Stay away from me."

​"No, please!" Ryan lunged forward, catching her in the hallway. He grabbed her arms, spinning her around, cornering her against the wall. His eyes were wild, desperate. "You locked me out! You told me you didn't respect me! I was alone, and he was here, offering me the world. But it's you I want. It’s always been you!"

​He used his ultimate weapon. He pushed his body against hers, framing her face with his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a forceful, desperate kiss.

​For a fraction of a second, Charlotte froze. The physical memory of his mouth, the ghost of the boy she had loved for ten years, flared to life. She closed her eyes, and to Ryan's immense relief, she kissed him back.

​But it wasn't a kiss of surrender. It was a kiss of mourning.

​It tasted like ashes and lies. As she pressed her lips to his, she felt absolutely nothing. The magnetic pull was completely, undeniably dead. The man holding her was a stranger wearing the face of her first love.

​Charlotte broke the kiss, keeping her face inches from his. Ryan exhaled a shaky breath, a triumphant, relieved smile starting to form on his lips. He thought he had won her back. He thought the physical connection had saved him again.

​"I came here to tell you something," Charlotte whispered, her voice eerily calm, her eyes locked onto his panicked ones.

​"Anything," Ryan breathed, stroking her hair. "Whatever it is, we can handle it together."

​"I'm pregnant," she said.

​The words hit him with the force of a bullet. The desperate smile fell from his face. His hands froze in her hair. His eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing horror as his gaze darted down to her stomach and back up to her face.

​"You're... what?" he choked out, the reality of the situation suffocating him.

​"I'm pregnant," Charlotte repeated, her tone completely devoid of warmth. "And I want you to know that this child will never, ever know the coward who fathered them."

​She leaned in, pressing one final, agonizingly gentle kiss to his cheek. "Goodbye, Ryan."

​Before he could process the shock, before he could unfreeze his limbs to stop her, Charlotte slipped out of his grasp. She walked out of the penthouse, the heavy door clicking shut behind her, sealing him in the gilded cage he had built for himself.

​By the time she reached the street, the tears were falling freely, but she didn't wipe them away. She pulled out her phone and dialed the art director at the publishing house.

​"Susan? It's Charlotte. That illustration fellowship in the Paris office... the one you offered me last month? Is the position still open?"

​A week later, Charlotte was sitting in a window seat on a transatlantic flight. Below her, the glittering lights of the city she had called home for a decade faded into the dark ocean.

​She rested her hand gently on her flat stomach. The tears slipped silently down her cheeks, a quiet release of a decade of love, betrayal, and heartbreak. She had lost the love of her life, but she had finally found herself. The plane banked, turning east toward the sunrise. As she closed her eyes, she envisioned the cobblestone streets, the distant silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, and the twilight in Paris waiting to welcome her home.