Chapter 1 — Turbulence and Tethered Memories
Isabelle
As Isabelle Laurent stepped onto the plane, the faint hum of the engines vibrated through the soles of her leather ankle boots, a rhythm that somehow seemed to match the pulse of her own restless thoughts. Her camera, slung around her neck as always, bumped lightly against her chest, the familiar weight grounding her amidst the chaos of boarding. She adjusted the worn strap absently, her fingers brushing against the smooth metal of the Leica’s body as she glanced at her ticket: Seat 14B. Middle seat. Of course.
Her sigh was soft but resigned, her green eyes scanning for the row as the flight attendant’s polished voice directed passengers to stow their belongings. She forced a polite smile at a man struggling to fit an oversized bag into the overhead compartment and sidestepped neatly around him, her movements practiced from years of navigating crowded spaces with delicate equipment.
The gallery debut in Paris loomed large in her mind. It was to be her crowning achievement—her photographs displayed in the city that had shaped her artistic dreams. But beneath the surface of her anticipation pulsed a quiet unease. Paris, for all its beauty, was a place of ghosts. The thought crept in as she slid into 14B, tucking her leather bag under the seat and adjusting her scarf.
She was adjusting her camera’s strap—a habitual, almost meditative gesture—when a voice, deep and achingly familiar, broke through her thoughts.
“Excuse me.”
Her entire body tensed, her fingers tightening on the strap as if it were a lifeline. The voice seemed to reach through the years, dragging her back to a version of herself she’d tried to leave behind. Slowly, she turned her head, bracing herself for the impact.
And there he was.
Julien Moreau stood in the aisle, broad-shouldered and effortlessly disheveled, a leather jacket slung over one arm. His dark hair, now streaked with silver at the temples, framed eyes that had once been a source of comfort but now carried something sharper—resentment, or perhaps disbelief.
Her heart stuttered, though she willed her expression to remain composed. The years had only deepened his presence, sharpening the edges of the man she had once loved.
“You’re kidding me,” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible above the shuffle of boarding passengers.
Julien’s brow lifted slightly in acknowledgment. He glanced at his ticket. “14C,” he said flatly.
Without further comment, he slid into the aisle seat beside her, his movements deliberate, almost methodical. Isabelle turned toward the window, pretending to be engrossed in the view of the tarmac. Yet, she couldn’t block out the subtle shifts in the air as he settled in—the faint scent of thyme and coffee that clung to him like a memory she hadn’t invited.
Of all the flights, of all the seats, it had to be this one.
The plane began its slow taxi, and an oppressive silence settled between them. Isabelle could sense Julien’s presence like static electricity, his elbow brushing hers briefly as he adjusted his seatbelt. She stared out the window, her mind grasping at anything to distract her—her gallery, the speech she would have to give, the lighting she wanted to capture. But the weight of him beside her was impossible to ignore.
“Still carrying that thing around?” Julien’s voice broke the quiet, low and edged with a familiar sarcasm.
Isabelle turned, her gaze flicking to the Leica camera resting against her blouse. “Some habits die harder than others,” she replied, the words slipping out sharper than she intended.
Julien leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Right. Because it’s easier to hide behind a lens than face the frame.”
Her jaw tightened. She wanted to retort, but the plane jolted slightly as it turned onto the runway, and her fingers instinctively gripped the armrests. “Reality,” she said at last, her voice clipped, “is overrated.”
Julien didn’t respond, but she could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with unspoken words. The engines roared to life, and the plane began its ascent. Isabelle closed her eyes, focusing on the rhythm of her breathing. She hated takeoffs—the way the ground disappeared beneath you, leaving nothing but air and uncertainty.
As the plane leveled, the turbulence began. At first, it was a faint tremor, but soon the cabin rattled with each jolt. Isabelle’s hands gripped the armrests tighter, her knuckles pale.
“Relax,” Julien said softly, his tone unexpectedly gentle.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, though her nails dug into the fabric, betraying her calm.
Another jolt, sharper this time. Julien’s hand shot out instinctively, covering hers. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through her, and she looked down, startled. His fingers, calloused from years in the kitchen, were steady against her trembling hand. For a moment, neither of them moved.
The turbulence eased, but Julien didn’t pull away immediately. When their eyes met, his expression was cautious, as though he were navigating a recipe with uncertain measurements.
“Sorry,” he muttered, withdrawing his hand as though burned.
Isabelle flexed her fingers, the ghost of his touch lingering. “It’s fine,” she said, though her voice wavered.
The awkwardness was shattered when her camera, precariously perched on her lap, tilted forward and fell into Julien’s. He caught it with both hands, startled.
“Careful,” she said sharply, reaching for it.
“Still as clumsy as ever,” he quipped, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
Her eyes narrowed as she snatched the camera back, cradling it protectively. “And you’re still as charming as a bull in a china shop.”
For a fleeting moment, the corner of Julien’s mouth curved upward. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it wasn’t far from one either. Isabelle turned away quickly, clutching the camera as though it could shield her from the memories threatening to surface.
The rest of the flight passed in tense silence, punctuated only by the occasional glance from Julien that Isabelle pretended not to notice. She tried to lose herself in the in-flight magazine, but the words blurred, her mind replaying the warmth of his hand on hers, the way his gaze had softened for just a moment.
When the captain announced their descent into Paris, Isabelle exhaled, the tension in her chest loosening slightly. She watched the city emerge beneath the clouds, its sprawling streets and rooftops bathed in the golden hues of early evening.
“Paris,” Julien said quietly, almost to himself.
Isabelle turned her head, catching the wistfulness in his expression before he masked it. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words tangled in her throat.
The plane landed with a thud, and the cabin erupted into a flurry of activity—phones buzzing, overhead compartments slamming open. Isabelle unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for her bag, careful to avoid brushing against Julien.
As they shuffled into the aisle, Julien leaned slightly toward her. “Good luck with your… whatever it is you’re doing here.”
She paused, her gaze flickering to his face. “And good luck with your… whatever it is you’re not doing.”
His lips twitched, but he said nothing more as they exited the plane.
Outside the terminal, the crisp Parisian air greeted them, carrying with it the scents of roasted chestnuts, jet fuel, and the faintest trace of lavender. Isabelle tightened her scarf around her neck, ready to leave Julien and the memories he stirred behind.
But as she approached the taxi stand, a sign caught her eye: TRANSPORTATION STRIKE—LIMITED SERVICES.
She groaned inwardly, her relief at escaping Julien short-lived. Turning, she found him standing a few feet away, reading the same sign.
His gaze met hers, and she could already tell what he was about to suggest.
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’s practical,” he countered. “We’re both going to the city. We’ll share a car.”
“I’d rather walk,” she muttered, though the thought of lugging her equipment across Paris made her hesitate.
Julien raised an eyebrow, his expression equal parts challenge and amusement. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind…”
He gestured toward the rental car counter, then walked off, leaving Isabelle standing there, torn between pride and practicality.
She sighed, clutching the strap of her camera. Paris was already proving to be as unpredictable as ever.
