Chapter 3 — Arrival in Paris
Third Person
The plane descended through a quilt of silvery clouds, Paris emerging below like a painter’s vision brought to life. From her window seat, Amelia Carter watched the Seine carve its languid path through the city, the Eiffel Tower standing sentinel on the horizon. Her fingers tightened on the armrest, her hazel eyes narrowing with determination. Paris wasn’t a city for daydreams, not for her—not this time. It was a battleground, and she was here to win.
The narrow aisle of the plane bustled with passengers retrieving bags and stretching stiff limbs. Amelia stood, smoothing her tailored blazer, the silk scarf at her neck a carefully chosen touch of elegance. She had slept sparingly, her mind occupied with the gala’s details, though the occasional flicker of Liam’s face from the Iceland detour disrupted her focus. The memory of his sketchbook, and the portrait of her within its pages, lingered like a smudge she couldn’t quite erase.
Her polished exterior faltered for a moment as she adjusted her scarf, her thoughts spinning. That drawing—those lines etched with such familiarity—had unsettled her in ways she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just the vulnerability of being seen; it was the tenderness in the lines, the way he had captured something she tried so hard to control. She shook her head. There was no time for this—not here, not now.
Liam Harrington, on the other hand, moved slower. He waited until the rush of passengers subsided before rising, slinging his worn leather satchel over his shoulder. His pale blue eyes caught Amelia’s silhouette as she strode briskly ahead, her heels clicking with purpose. He hesitated, the thought of calling out to her flaring briefly. But the distance between them felt more than physical. She didn’t glance back.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful half-smile. She hadn’t changed—or maybe she had, just not in ways he could see yet. As she disappeared into the crowd, the faint trace of her perfume—something crisp, with a hint of citrus—lingered in the air. It tugged at an old memory, of her leaning over his shoulder in their kitchen, the scent mingling with freshly brewed coffee. His hand tightened on the strap of his satchel. Maybe Paris wasn’t the only place he’d come to rediscover.
*
Amelia stepped into the arrivals lounge, where her assistant, Chloe, was already waiting, holding a clipboard and juggling a phone call. Chloe’s pixie-cut hair, dyed a daring shade of lavender, bobbed as she waved in her usual whirlwind energy.
“Amelia! Everything’s on track for the gala,” Chloe said, ending her call with a flourish. “Well, except for the venue coordinator, who mentioned something about a scheduling glitch—but I’m sure it’s no big deal.”
“It better not be.” Amelia’s voice was clipped, her sharp tone underscoring her exhaustion. She adjusted the scarf knotted neatly around her neck, her mind already racing through potential contingencies. “I want the client brief on my desk by this afternoon and the floral vendor confirmed by noon.”
Chloe raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, scribbling furiously. “Got it. Oh, and the lighting team called—they’re worried about the ceiling height at the venue, but I told them you’d have a plan.”
“I always do.” Amelia’s tone softened just slightly, though her expression remained focused.
As they exited the terminal, Amelia glanced over her shoulder. Liam had just emerged, scanning the crowd with a distracted air. For a fleeting moment, their eyes almost met. Amelia hesitated, her breath catching unexpectedly. But in the next instant, she turned away, her stomach tightening. Sliding into the backseat of a waiting car, she brushed the moment aside. Paris demanded her full attention, and she would give it nothing less.
The drive into the city was a blur of wrought-iron balconies, sunlit façades, and the occasional flurry of pedestrians darting between cafés. The muted hum of street life seeped through the car’s windows—the distant trill of a violin, the faint chatter of a sidewalk conversation. Amelia’s mind raced through seating charts, vendor schedules, and client preferences. Yet, when the car passed the Seine, a flicker of golden light on the water caught her eye. It shimmered, calm and unhurried, a sharp contrast to the chaos spinning in her mind.
She frowned and turned back to her phone, typing furiously. Beauty was irrelevant. Results were what mattered.
*
Liam, meanwhile, opted for the Métro. The clatter of the train and the muted hum of conversations provided a strange kind of comfort, a rhythm that soothed his overactive mind. His sketchbook rested in his lap, his fingers brushing its weathered cover. He hadn’t opened it since Iceland.
Emerging onto a cobblestone street, Liam found himself surrounded by Paris’s quiet charm. The scent of freshly baked bread drifted from a nearby boulangerie, mingling with the faint tang of damp stone. A street musician played a soft, lilting tune, the notes threading through the air like sunlight.
He paused, adjusting the strap of his satchel, and let the city breathe around him. Paris was meant to be a muse. He’d come here to let it seep into his work, to find some spark that had eluded him for too long. Yet, the moment he closed his eyes, it wasn’t the Seine or the rooftops that came to mind—it was Amelia. Her sharp hazel eyes, her voice cutting and clear but softening unexpectedly, her presence both comforting and infuriating.
His hand tightened on the strap of his satchel as his steps quickened. He could lose himself in this city. He had to.
*
Hours later, Amelia stood in the center of her suite at La Chambre d’Azur. The pale blue walls and antique furniture exuded a tranquil elegance she found mildly irritating. She was used to sleek, functional spaces, not this kind of old-world charm. Her movements were brisk as she unpacked, her silver bracelet clinking softly as she hung her blazers and arranged her heels in a neat row.
A knock interrupted her rhythm. Chloe entered, holding a tablet.
“We’ve confirmed the catering and entertainment, but Margot Leclair, the venue coordinator, says she needs to speak with you personally about the scheduling issue.”
Amelia frowned. “What kind of issue requires my personal attention?”
“Something about overlapping bookings for the same night,” Chloe said, wincing slightly, as if bracing for impact.
Amelia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Schedule a meeting with her tomorrow morning.”
With Chloe gone, Amelia allowed herself a moment to exhale. She stepped onto the balcony, the cool evening air brushing against her skin. Across the river, the city lights began to shimmer, their reflections rippling like liquid gold. She tightened her scarf against the breeze, but a strange, hollow ache settled in her chest. She attributed it to exhaustion.
*
Liam’s evening was quieter. He sat at a small café near Montmartre, his sketchbook open in front of him. His pencil moved almost unconsciously, tracing the curve of an archway he could see down the street. The lines took shape, but his hand hesitated, unsure of the next stroke. His grip tightened on the pencil, his fingers hovering, the tension palpable.
“Still unfinished, aren’t you?” he muttered under his breath, a note of self-reproach in his tone.
The waiter brought him a coffee, and Liam nodded his thanks. As he sipped, he let his gaze wander. The street musicians’ melodies wove through the hum of quiet conversation. For a fleeting moment, he felt at ease—until a flash of dark curls and a tailored blazer crossed his memory.
He hadn’t meant to sketch her again, but the half-formed lines on the page betrayed him. Amelia’s profile stared back at him, incomplete and haunting. He closed the sketchbook with a snap, shoving it back into his satchel.
*
The night deepened, and Paris seemed to exhale, its streets quieter but no less alive. Amelia sat at the small writing desk in her suite, poring over guest lists and vendor emails. The antique desk drawer stuck slightly as she pulled it open, revealing a faint lavender sachet tucked in the corner. Her fingers brushed against something cool and metallic.
She pulled out an ornate pocket watch, its crescent moon engraving catching the light. Curious, she opened it, only to find its hands frozen at an odd hour. She frowned, turning it over in her hands. It felt like a relic, a piece of someone else’s story. For a moment, she wondered who had left it behind—what moments it had witnessed. The stillness of the hands nagged at her, an unspoken echo of her own restless mind. But the thought was fleeting. She placed the watch back in the drawer and closed it.
The city outside her window shimmered on, a quiet pulse running through its veins. Amelia returned to her lists, her mind racing even as exhaustion tugged at her. Somewhere across Paris, Liam stared at his own unfinished work, the echoes of their shared past and the city’s promises weaving through his thoughts.
Neither of them slept well that night.
