Chapter 2 — Swapped Bags, Tangled Lives
Third Person
Amélie Laurent stormed out of Charles de Gaulle Airport, her tailored trench coat flaring behind her as she wheeled her luggage over the uneven pavement. Her composed exterior was cracking, each step bringing her closer to the edge. Of all the people in the world, fate had decided to seat her next to Julien. The turbulence of the flight hadn’t helped, nor had the lavender bookmark tumbling from her sketchbook, dredging up memories she’d meticulously buried. When Julien handed it back, his blue eyes unreadable, she’d caught the faint tremor in his hand. That tremor lingered in her mind, an unwelcome crack in the armor she’d spent years perfecting.
The airport taxi queue was mercifully short. Sliding into the back seat of a cab, Amélie gripped the strap of her purse as if it might anchor her. “Montmartre,” she said, her voice clipped. She leaned her head against the cold window, watching Paris blur into a kaleidoscope of golds and silvers. But her thoughts refused to blur. They sharpened, replaying the way Julien’s hand had instinctively gripped hers during the turbulence—unthinking, familiar. She hated that her body had remembered the comfort of it before her mind could protest.
Her phone buzzed in her purse, jolting her from her reverie. A notification: a reminder to review her boutique hotel designs before tomorrow’s meeting with Claire Dupont. The boutique hotel was her magnum opus, her chance to prove her worth in a city that demanded nothing less than brilliance. She clung to that thought like a lifeline, forcing away the image of Julien’s face, the way his fingers had tightened around hers—as though grounding them both.
By the time the cab pulled up to her street, Amélie’s focus had sharpened. The narrow lanes of Montmartre greeted her like an old confidant, cobblestones slick with a faint sheen of rain, the aroma of roasting coffee curling through the night air. Street musicians played somewhere distant, their melodies weaving into the city’s pulse. Her apartment, perched above a quiet café, was a sanctuary of order amidst the chaos. She ascended the stairs, unlocked the door, and stepped into the space she’d curated to perfection: neutral tones, clean lines, free of clutter or distractions. Dropping her luggage by the entryway, she kicked off her heels and sank onto the sofa, reaching automatically for her sketchbook.
But as she opened the luggage, her hands froze.
This wasn’t her sketchbook.
It wasn’t even her luggage.
Amélie stared at the contents in disbelief: a rolled-up scarf, a camera lens in a cushioned pouch, and a vintage Leica camera—scratched, weathered, unmistakably Julien’s. Her breath caught, an unwelcome wave of recognition washing over her.
“Non,” she muttered, rifling through the bag as if her belongings might somehow materialize beneath his. Her movements became frantic, her fingers brushing against a roll of undeveloped film tucked neatly into a side pocket. The lavender bookmark was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was the faint scent of leather and chemicals—a scent she hadn’t encountered in years but still recognized instantly.
Her chest tightened. Julien had her sketchbook. Her designs, her notes, every shred of creative work she’d poured into the boutique hotel project—it was all in his possession. The thought of him flipping through the pages made her stomach churn. Would he laugh at her annotations? Admire her vision? The vulnerability of it made her skin prickle.
Her phone buzzed again. For a moment, she considered calling Élise. Her friend would surely find some poetic irony in this situation, something about fate and second chances. But Amélie wasn’t in the mood for whimsical philosophy tonight. Instead, she texted Julien.
Amélie: You have my bag.
The response came seconds later.
Julien: Noticed. Same here.
Her teeth clenched. Of course, he wasn’t panicking. Julien never panicked. He floated through life as if nothing truly mattered, and it infuriated her.
Amélie: Where are you staying?
Julien: Apartment in the Marais. Why?
Amélie: Because my sketchbook is in your bag, Julien. I need it.
The pause was long enough to make her wonder if he’d fallen asleep. Finally:
Julien: Meet me tomorrow at Café des Deux Moulins. Noon.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. The café was practically in her neighborhood. Suggesting a different location felt petty, but the thought of seeing him again twisted something deep inside her—an uneasy mix of anger and something she refused to name. With a sharp inhale, she typed a terse “Fine” and tossed her phone onto the table.
The tension didn’t leave her body. Her gaze flicked to Julien’s bag, the camera strap peeking out from the zipper. Her fingers itched to pull it out, to peer through the lens and see the world as he did. Instead, she folded her arms tightly across her chest and stared at the ceiling. She would deal with him tomorrow.
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Julien Moreau leaned against the balcony railing of his Marais apartment, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Below him, Paris sprawled like a mosaic of light and shadow, the Seine glinting faintly in the distance. His apartment, cluttered yet effortlessly charming, mirrored his personality: mismatched furniture, stacks of photography books, and a corkboard brimming with postcards and faded Polaroids. The scent of old paper and tobacco hung in the air, grounding him in the familiar.
The luggage mix-up had become apparent as soon as he began to unpack. The sketchbook had been the giveaway: sleek black leather, its cover etched with the initials “A.L.” He’d flipped through the pages, unable to resist. Her work was as meticulous as ever—clean lines, bold visions, every detail accounted for. The annotations in her precise handwriting conjured her voice, sharp and deliberate. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in years but one that still lingered in corners of his memory.
And then he’d found the lavender bookmark, tucked between two pages.
His chest tightened. The scent of lavender flickered in his mind, pulling him back to Provence. He’d made the bookmark during their honeymoon, pressing the sprig into resin at a tiny artisan shop they’d stumbled upon. She’d laughed at his clumsy attempt but kept it anyway, sliding it into the novel she’d been reading at the time. Seeing it now felt like staring directly into a life he’d packed away—a life he wasn’t sure he’d ever fully unpacked.
Julien exhaled, smoke curling around him as he stared at the bookmark resting on the small table beside him. He should have slipped it back into the sketchbook, but something had stopped him. His fingers grazed the edge of the resin, tracing the faint crack that ran through it. Imperfect but enduring, like so much of their past.
His phone buzzed, Amélie’s name lighting up the screen. He’d expected her message. The sketchbook wasn’t just her work; it was her essence, the physical manifestation of her relentless drive for perfection. He stubbed out his cigarette, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he pictured her reaction to the luggage swap. She would be livid tomorrow, no doubt about it. He could already see the sharp set of her jaw, the way her hazel eyes would narrow with barely restrained fury.
And yet, beneath her frustration, there’d be something else. Something unspoken, just like on the plane when turbulence had thrown them together, and his hand had instinctively found hers.
Grabbing his Leica camera, Julien slung it over his shoulder. When his thoughts became too tangled, he turned to photography. The streets of Paris always offered clarity, a way to lose himself in its beauty. But as he stepped into the cool night air, the weight of the lavender bookmark in his pocket lingered—a fragile link to a past he wasn’t ready to let go of. Tomorrow’s meeting wouldn’t just be about exchanging bags, and he knew it.
