Chapter 3 — An Uneasy Exchange

Third Person

The café in Montmartre was a pocket of warmth amid the crisp autumn air, its narrow interior illuminated by the soft golden glow of vintage pendant lights. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and buttered croissants wove through the air, mingling with the soft clinking of plates and the low hum of conversation. Amélie Laurent sat stiffly at a corner table, her back straight and her hands clasped tightly around the ceramic mug in front of her. The steam from her untouched espresso curled upward, dissipating into the air in fragile spirals. Her gaze flicked to the nearby window, where the boutique hotel construction site loomed just down the street, framed by scaffolding and the faint hum of machinery. It was a constant, looming reminder of the stakes pressing in on her.

She glanced at the door, her almond-shaped hazel eyes narrowing with impatience. A quick glance at her watch—he was late. Typical, she thought, her lips pressing into a thin line. Julien Moreau had always been maddeningly unreliable, breezing through life with an air of nonchalance that had once charmed her and now grated on her nerves. She adjusted the cuff of her tailored blazer, the fabric brushing against the faint scar on her left hand—a small reminder of how tightly she held onto control, even when it slipped through her fingers.

The small bell above the café door jingled, and there he was. Julien stepped inside, his tousled blond hair catching the light like a halo of mischief. He was dressed casually, as always—dark jeans, a leather jacket slung over his shoulders, and his ever-present camera strap crossing his chest. His piercing blue eyes swept the room, locking onto her with a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. Amusement? Irritation? Whatever it was, it sent a ripple through her carefully constructed composure.

He approached with a lopsided grin, his charm as unshakable as ever. “Amélie,” he said, sliding into the chair across from her. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught up in… well, life.”

“Life,” she repeated flatly, her tone edged with ice. “Of course. Punctuality was never your strong suit.”

Julien chuckled, leaning back in his chair with infuriating ease. “Good to see you, too.”

Her jaw tightened. She reached down, pulling his battered leather duffel bag from under the table and placing it between them. “Your bag,” she said, her voice clipped. “I trust you brought mine?”

Julien raised an eyebrow, amused by her no-nonsense demeanor. He set her sleek black suitcase on the floor beside him, patting it with exaggerated care. “Safe and sound. Though I must say, your sketchbook is quite the treasure trove.”

Amélie froze, her fingers tightening around her mug. Her mind raced. What had he seen? The sketches? The annotations? Her breath quickened, though she kept her expression carefully neutral. “You looked through it?” she demanded, her voice sharp enough to turn heads from nearby tables.

Julien held up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I didn’t go snooping. It fell open when I was looking for some identification to figure out who the bag belonged to. That’s when I saw…” He hesitated, his gaze softening. “The lavender.”

Her breath caught. The lavender bookmark. Of course, he’d seen it. She could picture it clearly—the delicate sprig encased in resin, the faint crack running through it. A relic from a time she’d tried to bury, a reminder of their honeymoon and the fleeting happiness they’d shared. She had tucked it into her sketchbook absentmindedly, never expecting it to resurface under his gaze.

“You kept it,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving. “After all these years.”

Her cheeks flushed with heat, and she straightened in her seat, pulling her composure tightly around her like a cloak. “It’s just a bookmark,” she said, her tone dismissive but faltering slightly. “I forgot it was even there.”

Julien studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes searching hers. “Right,” he said at last, the word heavy with disbelief. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You know, Amélie, for someone who prides herself on precision, you’re not very convincing.”

She bristled, her hazel eyes narrowing. “Let’s not waste time with pointless analysis,” she snapped. “Your bag, my bag—exchange complete. We can both move on.”

But Julien didn’t move. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the lavender bookmark. He set it on the table between them, the fractured resin catching the light and casting faint rainbows onto the polished wood. “I think this belongs to you,” he said softly.

For a moment, the noise of the café faded into the background. Amélie stared at the bookmark, her chest tight. The sight of it felt like a knife twisting in an old wound she’d thought had healed over. Her fingers twitched, hovering above it, before she finally picked it up. The resin was cool against her skin, the crack a reminder of how easily things could fracture—and how difficult they were to repair.

“Thank you,” she said curtly, her voice strained.

Julien tilted his head, studying her with the same intensity he reserved for subjects through his camera lens. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” he said. “Not like this.”

She looked away, her gaze landing on the café’s chalkboard menu. “Neither did I.”

A silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken words and shared history. Julien broke it first, his tone lighter, though the softness in his eyes remained. “So, Montmartre, huh? Still chasing big dreams?”

Amélie’s jaw tightened. “It’s not chasing. It’s building,” she said. “I’m designing a boutique hotel. A project that will, hopefully, speak for itself when it’s finished.”

Julien nodded, leaning back in his chair again. “Sounds impressive. Very you.”

“And you?” she asked, her voice laced with cool politeness. “Still wandering the world with your camera? No plans? No roots?”

His smile faltered, just for a moment, before he recovered. “I have a gallery exhibition here in Paris,” he said, his tone carefully casual. “So, I guess I’m planting roots. Temporarily.”

“Of course,” she said, her sarcasm cutting. “Temporarily. Wouldn’t want to do anything permanent, would we?”

Julien’s blue eyes darkened, the teasing spark replaced by something harder. “You really don’t pull punches, do you?”

Amélie leaned forward, her hazel eyes flashing. “Why would I? I’ve had enough of your fleeting moments, Julien. Enough of your half-measures and empty promises.”

“Empty promises?” His voice was low now, his gaze locked on hers. “I wasn’t the one who walked away, Amélie.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. The words hung between them, sharp and jagged. She looked away, unable to bear the intensity in his eyes. Her hands curled into fists, her scarred palm pressing against her blazer sleeve.

“Let’s not do this,” she said finally, her voice quieter. “Not here.”

Julien exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Fine,” he said. “But it’s not over. You know that, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stood, reaching for her suitcase. “Goodbye, Julien,” she said, her tone as cold as the Parisian wind waiting for her outside.

As she walked away, Julien watched her, his hands clenched on the edge of the table. The lavender bookmark was gone, but the scent of it lingered, as if it had seeped into the air between them. He let out a slow breath, his gaze following her until she disappeared into the street.

“Goodbye,” he murmured, though he knew in his heart it wasn’t.