Chapter 15 - Paris Without Julian
Paris looked exactly the same.
That irritated me.
I had expected betrayal to somehow alter geography.
But the Seine still moved beneath old bridges.
Cafés opened before sunrise.
Tourists crowded the Louvre.
Couples kissed everywhere without considering whether strangers had complicated histories with romance.
The city did not care.
That was comforting.
My hotel overlooked the river.
The suite was smaller than the one I had planned for Julian and me.
I deliberately chose that.
No anniversary package.
No champagne roses.
No sentimental upgrades.
Just a room.
The first evening, I walked alone.
At Pont de l’Archevêché, I thought about my parents.
My father proposing to my mother there decades earlier.
Project Orchid’s password.
The strange ways the dead leave doors for the living.
I called Mom.
“I’m at the bridge.”
She became quiet.
“Your father was terrified.”
I laughed.
“Dad?”
“He dropped the ring.”
“What?”
“Nearly into the river.”
“You never told me that.”
“He made me promise.”
I smiled.
The image of my terrifying, brilliant father fumbling a ring felt like a gift.
“Did you say yes immediately?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I made him ask again.”
“Why?”
“Because the first time he was swearing too much.”
I laughed so hard a tourist looked at me.
For years, my parents had existed in my memory as stable.
Certain.
Uncomplicated.
Now my mother gave them back to me as humans.
It helped.
The next day, I visited the restaurant where Julian proposed.
I nearly turned around.
Then the host recognized the old reservation note I showed him.
“You were here before?”
“Ten years ago.”
“Anniversary?”
I paused.
“Something like that.”
I ate alone.
Halfway through dinner, the chair opposite me remained painfully empty.
Then an older woman at the next table asked if she could borrow the salt.
We began talking.
Her name was Eleanor.
Widowed.
Seventy-two.
Traveling alone for the first time.
“My children think I’ve lost my mind,” she said.
“Have you?”
“Probably. It’s wonderful.”
I laughed.
We shared dessert.
No dramatic destiny.
No instant friendship.
Just two women eating cake in Paris.
Sometimes healing is ordinary.
On my fourth day, I visited a small bookstore.
That was where I met Adrian Cole.
He reached for the same copy of a photography book I wanted.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”
“You take it.”
“No, you had it first.”
“We touched it simultaneously.”
“Then we need a court.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Unfortunately, I know several lawyers.”
He laughed.
American.
Early forties.
Dark hair with some gray.
Calm eyes.
He worked in architectural restoration.
In Paris for a project.
We spoke for five minutes.
Then twenty.
Then coffee.
He did not recognize me.
That mattered more than I expected.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“Bad Valentine’s Day.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“That sounds either very boring or extremely interesting.”
“Extremely.”
“Do I get the story?”
“Not today.”
“Fair.”
He did not push.
That also mattered.
We met again accidentally two days later.
Or maybe Paris is smaller when you walk similar streets.
He showed me a church his team was restoring.
I showed him a bakery Eleanor recommended.
No flirting I could name.
No promises.
On my final night, Adrian asked, “Are you going home to someone?”
The question was gentle.
“No.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
He looked at me.
“That sounds practiced.”
I smiled.
“It’s getting less practiced.”
We exchanged numbers.
Nothing more.
I boarded my flight home without imagining weddings.
That itself felt like progress.
Back in New York, the company had not collapsed in my absence.
A revelation.
Aaron handled operations.
Daniel attended Project Orchid meetings.
The board functioned.
Leadership did not require omnipresence.
A week later, Adrian texted.
Found the photography book. Didn’t buy it. Still feels jointly owned.
I laughed.
We began talking.
Slowly.
No secrets.
No intensity.
No immediate romance.
I refused anything that felt like being swept away.
Months passed.
The divorce finalized in November.
Julian appeared in court.
I did too.
The judge asked routine questions.
Did we understand the settlement?
Yes.
Did we enter voluntarily?
Yes.
Was reconciliation possible?
I looked at Julian.
He looked at me.
“No,” we said together.
That was the final thing we agreed on as husband and wife.
Outside the courthouse, reporters waited.
I used another exit.
Julian did not.
His photograph appeared online.
Alone.
No Gwen.
No diamond.
No executive title.
I felt no satisfaction.
That surprised me.
Revenge had expired before the marriage legally did.
That night, Adrian called.
“How are you?”
“Divorced.”
A pause.
“How does that feel?”
“Quiet.”
“Good quiet?”
“I think so.”
He waited.
Then said, “Would you like dinner sometime?”
I smiled.
“In New York?”
“I’ll be there next week.”
I looked around my renovated townhouse.
My life.
My choice.
“Yes.”
Then I added:
“But I need you to know something.”
“What?”
“I’m not looking for someone to save me.”
Adrian laughed softly.
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“I’m an architect. Saving people isn’t in the contract.”
I laughed.
And for the first time in almost a year, the idea of dinner with a man did not feel dangerous.
It felt simple.
That simplicity scared me more than passion.
May you like
But I said yes anyway.
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