The next morning, Ethan woke to the smell of coffee and the distant sound of piano keys. Vanessa was rarely awake before him, and never playing.
He followed the sound to the glass-walled music room. She sat at the grand piano, hair loose, fingers moving over the keys without a sheet in front of her. The song was haunting—lonely.
"Paris," Ethan said softly.
Her hands froze.
"You didn't tell me last night," he continued, stepping closer. "But I need to know."
She stared at the ivory keys. "Paris was… the last time I truly loved someone before you."
Ethan waited, sensing there was more.
"It was a woman," Vanessa said at last. "Her name was Elise. She was young, beautiful, reckless. She was also married… to a French senator."
Ethan's pulse quickened. "And?"
Vanessa looked up, her eyes dark. "He found out. There was a scandal—whispers, photographs, threats. I left Paris to protect her. But weeks later, she vanished."
"Vanished?"
"They said she drowned in the Seine." Vanessa's voice cracked. "But I never believed it. I always thought… someone made her disappear."
Ethan sat beside her. "You think Caroline knows about this?"
Vanessa nodded slowly. "Caroline was there. She saw things… and she's been waiting all these years to use it."
A shadow crossed Ethan's expression. "Then we need to find out what really happened to Elise."
---
That night, Vanessa stood at the terrace, the snow swirling like ghosts. Ethan joined her, wrapping a coat around her shoulders.
"If we do this," he said, "we do it together. No more secrets."
She turned to him, eyes shining with something between fear and hope.
"Together," she whispered.
But deep down, they both knew—digging into Paris meant stirring up a past that could destroy them in ways the public scandal never could.
The jet touched down under a silver dawn, Paris cloaked in winter mist. From the moment Vanessa stepped onto the tarmac, Ethan could sense her tension. The city wasn't just a place for her—it was a wound that had never healed.
They checked into the Hôtel de Crillon, the same one Vanessa had once stayed in during her affair with Elise. Everything inside whispered of old wealth—polished marble floors, gilded mirrors, and chandeliers that threw soft light on their faces.
Ethan reached for her hand as they entered the suite.
"Breathe," he murmured.
She nodded, but her eyes kept drifting toward the Seine beyond the window.
---
That evening, they began their search.
Vanessa had one lead—a former hotel concierge named Henri, who had been discreetly paid to cover for her and Elise during their time together. They found him at a small wine bar in Montmartre, older now, his sharp eyes dulled only slightly by age.
"I always knew you'd come back," Henri said, swirling a glass of red. "But I didn't think it would be for her."
"What happened to Elise?" Vanessa's voice was tight.
Henri leaned in. "She didn't drown. She ran. And she wasn't alone."
Ethan's jaw clenched. "Who was with her?"
Henri gave a humorless smile. "A man with a scar over his left eye. And… Caroline."
Vanessa stiffened. "Caroline?"
Henri nodded. "They boarded a private jet to Morocco. After that… I don't know."
---
Later that night, back in their hotel suite, the tension between them was electric. The city's lights spilled in through the window, painting Vanessa's skin in gold and shadow. Ethan kissed her, fiercely, as if to anchor her in the present while the past threatened to pull her under.
For a moment, there was no Paris, no Elise, no Caroline—just them, bodies tangled in the warmth of the night. But even in that heat, Ethan felt it: the story wasn't over. It was only getting darker.