22. Ava

AVA

W hat did it say about me that I was in Paris with Lisa on an impromptu girls’ weekend and I was still looking into the shadows for my stalker.

Lisa waved the latest Birkin at me and I was staring at the darkened doorway across the Rue Saint-Honoré.

I barely felt the soft silk Hermes scarves that the sales assistant laid in my fingers. I was too busy peering between the passing cars for a skeleton mask.

Even the diamonds at Cartier weren’t shiny enough to keep my attention on them. I kept glancing to the corner across the intersection, a perfect place to watch me from.

But he wasn’t there.

Lisa nudged me, causing me to drop the glittering tennis bracelet onto the velvet display box. “Stop it, Ava. He’s gone.”

I’d broken down on Ebony’s Gulfstream 280 on the way here and finally told Lisa about my stalker .

She spluttered into her Moet, coughing, and pounded at her chest.

The stewardess poked her head in from the service station, but I waved her off.

I dabbed at the spilled champagne on Lisa’s Chanel trench. “Oh no, you’re going to have to dry-clean this straightaway or it’ll be ruined.”

She shoved my hands away. “Oh no, you can’t drop a bomb like ‘I have a stalker and PS he’s hot and we’re kinda fucking’ and try to change the subject to laundry.”

She snatched the bottle of Moet from the ice bucket and took a long swig from it before scooting forward on the cream leather seat. “Spill, woman. I want all the details.”

She’d surprised me by just listening, eyes wide, not saying a word, barely moving except to hand me the Moet when I got to the part about him ‘breaking up’ with me.

Was that what happened?

I thought he was bluffing when he threatened to leave if I didn’t stop investigating. But the lilies stopped appearing every morning. And I didn’t feel him around me the way I usually did.

Back in the Paris Cartier store, my heart squeezed.

No, he couldn’t be gone. Really?

The ground felt unstable under my feet. I hadn’t realized how reassured I’d felt with his presence always around me.

I turned to Lisa and forced a brave smile. “He’s really gone, hasn’t he?”

Lisa’s pretty features dropped and she pulled me in for a side hug. “I’m sorry, hon.”

I was too aware that the sharp-nosed and impeccably dressed sales assistant was peering at me closely .

“Bad breakup,” I told her.

She nodded with empathy, her perfectly manicured nail fluttering on her crisp Chanel suit, her French accent soft and musical. “Nothing heals ze broken heart like diamonds, mon ami .”

I couldn’t help but glance again through the front glass window to the empty corner across the street. I certainly hoped so.

Lisa did her best to keep me from dwelling on him. And I faked being the carefree rich girl as best I could.

When we returned to our multiroom suite at the Ritz, Lisa and I posed in front of the full-length gilded mirror.

Behind us, the tall doors opened onto the balcony; gauzy white curtains billowed as the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the lavender dusk. The soft sweet scent of the white hydrangeas and bloodred roses that filled the balcony flower box drifted in along with the scent of baking pastries.

I took a picture for social media and posted it, making sure that the Eiffel Tower could be seen in the background.

If he spotted it, he’d know exactly where I was.

He was smart enough that he could probably even calculate based on the angle of the setting sun and the famous landmark exactly which hotel and room I was staying in.

At least, I hoped he was still watching me even if from afar.

Ugh, stupid, Ava.

“We look ridiculous.” I laughed, pushing up my new oversized Chanel sunglasses as I stumbled over the hem of my new Dior tulle skirt.

Lisa lowered her YSL shades, the tip of her giant white Giambattista Valli Spring hat covering one eye like a fringe and eyeing me in the mirror. “Darling, we look rich .”

I tossed my Maison Laulhère beret onto the pile of boxes and bags and fell onto the Versailles floral chaise.

I kicked off my Chanel kitten heels and groaned as I massaged the balls of my feet. “Do we have to go out tonight? I’m wrecked already.”

“Oh no.” Lisa waggled her Bvlgari-bejeweled finger at me. “We’re in fucking Pariii, babe, we are going out .”

Lisa ordered Espresso Martinis for us, shoved one in my hand, and pushed me into my bedroom to get ready while she got ready in hers.

I knew it was stupid, but I left my curtains open as I put on a slinky black silk sheath dress and strappy heels.

I knew he wasn’t watching from one of the cute wrought-iron Juliet balconies from across the way, but it made me feel a little better to pretend.

After I’d swiped a brush through my hair, drew black cat liner on my eyes, and slicked a red lipstick on, I took what was left of my martini onto the balcony to get a few minutes of quiet before Lisa barreled in with all her enthusiasm and terrible French accent.

The Eiffel Tower, shimmering and beautiful, was just about as big of a reminder as I could get that I was a whole-ass country away from him .

As I caught bits of French from the cobbled streets below, I tried to relax, as I’d been trying to do all day.

In the windows of the buildings across the street, everyone was black silhouettes against soft yellow light. Most were preparing for a night out just like us, slipping in earrings, adjusting ties .

I kept looking for that one window where a silhouetted figure stood still, looking at me across the boulevard.

But he wasn’t here. He didn’t follow me. He wasn’t watching.

Lisa and I ducked into a narrow alley in the heart of Paris, barely noticeable if you didn’t know where to look.

A small wrought-iron sign hung above the arched entrance, reading Le Corbeau Noir —The Black Raven—in faded gold letters.

Its dark wooden door was heavy, creaking as I pushed it open, and immediately, I was swallowed by a world that felt like it belonged to another century.

Inside, the dim lighting cast long shadows across the deep burgundy walls, illuminated only by flickering sconces and iron chandeliers that hung low from the high ceilings.

The air was thick with the scent of sweet cherries, whiskey, and something darker, like the place itself held centuries of secrets.

Clusters of plush velvet armchairs circled around low mahogany tables. Heavy velvet curtains draped over the windows, keeping out the sounds and lights of the busy streets outside, making the place feel timeless, as if no one who entered ever really left.

Le Corbeau Noir was more than just a bar. It felt like a sanctuary for the lost, the broken, and those who sought comfort in the quiet murmur of Parisian nights.

Already it was packed with hot locals who unbuttoned their white-collared shirts just so and kept hand-rolled cigarettes at the ready, tucked behind their ears among perfectly tousled hair .

“Lord,” Lisa said, putting her hands together, “please bring me a hot Frenchman tonight. I’ve been so good.”

I jostled her playfully and we made our way to the black marble bar stretched across one side, polished to a gleam so dark it looked like spilled blood.

Behind the bar, dusty bottles of absinthe, fine French wine, and imported liquors stood in dark wooden cabinets with iron latticework.

The uniformed bartenders moved with an elegant, slow precision, pouring drinks into crystal glasses with deliberate care.

Lisa got the attention of one of the bartenders by leaning so far over the bar her five-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos left the black-and-white tiled floor.

“What happens in Paris…” she said with a wink.

A few minutes later two cocktails with a green-tinted fog spilling over the crystal edge were pressed toward us.

I pulled out my black Amex but the bartender shook his head.

“Courtesy of the messieurs,” he said, nodding to a dark corner of the bar where two handsome men raised their glasses to us.

“Fuck yes,” Lisa said, grinning as she tugged me along behind her through the crowd toward them.

The two Frenchmen said, “ Bonsoir ” with languid, cocky smiles, arms draped over the back of the dark wooden booth.

I bet the limit of Ebony’s black Amex that Lisa would be granted her wish of a French male concubine.

Lisa claimed the one with olive skin and dark, boyish curls. So I sat next to the one with blond hair falling across his light-blue eyes.

It took him all of two minutes to rest his warm palm against my thigh.

“What is your name, cherie ?” he said in a delightful French accent.

“Uhh, Deirdre,” I lied.

Deirdre was a central figure in Irish mythology tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows . The story ends in betrayal, heartbreak, and death, and Deirdre became a symbol of tragic love and sorrow.

I shuddered when I considered what subconscious harbinger of fate caused me to choose that name.

I glanced around the bar for a shadowy figure, the Frenchman’s hand burning against my bare skin.

“Touch her again and I will cut off your hands and feed them to you, finger by bloody finger.”

An ache shot through me even as my panties dampened.

God, I was fucked up. Fucked up and fucked up over him.

“Only I get to touch her.”

Surely, he’d appear now that another man had his hand on me. He’d appear to stake his claim on me.

But I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t feel him.

Maybe my shadow needed a little more… encouragement.

I leaned into the Frenchman’s chest with a hand that slipped just inside his opened shirt and said, “You know, I’m just here for the night.”

He smiled like the devil himself .

But my shadowy figure didn’t appear out of the crowd to drag me away with a hood over my head.

Whether it was rational or not, this irritated the fuck out of me.

I had the Frenchman—whose name turned out to be Pierre, so typically French—order me another shot.

The sting of vodka wasn’t even gone from the back of my throat when I pulled out my cell phone again, mumbling a lame apology to Monsieur French.

He seemed content enough to let his fingers drift closer to my right breast with his arm over my shoulders.

I stabbed out a text and sent my stalker a message.

Me: I’ve made a new friend. He’s quite handsome.

And I sat back to wait, a smug smile on my lips, convinced it would draw my stalker out.