I slowed at a crosswalk, Paris traffic gliding past in orderly streams, and pressed my lips together to stop the smile threatening to surface.
What kind of woman blurts that out to a man she just met?
Apparently … me now.
The light changed, and I crossed with the others, my reflection flickering in shop windows—camel coat, purposeful stride, hair loose around my shoulders. Competent. Composed.
Meanwhile, internally?
Complete chaos.
Because beneath the embarrassment, beneath the shock at my own boldness, something else pulsed steadily.
Satisfaction.
I’d meant it.
And that realization refused to scare me the way it should have.
For years, I’d measured myself. Controlled impressions. Played it safe emotionally and romantically and professionally. Hank had fit perfectly into that version of me—predictable, kind, respectable.
A man you married.
Not a man who made your pulse spike in clinic waiting rooms.
Not a man who looked at you like he could ruin you and you’d thank him for it.
Not a man whose presence alone made your body remember it was alive.
I reached the metro entrance and hesitated.
Rose.
The folder.
Reality.
Right.
Focus.
I descended into the station, the familiar rumble of trains grounding me. I found a spot near the wall and opened the folder again, scanning until my eyes found the line that had knocked the air out of me earlier.
Visitor present: Étienne Moreau.
A name.
A real person.
The man who’d been with my sister when she died.
The man who’d taken her belongings.
The man Randy—and my parents—knew nothing about.
My stomach twisted.
Who were you, Rose?
