My Sister’s Forbidden Love For My Fiancé Chapter 07

My Sister’s Forbidden Love For My Fiancé Chapter 07

The speedometer needle climbed higher. Trees outside blurred into streaks of green.

He kept one hand on the wheel, the other pressed unconsciously against the white roses on the passenger seat. Blood from his palm mixed with the sap and stained the pristine pètals a deep, startling red.

There was only one thought left in his head.

He had to bring her back.

Whatever it took. Whatever it cost.

He couldn’t live without her.

But in that moment, with the pedal flat to the floor, a voice surface from somewhere deep inside him.

Is it love or just losing her?

Edmund’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white.

He didn’t answer.

The airport terminal grew clearer in the distance.

He threw open the door and ran, leaving the white roses behind on the passenger seat.

The blood on the petals had dried to a dark rust, mingling with the white like the last proof of everything he

had ruined.

By the time Edmund reached the airport, my plane had already landed in Paris.

I stood in the slow-moving jet bridge at Charles de Gaulle, one hand pressed to my lower stomach.

Notifications exploded like someone had pressed a rapid-fire button, dinging and buzzing for a full twenty seconds before stopping.

The screen was cluttered with missed calls from Edmund, voice messages from Sadie, frantic texts from both families, and a flood of question marks from bridesmaids and friends.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then flipped the phone face-down on my suitcase handle.

An hour later, I sat on a bench in the arrivals hall, chewing a chocolate bar from a vending machine. My phone was still face-down.

Finally, I turned it over. Long-pressed the WhatsApp icon until it jiggled, then deleted it. Pulled out my SIM card, snapped it in half, and dropped the pieces in the trash.

My phone went silent.

So did I.

Idragged my 28-inch suitcase out of the terminal. The wind blew straight into my face, thick with an unfamiliar scent-the buttery aroma of the buttery smell of fresh pastries, warm air billowing up from the metro entrances, the soft rustle of plane tree leaves along the sidewalks, all rushing over me at once.

I stood on the steps outside the departures hall and took a long, deep breath, letting the strange air settle inside me.

Then I whispered something, just loud enough for myself.

“Baby, this is our new home.”

I rented a small apartment in the Latin Quarter. Sixth floor, no elevator, but from the window I could see the Seine and the jumble of chimneys on the rooftops across the water

Below was an old bookstore with a crooked plane tree out front. Every afternoon around two, sunlight angled in through the windows and spread warm golden patches across the floor, bathing the whole room in honey.

The first day I moved in, I laid my suitcase flat on the hardwood floor and hung my clothes in the narrow closet one by one.

I hadn’t brought much. Three jackets. Four blouses. Two pairs of jeans. Two pairs of flats. That was all I

owned and all I needed.

The landlady was a French woman in her sixties named Madeleine. She had worked as a docent at the Louvre before retiring.

On my first day, she knocked on my door with a tray of fresh-baked croissants. She leaned against the doorframe and studied me for a long moment, then spoke in slow, heavily accented English.

“You look like a bird with a broken wing.”

I blinked.

She smiled, the fine lines around her eyes crinkling warmly.

“It’s all right. Paris is the best place to heal.”

She pressed the tray into my hands, patted my shoulder, and headed back down the stairs.

The wooden steps creaked under her feet. I stood in the doorway with that warm tray of croissants, and suddenly my eyes stung.

I applied to the art history program at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris.

On the day of my interview, the professor-a gray-haired man in gold-rimmed glasses-looked at my

portfolio in silence for a full six minutes. I sat across from him for those six minutes, my fingers clenched inte fists on my knees.-

Then he took off his glasses, looked up at me, and said one word in French.

“Bienvenue.”

Welcome.

I stood in the hallway of the school, clutching the acceptance letter, tilting my head back before the tears

could fall.

Slowly, my life fell into rhythm.

I worked part-time at the school library-twenty hours a week, organizing art journals and helping students scan documents.

Every evening after class, I walked home along the Seine. I would pause on a pedestrian bridge over the Seine, watching tourists take pictures where lovers used to leave locks.

Edmund and I had come here once, years ago. He’d put his arm around my waist and said he’d bring me back to Paris on our honeymoon.

I stared at the locks for a few seconds. Then I looked away and kept walking.

Autumn arrived without warning in Paris.

One day after class, a downpour caught me without an umbrella. I ducked under the awning of a small gallery by the roadside.

The space was tiny. They were showing a local contemporary artist’s work.

I wandered through slowly, then stopped in front of one painting.

I don’t know why, but I stood there for a long time, long enough that I forgot it was raining outside.

Behind me, a man spoke in English.

“You really like that one?”