Chapter 16: Paris

Rue Vieille du Temple, a small narrow street, was busy, a little noisy, and a little chaotic at this time of the evening. A young, fashionable crowd spilled out from the bars and restaurants. The air was thick with the smell of rain.

We'd been here for two days. Or rather I'd been here for two days, depending on how you defined "here". I'd been walking around Paris, enjoying the sights, the sounds, and the food. Emma had been in our hotel room, or at her Parisian office, working nonstop or until her arousal for me outweighed Luciana's ambition, at which point I'd get a text to come back to her and she'd jump at me as soon as I stepped through the door. The following hour was usually one of shame and apologies as my wife reemerged, flush-faced and breathless, Luciana's obsession for her career finally taking a backseat.

And now... She was late.

I was hiding from the downpour in the doorway of a closed-up boutique, watching people hurry past with their heads down, a couple laughing under the same umbrella as they crossed the street.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. A text from Emma.

"Sorry, running a little late. An emergency with the new line of diffusers. I'm on my way. You can wait for me at La Belle Hortense. Order me a glass of Malbec."

I looked around, resisting the urge to sigh. I quickly noticed the blue awning of the bookshop-café just across the street, its warm, inviting light spilling out onto the wet pavement. I took a deep breath, pulled the collar of my jacket up, and made a run for it, dodging puddles and umbrellas.

The bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside, the warm air and the scent of old books and fresh coffee washing over me. The place was small, cozy, the shelves lined with books, the walls covered with art.

I found a small table in the corner, a stack of poetry collections next to it, and sat down.

I was in Paris, finally, and I felt out of place. What was even the point if I spent my days here waiting for my wife to find the time to enjoy it with me, like we were supposed to when we were planning our imaginary trip. Did that dream even make the transition with her, or was it decomposing inside her rotting brain in her coffin? I shivered.

The waitress, a tall, slender woman with short, spiky blonde hair and a nose ring, approached my table. "Vous avez choisi ?" she asked.

I mumbled, confused. Assuming she'd just asked for my order in French but not understanding a word of it.

She rolled her eyes, switching to heavily accented English. "Did you choose?"

"Uh, yes," I said, my mind blank. "I'll have a coffee, please. And a glass of Malbec."

She nodded, writing it down, and walked away. I picked up one of the poetry books from the table next to me, flipping through it. It took me far too long to realize the book was in French, and I'd been lost in my thoughts, my fingers tracing the words, my mind completely elsewhere. I put it down with a sigh, rubbing my eyes.

My order arrived, and I took a sip of my coffee, staring out the window at the rain. I turned around to look inside the café. There were a few other patrons, mostly couples, huddled in small, intimate conversations. And a woman in her mid-twenties, sitting alone at a table across the room, sipping a large cup of tea while typing on a laptop with her free hand, her brown hair framing her cute freckled face in messy waves. She was wearing a colorful dress, dark blue tights, and Doc Martens. She seemed completely absorbed in her work, a small, focused frown on her face.

The bell above the door chimed again, and I looked up, expecting to see Emma. But it was a group of German tourists, shaking off their umbrellas and laughing loudly. I went back to my coffee, my mind drifting again.

I must have been staring, because the woman across the room looked up from her laptop, her eyes meeting mine. She raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly, as if to point out I was staring. I quickly looked away, my face flushing, pretending to take a sip of the minuscule coffee I had already finished. When I looked back, she had returned to her work, paying me no mind.

The waitress stopped by her table, smiling, and they started chatting. My French was non-existent, but I could tell by their tone that they knew each other. The waitress seemed to be teasing her about something, and the woman was laughing, swatting her playfully.

"Someone caught your eye?" a voice purred in my ear, making me jump.

I turned to see Emma standing behind my chair, a small, amused smile on her lips.

"Jesus! Don't do that," I said, my heart still pounding. "You're late."

I felt like a husband caught checking out another woman. And I guess that's exactly what I was doing, but wasn't my wife another woman too? Our previous host shopping sessions were messing with my brain.

"A little bit," she admitted, sliding into the chair across from me. She was wearing a simple black dress and a long, elegant coat that she draped over the back of her chair. "A crisis with the supplier for our packaging. It's resolved now, though. I hope you weren't waiting for too long."

"I've been waiting for two days," I said, my voice flat. "So what's a few more minutes?"

She winced, her expression hardening for a second, her jaw tight. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice cold. "I'm trying to run a company here. My company."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Her company. Luciana's company," I shot back, my frustration boiling over. "Do I have to remind you that you're not HER." My eyes darted toward the woman in the colorful dress and I looked away quickly, my guilt now mixing with my anger.

Emma followed my gaze, her expression unreadable. She grabbed her glass of wine, taking a long, slow sip, her dark eyes never leaving mine. "No," she said, her voice a low, dangerous purr. "You don't."

"Really? Because it seems to me you're getting a little too comfortable in her skin."

She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes locked on mine. Her cheeks flushed. "I'm doing this for—"

"For us?" I interrupted, my voice rising. "Don't give me that. You're not even doing this for yourself. For Emma."

"I am Emma!" she insisted, her voice strained, her Spanish accent bleeding through her anger.

People were starting to look. The waitress was giving us concerned looks from behind the counter.

"The real Emma would not invite me to travel to Paris with her and then leave me to wander the streets by myself, twiddling my thumbs," I continued, my anger spiking. "The real Emma would be here, with me, enjoying this, living this dream, not working herself to the bone in a hotel room for a company that isn't even hers!"

My wife stared at me for a long moment, her face a mask of hurt and anger. She opened her mouth but seemed to soften a little, looking down. "¡Mierda!" she cursed under her breath, her eyes closed. "You're right."

I leaned back in my chair, sighing.

"We need the money, Cal," she said, her voice quiet, looking up at me again. "Her money. We need the stability. She needs to work."

"Then let her work," I said, smiling bitterly. "She doesn't need you to do that. She was already doing it on her own."

"I guess I could change her memories, implant some suggestions and be someone else for a while..." she started, trailing off, her gaze distant.

"She's staying for a few more days. You can always be her again later if you absolutely need to micro-manage her multi-million-dollar company," I grumbled. "Make sure she helps us. But I'm sure she'd be fine without you for a bit."

"But—"

"But she's obsessed about what she does, and so are you, through her," I said, my voice a little softer now. "Let's try to have some fun while we're here, okay?"

She finally looked away, at the girl across the room, who was now packing up her laptop, her movements quick and efficient. A small, amused smile played on her lips. "We need a local guide," she said. "Someone who knows the city."

I followed her gaze again, and I blushed. She had noticed. Of course she had.

"What if she's got someone in her life? Children?" I asked, my conscience starting to kick in again.

"Then I'll just hop into someone else. No big deal." Emma leaned to the side just as the French woman passed by our table, brushing her arm as she walked past. My wife's fingers grazed the girl's skin.

The woman slowed down just as Luciana blinked, slightly dazed, then she stopped, turning around, crossing her arms, smirking at me.

"Well, I'll leave you two to it," Luciana said with a huff, standing up and finishing her glass of wine in one go. "Please don't forget to pick up your stuff at the hotel. And keep me informed of when you want to go back home so I can have the tickets sent your way." She sounded stern, almost annoyed.

"Okay..." I managed, my mind still racing.

She glared at the girl who was now looking at me with a loving, curious smile, her eyes a warm shade of hazel that I hadn't noticed from afar, then left the café, not giving me a second glance.

"What the fuck did you have her believe?" I asked my wife in her new host.

Emma tilted her head, frowning in confusion. Then she giggled. "Merde... C'est con !"

"What?" I asked, a little lost.

"No English," she said, her voice light and melodic, a thick French accent wrapping around the words. She seemed to find the situation very funny. Despite myself, I laughed too.

The waitress was staring at us, wide-eyed and confused. "Chloé ? Tout va bien ?" She asked my wife. Chloé. Now I knew her name.

"Oh oui, tout va bien ! C'est rien. Je t'expliquerai," my wife said with a dismissive wave.

"I'm going to need a translator," I sighed, burying my face in my hands.

Emma grabbed my hand gently, pulling me toward the exit. "Allez, viens."

We stepped back out into the rain, which had softened to a fine mist.

I saw Luciana's figure in the distance, her shoulders squared as she walked away, a lone figure against the shimmering streetlights. I pointed at it. "Luciana," I mumbled. "Erm... What does she believe?" I tapped a finger against my temple.

"Oh!" my wife chirped. Damn she was cute. "You..." She pointed at me. "Sex friend!" She winked.

I snorted, laughing. "She thinks I'm her sex friend?"

Emma squinted, concentrating. "Putain, comment on dit 'plan cul'?" she mumbled to herself before laughing again. "Ça va pas être pratique..."

"What?"

She shook her head. "Sex friend. Phone?"

"A booty call?"

She shrugged, clearly having no idea what I just said. I sighed. Why couldn't we have a single normal day?

Then, she kissed me, her lips soft and warm against the cold night air. It was a quick, chaste kiss, but it sent a jolt through me, and I found myself relaxing.

"Alright, 'Chloé'," I said, pulling back from the kiss. "What now?"

She smiled, grabbing my hand, and started leading me down the narrow street. "Tu pouvais pas choisir meilleure que moi pour te faire découvrir Paris, mon gars !" She said proudly.

I nodded, a bit giddy. I had no idea what she'd just said, but her tone was full of adventure.

Hey there! This was chapter 16 out of 28. I will post two to three chapters a week.

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