PARISIAN HEARTS

Chapter 1

The soft hum of Paris filled the air as Isabelle stood at the edge of the Seine, her eyes tracing the ripples in the water. The city’s beauty always had a way of overwhelming her—its history, its art, the promise it held for people like her who dared to dream. But tonight, under the soft glow of the streetlights, all she felt was exhaustion. Her fingers ached from hours spent painting in her tiny apartment, but her heart ached more from the uncertainty that weighed on her.

She glanced down at the small canvas in her hand, the colors swirling into something vibrant yet unfinished. Like her. Incomplete. How much longer could she keep going like this? The rent was due, and her latest painting hadn’t sold. Isabelle sighed, shaking her head.

Across the river, laughter echoed from a nearby café, a stark contrast to the quiet that hung around her. She had always been drawn to the noise, the energy of the city. But now, it felt like an intrusion, a reminder of everything she wasn’t part of.

“Excusez-moi,” a deep voice cut through her thoughts. Isabelle turned, startled, and found herself looking up into a pair of piercing blue eyes.

The man was tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, and looked completely out of place on the quiet riverside. His gaze flicked briefly to the canvas in her hand, then back to her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Isabelle blinked, her heart racing as she registered the presence of this stranger. There was something about him—something guarded, almost distant, but undeniably magnetic.

“No, it’s... it’s fine,” she managed, clutching the canvas closer. She had no idea why she felt so nervous, but his intense gaze unsettled her. “Can I help you?”

The man’s lips twitched in what could have been a smile, but it never quite reached his eyes. “I doubt that,” he said, his voice tinged with something she couldn’t place. “I was just admiring your work.” He gestured towards the painting, his expression unreadable.

Her heart sank. He was just another wealthy passerby, probably looking to make polite conversation before moving on to whatever high-society event was waiting for him. Still, Isabelle forced a smile and offered the canvas out for him to see.

“It’s nothing special,” she said softly. “Just... a piece I’m working on.”

He studied it for a moment, his brow furrowing as if he was actually trying to understand it. Then, without a word, he pulled a sleek business card from his pocket and handed it to her.

“I’m Adrien Laurent,” he said. “If you ever want to discuss selling your work, reach out. I have connections that could be useful.” His tone was cool, professional, but there was something else—a flicker of interest that seemed to surprise even him.

Isabelle stared at the card in her hand, speechless. By the time she looked up, Adrien was already walking away, disappearing into the night.