PARISIAN HEARTS

Chapter 2

Adrien strode through the narrow Parisian streets, his mind still on the woman by the Seine. He hadn’t planned to stop, much less engage with a random artist, but something about her had caught his attention. Maybe it was the way she stood, shoulders tense yet eyes filled with a quiet determination. Or maybe it was her art—vibrant, chaotic, and somehow reflective of the storm he carried inside himself.

He shook his head, irritated at his own distraction. He didn’t have time for this. Not tonight.

His phone buzzed, the vibration pulling him back to reality. Adrien glanced at the screen. Sophie. He sighed, knowing the call wasn’t going to be pleasant. Sophie never called unless it was to make a demand.

“Yes?” he answered, his voice clipped as he continued walking.

“Where are you, Adrien? I thought you were coming to the gala tonight. You know how important it is.” Sophie’s voice was sharp, with the same edge of entitlement it always carried.

“I had something to take care of,” he replied, dodging the question. He wasn’t in the mood for the gala, or for Sophie’s endless complaints about his lack of presence in their public life. He knew she was furious, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. “You’re impossible. You know that, right? We’re supposed to be a team, Adrien. How do you think this looks?”

“It looks like I’m handling business,” he said, his patience thinning. “Not everything revolves around appearances, Sophie.”

“It does in our world,” she snapped. “You know that better than anyone.”

Adrien clenched his jaw, already regretting picking up the call. He stopped at the corner of a street, his hand gripping the phone tighter. A part of him knew she was right. In their world of wealth, power, and prestige, appearances were everything. But another part of him—one that had been growing louder lately—didn’t care anymore.

“I’ll be there soon,” he said, already knowing it was a lie. He ended the call before Sophie could respond, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

Adrien’s gaze drifted back to the Seine, to the place where he’d just met Isabelle. She had seemed so far removed from his life—so free from the confines of expectation. For a brief moment, standing there with her, he had felt... something. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it unsettled him.

He shook the thought away and started walking again. It didn’t matter. He had other things to worry about. But as the night stretched on, he couldn’t shake the image of the woman with the paint-splattered hands and the quiet fire in her eyes.