Midnight in Montmartre

Name: Midnight in Montmartre
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Ms.Dee_K

Romance | Ongoing

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In the bohemian heart of Paris, where the cobblestones hum with forgotten melodies and the air smells of paint and possibility, two bruised souls find their way back to each other-one note at a time. Élodie Dubois, a once-promising violinist, has traded concert halls for the dim glow of underground jazz clubs after a scandal shattered her career. Luca Moretti, a nomadic jazz saxophonist with a reputation for brilliance and self-destruction, spends his nights playing like a man running from ghosts. When Luca unknowingly plays a stolen refrain from Élodie's lost symphony on the stage of Le Chat Noir, their collision sparks a creative and romantic duet that neither can ignore. As they weave through moonlit streets and smoky bars-composing a love letter to the city and each other-they must confront the shadows of their pasts. But when an old rival resurfaces, threatening to expose the secrets that tore them apart years ago, Élodie and Luca must choose: Will they let history repeat itself, or will they finally play the symphony they were meant to share?

Suspense Secret relationship Love triangle Attractive Hidden identities

Chapter 5 The Last Canvas of Us

04-11 13:44

Chapter 1 Melody of the Midnight Hearts

Paris, 2:17 AM

The cobblestones of Montmartre glistened under the streetlamps, slick with rain and the ghosts of a thousand love stories. Élodie Dubois clutched her violin case like a lifeline, her breath fogging the air as she ducked into Le Chat Noir, the underground jazz club where the city's misfits came to disappear.

She hadn't planned on playing tonight-not after the scathing review in Le Monde that called her compositions "as lively as a funeral march." The words still burned behind her eyelids. But the weight of her silent apartment had become unbearable, and the club's muffled laughter promised anonymity.

The bartender, a grizzled man with a spiderweb tattoo curling up his neck, slid her a whiskey without asking. "For the hands," he grunted. "Cold makes them stiff."

Élodie flexed her fingers, the calluses catching on the glass. She'd barely taken a sip when the music began.

Not the usual brassy swing of the house band-this was something else. A saxophone's mournful cry sliced through the smoke, a melody so raw it made her ribs ache. On the dim-lit stage, a man with ink-stained fingers and a five-o'clock shadow closed his eyes, bending notes like they were secrets.

"The American," the bartender murmured. "Luca Moretti. Plays like the devil, tips like a saint."

She watched Luca's shoulders roll with the rhythm, his sleeves shoved up to reveal a faded tattoo of a bird in flight. His music was reckless. Alive. Everything her own compositions had failed to be.

Then-

A phrase. A ripple of notes.

Élodie's glass hit the counter with a crack.

It was hers. The opening motif from Rue des Ombres, the symphony she'd been laboring over for months. The one she'd never played for anyone.

The bartender eyed her. "Problem?"

"He's playing my music," she whispered.

"Doubt it." The man shrugged. "That one only plays originals. Calls it 'borrowing from the air.'"

Luca's eyes flicked open-hazel, gold-flecked-and locked onto hers. A dissonant chord. A skipped beat.

Then he repeated the phrase, slower this time, teasing it apart like a question.

Élodie's pulse thundered in her ears. Without thinking, she unlatched her violin case.

The club's chatter died as she mounted the stage. Luca didn't stop playing, but his brow furrowed. Up close, she could see the scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the sweat-damp collar of his shirt.

"You're missing the counterpoint," she said, and lifted her bow.

For three heartbeats, the room held its breath.

Then she answered him.

Her violin wove through his saxophone's lines, sharpening the edges, filling the hollows he'd left like they were spaces meant for her. Luca's lips curled at the corners. He leaned in, improvising a new riff-challenging her.

Élodie matched him, note for note.

The music swelled, a conversation without words. She didn't know how he'd stolen her melody, but now she was stealing it back, twisting it into something fiercer. Something theirs.

The crowd erupted as the last chord faded. Luca grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're Élodie Dubois," he said, like he'd known all along. "The conservatory's runaway star."

"And you're a thief," she shot back, but her bow arm trembled.

He laughed, low and rough. "Guilty. But you just stole my set, so I'd call us even."

Behind them, the club's owner clapped Luca on the shoulder. "You two finish that tomorrow night. Paid gig."

Élodie opened her mouth to refuse-but Luca was already scribbling an address on a cocktail napkin. "Rehearsal space," he said. "Noon. Bring your funeral march."

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving only the echo of his saxophone and the weight of the napkin in her hand.