Midnight in Montmartre

s, 1

unmarked door in the 18th arrondissement. The air inside was thick with the scent of cigar smoke, spilled absinthe, and the musk of bodies pressed

Julien Moreau played the pian

erence, each note a collision of desire and despair. The crowd swaye

lle D

ck silk that clung to her like a second skin. A single red rose

. A discordant note ran

ng for him to notice her. As if this moment had been written in

d and vanished

Nights

awn, slipped beneath Ju

an, in a handwriting th

e me a

erfume-jasmine and something darker,

paper in his fist.

bel

life five years ago, taking his hear

ill whispered in the dark,

she wa

ent

the murmurs of the crowd. He pushed through th

r, swirling a glass of

she said, wit

ruel," he

and throaty. "I've mis

throat and kiss her until they both forgot how to breathe. In

ow?" h

ched into her clutch and slid a

blood tur

in the attic of a Montmartre flat, the one she'd

," she whispered

rs itched for

grazing his ear. "Because t

g only the rose on the bar, its pet