The Invisible Girl's Parisian Escape

after my parents died. For his return from a three-month trip, I co

next night, where he introduced me to his stunnin

ng with a love he had never shown me. "The one who'

ding plans, their shared joy a surreal tort

oticed my silence, the way my hope curdled into

cceptance letter was waiting for me: a full

g to know what was going on, I placed my key on

pte

shield against the damp chill of a Veridia autumn. I adjusted the sprig of thyme o

rfect. F

ew up in each other's pockets. When my parents died in a car crash when I was eighteen, his family had taken me in. They'd given me a home, an education, and a safety net. Mark, olde

business trip in Asia. Three months of hollow silence in this

how much effort I've put in. He'll see the woman I've become, not j

hoped the color brought out my eyes. I glanced around the living room. The lighting was low and warm, the table was set for two with the good plates I'd bought last year, and a

leap into my throat. I quickly wiped my dam

but as handsome as ever. His dark hair was slightly damp, and his tailored overcoat drip

sand times. He offered a small, weary smile. His eyes, a cool, distant grey, s

sounding breathy and weak. *Say something

economical, precise. He hung it on the hook by the door, his back

candle flame. "I wanted to do s

the kind of look one gives a well-meaning puppy. A fond, but ultimately patro

, his mind still on spreadsheets and profit margins. I served the chicken, my hands steady now, a strange calm settling over

of meetings in Singapore, of factory negotiations, of market expansion. His words were all business, devoid of pe

He never has.* The thought w

ack. "Thank you. You've always been a good cook

ack to life. "Actually, I'm glad you did this. It's a nice warm-up. I have some important news,

ind raced, connecting dots that weren't there, weaving a fantasy from a few careless threa

, trying to keep the tre

ppiness, but I was too lost in my own dream to notice it wasn't directed *at* me, but at the n

ryway. "I'm exhausted. I'm going to head back

e with the scent of rosemary, the flickering can

ddy, nervous excitement. After I'd scrubbed the last plate, I walked to my small desk in the corner of the living room. M

ho was traveling. And then I saw it. A thick, cream-colored envelope with an internationa

dream-a fully-funded master's program in textile design. A fantasy of a life that was entirely my own, a life where I wasn't just waiting for Mark. I'd pour

. The paper inside was heavy, expensive. The letterhead was crisp.

ed to info

anding por

ip, including stipe

your studies t

etched out before me. One, here in Veridia, in this apartment, waiting for Mark to finally see me.

life entir

mmer of hope I felt wasn't

-