Chapter 3

Ethan called Alex' s phone a few days after she' d left for Paris.

It went straight to voicemail.

He frowned. She usually answered, or at least texted back.

He tried again later. Same result.

He told himself she just needed space. She was with her parents. She' d call when she was ready.

He was busy anyway. Cassandra was demanding, needy. She' d moved into a small, chic apartment he was paying for. She was thrilled, playing the role of the cherished mistress.

He tried to focus on work, on a new hotel project in Miami.

But Alex' s silence gnawed at him.

A week later, he got a call from his father. Arthur Prescott sounded grim.

"Ethan, we need to talk. In my office. Now."

The tone sent a chill down Ethan' s spine.

When he arrived, his mother Eleanor was there too. They both looked grave.

"What' s wrong?" Ethan asked.

His father slid a thick legal document across the polished mahogany desk.

"The Paris Clause," Arthur said, his voice heavy. "Alexandra has invoked it."

Ethan stared at the document, his mind reeling.

The Paris Clause? He' d almost forgotten about it. That relic from a past mistake, a past he thought they' d moved beyond.

"She... she what?" he stammered. "But... why? I told her we' d talk. We' d fix things."

"Fix things?" Eleanor' s voice was sharp. "Ethan, she sent proof. A video. Of you and that... that singer. In New Orleans. On your anniversary."

Ethan felt the blood drain from his face. The video. He' d hoped... he didn' t know what he' d hoped.

"She knows about the affair before the accident," he mumbled.

"She knows everything, it seems," Arthur said, his eyes cold. "The shares are already in motion. Your trust fund is frozen, effective immediately. And there' s a restraining order. You' re barred from Paris."

Ethan sank into a chair, stunned.

Seventy-five percent of his shares. His trust fund. Paris. Alex.

Gone. All gone.

Because of a sordid affair he barely remembered, and a manipulative woman he' d foolishly trusted.

"This is... this is Cassandra' s fault," he said, grasping for someone to blame. "She manipulated me. She sent Alex that video after I told her it was over between us!"

"Perhaps," his father said. "But you had the affair, Ethan. You made the choices that led to this. This Cassandra woman merely exposed what you tried to hide."

"Alex wouldn' t do this," Ethan insisted, a desperate edge to his voice. "She loves me. We can talk this out. I' ll go to Paris. I' ll explain."

"You can' t go to Paris, Ethan," Eleanor said softly, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and disappointment. "The restraining order is legally binding. Internationally."

"And her parents, Robert and Katherine, they will ensure it' s enforced. They have considerable influence there," Arthur added.

Ethan felt trapped. Suffocated.

He' d lost Alex. He' d lost a significant part of his fortune and power.

All because he couldn' t keep his impulses in check.

The restlessness he' d felt, the desire for a thrill, an escape – it had cost him everything.

He thought of Alex. Her pain. Her quiet strength as she' d packed her bags, her empty eyes as she' d said goodbye.

She hadn' t been going for a visit. She' d been leaving him for good.

And he, in his arrogance, hadn' t even seen it.

The news of Ethan' s sudden financial and personal crisis spread quickly through New York' s elite circles.

The Prescott Corporation stock dipped. Rumors flew.

Ethan tried to maintain a facade of control, but inside, he was unraveling.

He threw himself into work, trying to salvage what he could of his reputation, his power.

But the loss of Alex was a constant, aching void.

Cassandra tried to comfort him, to play the role of the supportive partner.

"Don' t worry, Ethan," she' d coo, running her fingers through his hair. "You still have me. We can build a new life together. A better life."

He looked at her, at her pretty, calculating face, and felt nothing but revulsion.

She was a parasite, a symptom of his own weakness.

He knew, with a sickening certainty, that she had orchestrated Alex' s discovery of the video. She' d wanted Alex out of the picture, wanted Ethan all to herself.

And she' d succeeded.

But in doing so, she' d also destroyed any lingering appeal she might have held for him.

The thrill was gone, replaced by a bitter taste of regret and self-loathing.

He started drinking heavily. Alone. Pushing Cassandra away when she tried to get close.

His friends, Ben and Will, tried to intervene.

"Ethan, you need to pull yourself together," Ben said, finding him unshaven and reeking of alcohol in his sparsely furnished bachelor pad – he couldn' t stand being in the apartment he' d shared with Alex.

"She' s gone, Ben," Ethan slurred. "Alex is gone. And it' s my fault."

"Yes, it is," Will said bluntly. "But wallowing in self-pity isn' t going to bring her back."

"Nothing will bring her back," Ethan said, his voice hollow. "She invoked the Paris Clause. She hates me."

"Can you blame her?" Ben asked quietly.

Ethan couldn' t.

He' d had everything. A woman who loved him deeply. A life of privilege and power.

And he' d thrown it all away for a cheap thrill, a moment of recklessness.

The price of ash and ivy.

He was paying it now. In full.

In Paris, Alex slowly began to heal.

Her parents were a rock, providing quiet support, a safe haven.

They lived in a beautiful apartment overlooking the Seine, filled with books and art and the comforting rhythms of their life together.

They didn' t pry, didn' t ask for details about Ethan unless Alex offered them.

She spent her days walking along the river, visiting museums, losing herself in the beauty of the city.

She reconnected with old friends of her parents, intellectuals and artists who welcomed her into their circle.

She started sketching again, something she hadn' t done in years. Her talent as a historical preservation architect found new expression in capturing the timeless beauty of Parisian architecture.

She didn' t hear from Ethan. The restraining order was working.

She knew the news of the Paris Clause invocation would have hit him hard. She didn' t allow herself to feel guilt. He had brought this upon himself.

One afternoon, while sketching in the Jardin du Luxembourg, a shadow fell over her notepad.

She looked up. A man was standing there, a camera in his hand, a friendly smile on his face.

He was tall, with kind eyes and a slightly rugged look, as if he' d seen a lot of the world.

"Bonjour," he said, his English lightly accented. "Forgive me for disturbing you. I' m Julian Vance. I' m a photographer."

He gestured to her sketch. "That' s quite good. You have a wonderful eye for detail."

Alex felt herself blush slightly. "Thank you. I' m Alexandra Hayes. Alex."

"A pleasure, Alex." His eyes lingered on her face for a moment. "You have a very expressive face. Would you mind if I took your picture?"

Alex hesitated. She wasn' t used to this kind of attention. Not anymore.

"I... I don' t know," she said.

Julian smiled disarmingly. "Just one. For my collection of Parisian moments."

Before she could answer, he' d raised his camera and clicked.

"There," he said, lowering the camera. "Painless."

He showed her the image on the camera' s display.

She was surprised. He' d caught her in a moment of quiet contemplation, a soft light on her face. She looked... peaceful. Almost happy.

A genuine smile, one she hadn' t seen on her own face in a long time.

"It' s... it' s very good," she admitted.

"You are very photogenic," Julian said. "May I treat you to a coffee? To thank you for being my unwitting model?"

Alex found herself smiling back. "Alright, Julian Vance. A coffee would be nice."

It was the first time in months she had felt a flicker of something other than pain or numbness.

A tiny spark of hope. A new beginning.