Ethan closed the bedroom door softly behind him, his hand lingering on the polished brass handle for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Clara's words, laced with hurt, heavy with accusation, still clung to his mind, piercing his heart.
He crossed the hallway to the study, his footsteps slow and deliberate. Inside, the faint scent of cigar smoke still lingered in the bookshelves, a remnant of his father's late-night thinking sessions. The lamp on the desk cast a warm glow, and as he sank into the leather chair, the present began to fade.
Eight years ago.
Ethan and his mom had been in Paris for a year now. He wanted to forget her. Forget their night together, the one she had called a mistake, while it had been the best night of his life. On this particular day, his mother was in a rare carefree mood, pulling him from boutique to boutique, insisting he try on clothes he would never wear. They had just settled into a sunny corner table at a café in Saint-Germain when his father's name lit up her phone.
Her expression changed as she listened, her lips pressed tight. "We need to go home," she said simply, no explanation, no room for argument.