Paris was everything Ava had dreamed of — and nothing like she imagined.
The air was thick with the scent of espresso and rain, the streets alive with art and motion. Every corner whispered inspiration, and her studio at the Musée D'Art Contemporain was flooded with light that painted her skin in gold.
Yet at night, when the city hushed and the Seine shimmered under moonlight, she missed the sound of his voice.
Sebastian.
She told herself they were fine — that calls and texts were enough. But the miles between them stretched like silk pulled too tight, threatening to tear.
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At first, the messages came every day.
Sebastian: "Morning, love. Don't forget to eat something other than paint fumes."
Ava: "No promises. You should see the mess I made today — but it's beautiful."
Sebastian: "Send me a photo. I want to see what's stealing my girl's attention."
Ava: "You're still the only one who does."
Those words had felt real, grounding.
But slowly, the rhythm changed. His replies came later, shorter.
ValeTech was expanding again; he was rebuilding the empire that nearly fell apart. She understood — ambition was part of who he was. But understanding didn't ease the ache.
Sometimes she would wake before dawn, stare at her phone, and type messages she never sent.
I miss you.
I'm scared we're slipping.
Tell me this distance doesn't change everything.
She deleted them all before hitting send.
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One evening, she attended a gallery dinner — a celebration of her Paris debut. The room was a whirl of champagne, laughter, and admiration.
"Miss Monroe," a smooth voice said beside her.
She turned to find Étienne Marchand, an art critic with striking green eyes and a smile that had disarmed countless artists before her.
"I must say, your work is… alive," he said. "It breathes. I haven't seen that kind of emotion on canvas in years."
Ava smiled politely. "Thank you. I paint what I feel."
"Then you must feel very deeply," Étienne murmured. "Especially about whoever inspires your colors."
She laughed softly, though her pulse quickened. "There's someone, yes."
"Lucky man." His gaze lingered a little too long. "Paris is full of temptations, Miss Monroe. Be careful not to fall for the wrong muse."
She met his eyes evenly. "I already found mine."
But later, alone in her apartment overlooking the Seine, she couldn't shake his words.
Temptations.
Distance.
Loneliness.
They crept into her brushstrokes, into the blues and golds of her paintings. Everything she created seemed to ache — love stretched thin but unbroken.
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Back in London, Sebastian was unraveling in his own way.
ValeTech had regained its footing, but at a cost. Investors wanted faster returns. The board was restless. And Hargreaves — the man he'd once ousted — had returned as a "consultant," charming his way back into the company's core.
Maya noticed the shift immediately.
"He's undermining you," she warned one night, tossing a stack of reports onto his desk. "He's aligning with the new investors. If you don't keep an eye on him, he'll make a move."
Sebastian rubbed his temples. "Let him try. I'm not giving him ValeTech again."
"Maybe not," Maya said, "but while you're fighting him, you're losing her."
He looked up sharply. "Ava?"
"Yes. When was the last time you talked — really talked?"
He sighed, leaning back. "She's busy. I don't want to distract her."
"Sebastian," Maya said gently, "you're not a distraction. You're the reason she paints the way she does. Don't let the distance convince you otherwise."
Her words hit harder than he expected.
That night, he sat on his balcony, phone in hand. The city glittered beneath him, indifferent. He typed a message, deleted it, then finally called.
She answered after the second ring, her voice soft and tired. "Hey."
"You sound exhausted."
"I've been painting since dawn. The museum's preparing for a private preview."
"I wish I could see it," he said quietly.
"You will. Eventually."
He hesitated, then asked, "Do you still think about me when you paint?"
Her laughter was fragile. "You're in every color, Sebastian."
Something in him eased. "Good. Because I don't think I've spent an hour without thinking of you."
For a moment, silence hummed between them — not empty, but full.
Then she whispered, "I miss you."
"I'll come soon," he promised.
But he didn't.
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Two weeks later, Ava's preview opened to critical acclaim. Her paintings glowed under gallery lights — each one a storm of feeling, devotion, and distance.
The press called her "the artist of longing."
As she stood before her main piece — a vast mural of two silhouettes reaching for each other across a fractured sky — Étienne appeared at her side.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "It feels… unfinished. Like they'll never touch."
"That's the point," Ava said softly.
He studied her, eyes sharp. "You're in pain. That's why it's brilliant."
She turned to him, bristling. "My art isn't pain — it's love."
"Is there a difference?" he asked, smiling faintly before walking away.
His question lingered long after the applause faded.
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In London, Sebastian attended a charity gala. Cameras flashed, investors surrounded him — and yet, he felt empty.
He should have been proud; ValeTech had just secured a major partnership. But every triumph felt muted without her there to see it.
Then, near the bar, he caught a glimpse of Hargreaves speaking to two board members, smiling that same oily smile. Something in Sebastian's chest tightened — not just anger, but fear.
He realized what he'd done.
He'd let business consume him again. The very thing Ava had once accused him of.
The next morning, he called her. No answer.
He called again. Straight to voicemail.
Finally, he texted:
"Ava, I need to see you. I'll fly out tomorrow. I miss you."
But when she saw the message, she was standing in the rain outside her studio, clutching an umbrella, staring at her reflection in a puddle.
She'd just seen a photo online — Sebastian at the gala, laughing beside a striking brunette executive.
It was harmless, she told herself. Just business. But the sting of distance had already turned into something darker.
She didn't reply.
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That night, she painted until dawn — wild, desperate strokes, a thousand shades of storm.
And when she stepped back from the canvas, she saw what she'd created:
Two figures again — this time, no longer reaching.
Just standing apart, both fading into the rain.
Her phone buzzed once more.
Sebastian: "Please call me."
She stared at the screen, tears blurring her vision.
For the first time, she didn't know if love alone would be enough.
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