Paris shimmered beneath an unforgiving sky when Sebastian Vale arrived.
Rain slicked the cobblestones, the Seine running dark and restless beside the city lights. He'd barely slept on the flight; exhaustion hung heavy on his shoulders. But it wasn't fatigue that drove him forward — it was the silence.
Ava hadn't answered a single call in four days.
Every unanswered ring replayed in his head like an accusation. He told himself she was just busy, but deep down, he knew. Something had shifted — something fragile had broken.
He found her at her studio near the Rue Saint-Honoré. The place looked half-alive: canvases leaned against the walls, streaks of paint glimmered beneath the dim light, and in the center of it all stood Ava — barefoot, hair tangled, brush moving furiously across a half-finished canvas.
She didn't hear him at first.
"Ava," he said softly.
She froze. The brush slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Slowly, she turned.
"Sebastian." Her voice was careful — almost too calm.
"You stopped answering me," he said.
"I needed time."
"Time?" His tone sharpened despite himself. "You disappear for days, and I'm supposed to pretend it's fine?"
Her jaw tightened. "You don't get to question me, Sebastian. Not when you've been smiling for cameras next to your new business partner like she's the woman waiting for you back home."
He blinked, stunned. "What are you talking about?"
She crossed her arms, refusing to meet his eyes. "I saw the photos. The gala. You looked… comfortable."
He exhaled sharply, realizing what this was about. "That woman is Elise Carter. She's leading the Asia expansion. I didn't even stay an hour."
"You didn't call after, either," she said quietly.
"I tried," he said, voice low. "You didn't answer."
Silence stretched, raw and jagged.
Ava turned away, walking toward the window. Rain streaked down the glass like tears she refused to shed. "Maybe this was inevitable," she whispered. "We're both too consumed by our worlds."
"No." He crossed the room, voice fierce now. "Don't do that. Don't turn this into some noble tragedy. We've fought too hard for each other."
She faced him, eyes flashing. "And what happens when fighting becomes the only thing we do?"
Her words hit deep. He saw the exhaustion in her face — the same weariness he felt every time he stared at his reflection and wondered when ambition had started stealing his soul.
He stepped closer. "Tell me what you want, Ava. Do you want me to leave?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
"I'll go," he said, voice breaking. "If that's what you want, I'll walk out that door right now."
She looked at him — at the man who had once terrified her with his control and undone her with his gentleness. And in that moment, all the anger melted into something far more dangerous: longing.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered.
He exhaled, a sound between relief and ache, and closed the distance between them. His hand brushed her cheek, tentative at first. "Then stop pushing me away."
Her breath hitched. "I'm scared."
"So am I." His forehead touched hers. "Every day you're gone feels like losing gravity."
Their lips met — not gentle, not measured, but desperate. It was anger, love, and surrender colliding all at once.
Ava's hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as if proximity could erase the distance of continents. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the windows like a heartbeat gone wild.
When they finally broke apart, she whispered, "You shouldn't have come."
"I couldn't stay away."
She laughed softly, tears glinting in her eyes. "You're impossible."
He smiled faintly. "You knew that when you fell for me."
They stood there, breathing the same air, the storm wrapping the city in its arms. For a few stolen minutes, everything was simple again — just them against the world.
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Later, they sat on the floor beside the window, watching the rain blur the lights of Paris.
"I painted us," Ava said quietly.
He looked up at the massive canvas before them — two figures standing apart in a sea of storm.
"It's beautiful," he murmured.
"It's unfinished," she corrected. "Like us."
Sebastian reached for her hand. "Then let's finish it together."
She hesitated. "Can we?"
He squeezed her fingers gently. "We can try. But I need you to know something."
"What?"
"I can't keep doing this — running between worlds, always afraid one will destroy the other. I built ValeTech to mean something, but it's not worth it if it costs me you."
Her eyes softened. "And I can't stop painting, Sebastian. It's who I am."
"Then we stop choosing between us and our dreams," he said. "We find a way to make both work."
She smiled faintly. "You make it sound easy."
"It won't be," he admitted. "But nothing worth having ever is."
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They talked for hours — about Paris, London, the future. For the first time in weeks, honesty replaced silence.
When dawn came, the rain had stopped. The city glowed pale and new, as if it had been washed clean.
Sebastian stood behind her, arms wrapped around her waist as they looked out at the waking skyline.
"I have to go back tomorrow," he said quietly.
"I know."
"But I'll come back. Often. No excuses this time."
Ava turned in his arms, studying him. "Promise?"
He smiled — tired, real. "Promise."
She kissed him softly. "Then I'll wait."
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Hours later, when he finally left, Ava stood in the doorway watching him disappear into the Paris crowd.
She knew their love wasn't healed — not yet. But it was alive, fragile and burning, like the first light after a storm.
She turned back to her canvas and picked up her brush.
With slow, deliberate strokes, she brought the two figures closer together until their hands finally touched.
And for the first time in months, she painted not from pain —
but from hope.
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