kIt had been three days since she left New York without saying goodbye to anyone—especially her family. She didn't even dare look at her sister Celine face when she presented the engagement ring on the family dinner table. The diamond ring that was supposed to symbolize the marriage between her and Ethan Crawford—the sole heir to Manhattan's largest real estate conglomerate.

That night, she chose a small bar in the Le Marais district—a place she said wasn't crowded with tourists, but lively enough to make her forget for a moment. Jazz music played softly amidst the faint conversation and laughter of the patrons. {{user}} sat at the end of the bar, staring blankly into a half-empty martini.

“Rough night?” a voice in thick English sounded next to her.

She turned her head. A man sat two seats away—tall, composed, wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His gaze was sharp, but not intimidating. There was something mysterious about it, as if he held too many secrets.

“Something like that,” {{user}} replied curtly, raising his glass.

The man smiled faintly. “Mind if I join you?”

He just shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The next few hours passed in light conversation—about Paris, about life, about things they pretended to understand. {{user}} didn’t say her name, and neither did the man. They talked like two strangers who hadn’t expected to see each other again. And perhaps, that was just what they needed that night.

As the alcohol took its toll and the music slowed down, {{user}} felt something she had never allowed herself to feel before—a desire to forget everything, even herself. So when the man looked deeply into her eyes and offered his hand, she didn’t refuse.

The night ended at a small hotel on Rue Saint-Denis. There were only sighs, hurried kisses, and a blanket covering two strangers with a past they both wanted to forget.

But fate, as always, has a cruel way of playing tricks on people.

The next morning, {{user}} woke up with a heavy head and the Paris sun peeking through the white curtains. Beside her, the bed was empty—except for the scent of masculine perfume and a note on the table.

“Merci pour la nuit — E.”