One Night in Paris: A Novella (Autographed Paperback)

Chapter One

“You’re going to Paris?” Dave, my much older boyfriend, gapes at me as if I have two heads. 

My tall heels click on the polished hardwood floors as I cross through the modern, museum-like living room of our New York City apartment, the stark white walls and constant chill in the air making me shudder. I pull my carry-on from the closet, doing my best to hide the trembling of my hands. 

“My grandma is dying, Dave. She’s the woman I was named after, and she wants to see me one more time before…” I swallow the knot in my throat and turn to him, searching for a hint of understanding in his cool hazel gaze. 

Dave’s heartstrings aren’t so easily pulled, and as expected, my search for sympathy comes up empty.

He swirls the scotch around in his glass, then takes a long sip before leveling his deadpan gaze at me. “Ella, until tonight, I’ve barely ever heard you talk about this woman. And suddenly you have to drop everything to be at her bedside in Paris? It’s only your second month at Campbell and Dunn—the firm I set you up with, in case you’ve forgotten—and you have a huge merger this week. I don’t care who’s dying, you’re not leaving for Paris.” He pauses as if he’s waiting for an invisible jury to nod in approval. 

“In case you’ve forgotten, you’re not my boss anymore,” I snap, thinking back to my very first meeting with Dave, when I was a summer associate at the corporate law firm where he had just made partner. Our booze-filled lunches turned into romantic weekend getaways…and as soon as I graduated and landed a position as a first year at his firm, Dave asked me to move in with him. 

I was young, smitten, and naive when I said yes; I thought I understood what I was signing up for. More than the sweep-me-off-my-feet romance with an older, more experienced man, it was a lifestyle—a lifestyle I’d finally bought into after years of my parents, law school professors, and classmates all shoving it down my throat. Dave represented money, power, excitement, and a chance to join the ranks of a high-society partnership. My career at his firm set me on the path to making major deals that appeared in the Wall Street Journal, and my relationship with Dave meant that I was fully committed to the Manhattan work-till-you-drop-while-making-obscene-amounts-of-money lifestyle. 

What I didn’t understand when I jumped fully and squarely into the New York City rat race was that it’s a recipe for emptiness, one that leaves me drained and utterly depleted at the end of each day. And seeing as how I don’t have time to enjoy all of the money I’m making, let alone get a good night’s rest, it’s a race that has little to no payoff. 

Ironically, my parents—especially my father—have never been more proud. And they love Dave.

But working for a man who holds a reputation as one of the most successful—and at times, one of the most vicious—attorneys in Manhattan, and then coming home to that same man night after night, has left me a little jaded, to say the least, which is why I recently decided to switch firms. 

I thought the nausea I’ve been experiencing every morning before work and the chest pains that plague me every night when I return home would disappear as soon as I found a firm where I could forge my own identity, not one where I was constantly living in Dave’s overbearing shadow. 

I hoped the change would improve our relationship too—help him to see me as an equal, not as a younger, less experienced subordinate. I hoped we would remember why we first fell for each other and bring some pizazz back to this withering relationship.

But I was wrong. Nothing has changed, and in fact, I feel more suffocated, more exhausted, and more desperate than I’ve ever felt in my life. 

The courage I need to leave has been building for months, but I still haven’t built up quite enough strength to walk out the door for good. 

The few times I’ve even hinted that a breakup could be in our future, my ultraconnected, all-powerful attorney boyfriend has made it ever so clear that if I walk out on him, I can say good-bye to my Manhattan law career too. 

When a nurse called from Paris today, delivering the news that my beloved grandma Ella had taken a sudden turn for the worse in her battle against leukemia and isn’t going to make it through the week, I suddenly couldn’t have cared less about Dave’s threats. I would’ve spent my entire life savings on a private jet if it would get me across the Atlantic quicker. 

The predictably obstinate look plastered across Dave’s face snaps me back to the present and reminds me of one more thing that is fueling my desire to escape: Dave hates losing. 

“I may not be your boss,” he quips, “but my best friend from law school is. You know he did us both a huge favor bringing you on. This isn’t just about you, Ella. My reputation is at stake here too, just like it was back when we first started dating. With you switching firms, I thought those days were over. Apparently not.” 

At the mention of Dave’s precious reputation, I feel a sudden and overwhelming urge to rip the ugly square vase off the equally dreadful square coffee table and hurl it at the wall. 

Instead, I look him calmly in the eye. “It’s a family emergency, and I’ll be back in a few days. Life in Manhattan will continue to go on.” I shrug off the nagging voice in the back of my head telling me that leaving Paris after only a few days may be just as difficult as saying good-bye to my grandmother.

He downs the rest of the scotch in one gulp as I roll my black suitcase right past him and into our bedroom.

Dave follows me to my overflowing closet, grilling me all the while; the stench of alcohol on his breath makes my stomach curl. “Jetting off to Paris during one of the biggest weeks of your career isn’t going to impress anyone. Have you thought any of this through, Ella?”

The only things I’m thinking about at the moment are my beautiful grandmother, how many sundresses I’ll need to pack for the humid summer air in her Left Bank apartment, and how quickly I can stuff them into this suitcase, catch a cab to the airport, and get the hell out of this smothering city to be by her side.

As Dave hovers over me, ready to fire more questions, I place a hand on his shoulder. “Of course I’ve thought this through, and I know it won’t look good,” I admit. “But this is really important to me. My grandma Ella is the only person in my family I’ve ever had a true connection with.”

“Wait, isn’t this the woman who’s technically your great-grandmother?”

“Technically, yes,” I say, annoyed that he feels the need to point out such an inconsequential detail upon hearing the news that someone dear to me is dying. “Her daughter—my actual grandmother—died when I was only five years old. Ever since then, Great-Grandma Ella became Grandma Ella…and honestly, she was more of a mother to me than my own mom.”

I turn my back to Dave, not wanting to show him the tears that are gathering in the corners of my eyes. Tossing a pair of sandals into my suitcase, I harness my emotions and continue on. “In the summers between boarding school, my parents sent me to Paris every year to learn French with her. But it was more than a three-month French lesson…Those were some of the happiest times in my life.”

A vivid memory of the two of us riding matching bicyclettes through the winding cobblestone streets of Montmartre flitters through my mind, making my heart ache. I still remember how vibrant Grandma Ella always looked with her elegant Parisian scarves blowing in the breeze as we’d stroll down the Seine, then meander through the Latin Quarter to pick up baguettes, fromage, and fresh flowers on our way home. Of course we almost never made it out of the apartment without a stop at Shakespeare and Company, the famous English bookstore situated perfectly on the Left Bank—an absolute treasure trove of history and charm, much like my grandma Ella herself. 

How have I stayed away from her and from Paris for ten whole years?

“That’s all fine and good,” Dave snaps, “but this is real life, Ella. You can’t just pick up and leave the country a month after scoring a position at one of the top firms in Manhattan. Not if you expect that position to be waiting for you when you return.”

I know he’s right, and I also know he intends that as a threat, but I ignore him all the same, throwing a stack of underwear into my suitcase.

Suddenly he wraps his fingers around my wrist, squeezing it so hard I can’t help but let out a yelp.

“I won’t let you do this, Ella,” he growls.

I yank my arm from his grasp, and as I gaze into those hardened eyes of his—the eyes that only see value in status, money, work, and material possessions—I realize that if I don’t want to look like him in fifteen years, it’s time to go.