Please Come Back, My Love novel Chapter 345

Chapter 345

Sophia’s POV

I woke to silence.

The bed beside me was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Lucas was gone-had been for a while, judging by how cold the mattress felt when I pressed my palm against it.

For a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe without feeling like my ribs were caving in.

Then I saw the note.

It was propped against the lamp on the nightstand, folded once, my name written across the front in Lucas’s sharp, precise handwriting. Next to it sat a black American Express card, gleaming dully in the morning light.

I reached for the note with shaking fingers.

Take the day. Rest. Explore the city if you want-the card has no limit. I’ll pick you up at eight for dinner.

Don’t make me come looking for you.

I read it twice, then a third time, searching for the trap hidden in those clipped sentences.

Don’t make me come looking for you.

So this was freedom, Lucas-style. A leash long enough to let me think I could run, but with a chain at the end to yank me back if I tried.

I grabbed the card, shoved the note in the trash, and headed for the shower.

Paris in the daylight was almost enough to make me forget.

Almost.

I walked for hours, letting my feet carry me wherever they wanted. Past the Louvre with its glass pyramid glittering in the sun.

Along the Seine, where street artists sold paintings of the Eiffel Tower and lovers kissed on benches.

Through narrow streets lined with cafés that smelled like butter and coffee and something sweet I couldn’t name.

I bought a croissant from a boulangerie and ate it on the steps of Sacré-Coeur, watching tourists take selfies and pigeons fight over crumbs.

I slid off the bench and sank down onto the gravel path, my back against the bench’s legs, my arms wrapped around my knees. People walked past me-some glanced, most didn’t-and I didn’t care. Let them think I was drunk or crazy or both. Let them think whatever they wanted.

I was so tired of pretending I wasn’t falling apart.

“Excusez-moi, madame?”

I looked up.

A little boy stood in front of me, maybe four or five years old, with messy brown hair and a striped shirt. He was holding an ice cream

cone-chocolate, half-melted and dripping onto his hand-and staring at me with the kind of solemn curiosity only kids could pull off.

“Pourquoi tu pleures?” he asked.

Why are you crying?

The French came back to me instantly, all those late nights in my dorm room with textbooks and audio lessons, teaching myself the language because I’d thought it would make me seem sophisticated. More than just another scholarship kid trying to fit in.