The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 508

The dim streetlights cast long shadows over the empty road.

Lyra stood by the iron fence, watching the spot where the car had vanished around the corner. The cold smirk on her lips slowly faded. She looked down at her hands—they were trembling, and she couldn't make them stop. She clenched her hands into tight fists, her nails digging into her palms until the sharp sting made her gasp, but the shaking persisted.

Taking a deep breath, she turned and began walking in the opposite direction.

She didn't return to her hotel or hail a cab; instead, she headed straight for the subway station.

The Paris subway was old and run-down.

The carriage was thick with an unidentifiable stench—a sickening blend of must, stale sweat, and cheap perfume that made her head throb. Lyra stood in the corner of the car, her head bowed, pulling her scarf higher to conceal the violent red marks bruised into her neck.

There weren't many people inside. A homeless man was curled up on a seat, wrapped in a filthy blanket, muttering endlessly to himself. A man in a suit leaned against the doors, staring at his phone, his loosened tie and exhausted expression a testament to a long shift. An elderly woman sat clutching a canvas bag, the crusty tip of a baguette poking out of the top.

No one looked at her. No one paid her any attention.

She preferred it that way.

She transferred trains twice and then rode a bus for three stops.

The streets grew narrower, the buildings squatter, and the walls became increasingly plastered with graffiti. The streetlights flickered dimly, while some had completely burned out, leaving the avenue cloaked in pitch black, broken only by the distant barking of stray dogs.

A vile stench began to permeate the air—not just standard garbage, but the putrid, fermenting rot of trash that had been piled up and forgotten for far too long. Lyra clamped a hand over her nose, her stomach churning violently. She gagged, leaning heavily against a grimy wall to collect herself for a few seconds before forcing her legs to keep moving.

This was the outskirts of Paris, a completely forgotten slum.

The pristine Haussmann architecture of the city center, the charming cafes along the Seine, and the dazzling lights of luxury storefronts were nowhere to be found here. This district offered nothing but decay, poverty, and filth.

Several trash cans had been knocked over, spilling refuse across the pavement. Something dark and indistinct slithered through the piles of garbage. A stray cat leaped down from a brick wall, half a dead rat clamped in its jaws, and darted swiftly into the shadows.

The walls were spray-painted in foreign scripts she couldn't read—perhaps Arabic, perhaps an African dialect. The windows of the buildings were hollowed-out black holes; some were boarded up with rotting wood, others haphazardly patched with cardboard.

Lyra finally stopped in front of a bleak, gray building.

It was only four stories high. Large chunks of paint had peeled away, exposing the ashen concrete beneath. The front door was a rusted slab of iron, its broken lock held shut by a twist of thick wire.

She pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the stairwell.

It was darker and smelled even worse inside. The handrails were coated in a thick layer of grime. Trash bags were piled haphazardly in the corners, leaking noxious fluids that trickled slowly down the concrete steps. Covering her nose, she trudged upward, one agonizing step at a time.

Third floor, at the end of the hall.

She stopped in front of a dark green door. The paint was heavily chipped, curling outward like dried fish scales.

She raised her hand and knocked. Three times, perfectly measured.