Page 150 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

My confusion only deepens. “Why on earth would we go there? We never planned anything.”

She winces, giving me her most unconvincing innocent look. “Oh, right. I might’ve forgotten to mention that part. My mistake. I’ve had a great deal on my mind lately.”

I fold my arms. “You booked a trip and didn’t think to tell me?”

She arches a brow. “Remember when you went to Paris without me?”

I narrow my eyes. “That was father’s decision, not mine.”

“Perhaps. But like the traitor you are, you went to the Louvre without me,” she says, pretending to pout, though laughter already spills through. “So now, we’re correcting that. Sister bonding. Let’s go.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. “You’re completely insane.”

“That’s for certain,” she grins, looking far too pleased with herself.

I sigh. “Fine. Give me ten minutes.”

“You’ve five,” she teases, already striding to my wardrobe and pulling dresses out before I even move.

Chapter 55

Ophelia

It takes me a few minutes to throw on proper clothes instead of my lounge set. Meanwhile, Octavia has already torn half my closet apart and somehow managed to pack my bag in record time.

By the time I’m ready, she’s zipping it closed with a satisfied sigh.

We’re out the door within ten minutes.

Outside, a streamlined black car waits for us, the driver already holding the back door open. He takes our bags and places them in the boot before we slide into the back seat.

The vehicle pulls away from the St. Monarche´ Institute grounds, the academy fading behind us as we head toward the island’s private airstrip.

Octavia catches me looking through the tinted window and smirks. “We’re taking the jet.”

“I figured,” I say.

When we board, our bags are stowed immediately, and we take our seats, Octavia across from me, already buckled in, her foot bouncing with excitement. I fasten my own belt as the engines begin their low hum.

After take-off, a flight attendant glides over to take our orders. I ask for a cappuccino with coconut milk, while Octavia requests a double espresso and a few pastries.

As the woman disappears down the aisle, I glance around the cabin, taking in the cream leather seats and varnished wood trim.

I’m not entirely convinced this is father’s jet, he has rather different tastes.

In everything.

The flight from Elaris Isle to Paris is brief, just over an hour, and passes in comfortable silence.

Octavia flips through a magazine while I watch the clouds thin, the French countryside gradually emerging below.

Once we land, another car is waiting for us on the runway. The driver greets us with a polite nod before we begin the drive into the city.

It takes us about thirty minutes, and soon we pull up outside a private villa tucked along a quiet street lined with magnolia trees.

The place is elegant, all pale limestone and tall wrought iron gates, understated, but you can tell it costs a fortune.

Inside, the air carries a faint scent of jasmine, old, distinctly French, and timeless.