Page 164 of Sweet Obsession

A few days after I called him for the last time, I packed my bags again—this time with Gabriella at my side—and we flew to Paris. A temporary escape, we told ourselves. A much-needed break. Some air.

But I didn’t come just for croissants and overpriced lattes. I came here because the farther I was from Colombia, the less likely Misha would try something reckless. And with Father growing weaker by the day, he didn’t have the strength to stop me. A nurse tends to him. A doctor checks in weekly.

Let Misha think I’m gone for good.

Because if Misha really has spies trailing me, and I know he does, then the moment they report that I’ve left Bogotá, maybe he’ll stay put. Maybe he won’t die trying to drag me back.

Even if I miss him so much it hurts. Even if sometimes I wake up reaching for him in a cold bed and cry before I can stop myself.

Even if I know... he’s already here.

I’ve felt it since the day we landed.

It started at the bakery down the street. I was paying for coffee when I felt it—that weight. That sense. Like my skin recognized him before my eyes could. I turned too fast, heart lurching. No one. Just a man on a motorcycle watching the crosswalk. Still. Silent. Staring at me through his helmet visor.

The next time was worse.

Gabriella and I were walking back from the Seine, arms full of fresh flowers and pastries. She was laughing—really laughing, which made my heart swell—and I felt it again. The air shifted. I turned fast, eyes sweeping the rooftop across the street.

Someone ducked. Not a pigeon. Not a shadow. A shape. A person.

No matter where I went in this city, I felt him like a second heartbeat. I didn’t have proof. Not hard evidence. Just a certainty carved into my bones.

Misha was watching me.

He hadn’t come for me—but he hadn’t let me go either.

I should’ve been angry. I should’ve called him, screamed, told him to stop. But some twisted part of me... was glad.

Because even if he didn’t know how to love me right, he hadn’t stopped trying to hold on.

Still. Two months was enough.

Gabriella and I were flying back to Bogotá tomorrow morning, and tonight was our last real night in Paris. I sat cross-legged on the bed while she paced the room in her ridiculous purple satin robe and matching fuzzy slippers, trying to squeeze a fifth pair of heels into an already-bursting suitcase.

“You don’t need those,” I said, raising a brow.

She whirled around like I’d insulted her ancestors. “They’re lavender Louboutins, Luna. I absolutely need them.”

I laughed. “You wore them once and nearly broke your ankle.”

She gasped. “It was a dramatic stumble. For flair.”

“Your flair almost landed you in traction.”

Gabriella flopped dramatically onto the bed beside me, groaning. “Ugh. You’re so married.”

“I’m not married,” I muttered under my breath.

She sat up slowly, eyes narrowing. “Still hung up on him, huh?”

I didn’t answer.

“Luna.” Her voice softened. “He broke your heart, but... you broke his too. You sure you’re okay going back?”

“No.” I forced a smile. “But I’ve never been okay, Gabi. I just... learned how to walk with the limp.”

She wrapped her arms around me, tight and warm. “Well, at least you’re limping in designer heels now.”