Chapter 131 The Greatest Tragedies
Mia’s POV
I pushed myself up from the sofa and headed to my room to change into something comfortable for an afternoon of architecture appreciation. The navy dress I’d worn to the meeting was lovely but not ideal for wandering around Parisian neighborhoods.
I opted for a loose, comfortable sweater dress in soft gray with black leggings and supportive flats. A light jacket, my purse with the precious job offer letter, and I was ready.
As promised, Henri was waiting by the side entrance, the black Mercedes gleaming in the autumn sunlight.
“Good afternoon, Madame,” he greeted me with his usual formal politeness. “Where would you like to go today?”
“The 16th arrondissement,” I said, settling into the back seat with relief, “I’d like to see some of the residential architecture there.”
“Ah, beautiful homes,” he nodded approvingly. “Any particular address?”
I hesitated. “Not exactly. I’m looking for a specific house but only have a general idea of where it might be. Maybe we could drive through the neighborhood and I’ll see if anything catches my eye?
“Of course, Madame. I know the area well. We’ll find what you’re looking for.”
As we drove, the city transformed around us. The bustling commercial areas gave way to quieter, tree–lined streets with elegant apartment buildings and stately homes. The 16th was old money Paris–refined, understated wealth that didn’t need to announce itself because its pedigree was never in question.
“Many diplomats and executives live in this area,” Henri explained as we wound through the graceful streets. “Very exclusive.” “It’s beautiful,” I murmured, admiring the architectural details. Even the most modest buildings here had a certain elegance. Perfect proportions, thoughtful details, a harmony with their surroundings.
We drove slowly through the neighborhood, Henri pointing out buildings of architectural significance. I soaked it all in, making mental notes about design elements I particularly admired.
“There’s a lovely area near the Bois de Boulogne,” Henri suggested after we’d been driving for about twenty minutes. “Some of the most beautiful private homes in Paris.”
“Yes, let’s try there.”
The streets became even more exclusive as we approached the massive park. The homes here were set back from the road, glimpsed through ornate gates and lush gardens.
“Slow down a bit?” I requested as we turned onto a particularly lovely street. Something about this area felt right–the way the homes related to the landscape, the quality of light filtering through the ancient plane trees.
“Of course, Madame.”
I studied each property carefully, looking for something that might match the images I’d seen on Leblanc’s website. It was a long shot, admittedly. Paris was filled with beautiful homes, and I’d only seen photographs of the Jardin House.
And then I saw it.
“Stop the car, please,” I said suddenly.
Henri pulled over smoothly. “Have you found something interesting, Madame?”
“I think so,” I whispered, unable to take my eyes off the property on our right.
It was partially obscured by a high stone wall and ornate iron gates but what I could see matched the photos perfectly–the distinctive limestone façade with its modern glass elements, the careful integration of architecture and landscape, the subtle way it stood out from its more traditional neighbors while still honoring the streetscape’s cohesion.
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Chapter 131 The Greatest Tragedies
“That house,” I said, pointing. “Do you know anything about it?”
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Henri followed my gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Ah, yes. Beautiful place. Built about five or six years ago, I believe. Caused quite a stir in the neighborhood at the time–very modern for this conservative area. But it was done well, respectfully.”
“Does anyone live there?” I asked, recalling Bernard’s comment about it standing empty.
Henri shook his head. “I don’t believe so. There was a lot of activity when it was being built—delivery trucks, landscapers, interior designers. Then suddenly, it all stopped. I’ve never seen any signs of occupation.”
“How strange,” I murmured.
“Would you like me to drive past again?” Henri offered. “Perhaps from the other direction you might see more.”
“Yes, please.”
”
As we circled around to approach from the opposite direction, I pulled out my phone, opening I*******m almost without thinking. I scrolled quickly to Nate’s profile, finding the series of garden photos I’d noticed before. The most recent one, posted just before I left for Paris, showed a stone bench partially covered in fallen leaves, with the distinctive pattern of an ornate iron fence behind it.
I looked up from my phone to the property we were now passing slowly. The same fence design was visible through the gates, surrounding what appeared to be a formal garden.
My heart began to race. Was this just a coincidence? Or was the mysteriously abandoned Jardin House somehow connected to Nate–and by extension, to Carol?
“Henri,” I said suddenly, “could you park for a moment? I’d like to get a closer look.”
“Of course, Madame.” He pulled the car to a smooth stop a discreet distance from the property. “Would you like me to accompany you?”
“No need,” I assured him, already opening my door. “I’ll just be a minute.”
The autumn air held a crisp edge as I made my way carefully toward the gates. My heart was pounding ridiculously fast, though I couldn’t quite articulate why this felt so important. What did it matter if this house was connected to Nate’s past? It wasn’t any
of my business.
And yet…
As I approached the gates, I could see more of the property beyond. The house itself was stunning–a masterful blend of traditional Parisian architecture with contemporary elements. Large windows promised light–filled interiors, while the limestone façade ensured it harmonized with its neighbors.
But it was the garden that captured my attention. Formal beds lined with boxwood, a small fountain at the center, and there- partially visible from my vantage point–a stone bench identical to the one in Nate’s photographs.
“Can I help you?”
The voice startled me so badly I nearly lost my balance. I turned to find an elderly man walking a small, elegant whippet on a leather leash. His expression was polite but curious.
“I’m sorry, “I said, suddenly self–conscious. “I was just admiring the architecture.”
“You have good taste,” he replied in perfect English, his accent distinctly British rather than French. “It’s a remarkable home.”
“Do you live nearby?” I asked, hoping he might have information
He nodded, gesturing to a property across the street. “For forty years now. I watched this one being built. Quite the project.”
“I heard it’s never been lived in,” I ventured. “Is that true?”
“Indeed.” He studied me more carefully. “Are you interested in architecture, or in the house specifically?”
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“Both, I suppose.” I hesitated, then decided honesty might yield more information. “I’m an architect myself. I just had a meeting with Bernard Leblanc, who designed this house. He mentioned it was a special project, but never occupied.”
“Ah, Monsieur Leblanc. Excellent architect.” The man nodded. “Atragic situation, this house. Built with such care, such attention to detail. A labor of love, one might say.”
“What happened?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.
He sighed, his expression turning solemn. “A love story gone wrong, from what I understand. The man who commissioned it- an American doctor, I believe–was creating it for his wife. Every detail designed to make her happy.”
My heart skipped a beat. An American doctor.
“But she died before it was completed,” the man continued, his voice softening. “Cancer, I believe. He never returned after that. The house stands as a monument to what might have been.”
Achill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the autumn air.
Carol. It had to be. Carol and Nate.
“Thank you for sharing that,” I managed, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. “It’s a beautiful home, even if the story behind it is sad.”
“Indeed.” He nodded thoughtfully. “The greatest tragedies often create the most beautiful art, don’t they? Good day to you, mademoiselle.”
“Good day,” I echoed as he continued on his way, the little dog trotting obediently at his side.
I stood there for a long moment after he’d gone, staring at the perfect, empty house.
