Loving Madeline

Chapter 368: Trip To Paris

Jack’s POV

I followed Lianne’s advice. I needed to get a grip on myself before I completely lost control. I loved Charlotte—God, I loved her—but she never gave me another chance to explain. Not once. Still, I knew she saw me.

I wasn’t imagining it. I caught glimpses of her behind the curtain of her room at the Divenson mansion, her silhouette lingering just long enough to remind me she was there, watching, listening, but never opening the door.

For almost three months, I came to that house every single day, begging the guards to let me in and pleading, hoping—failing. They never wavered, not even once. And she never came down. I never sent a message. She never acknowledged me beyond those fleeting, hidden glances. It was as if I didn’t exist anymore.

My sister was right. If Charlotte had truly loved me the way I loved her, wouldn’t she have at least given me the chance to explain? Even if she hated me, she would have wanted to hear the truth, to make me suffer with her words. But no. She chose silence. And that silence was louder than any scream.

Still, I understood her. I had fooled her, betrayed her trust, led her into a lie I never meant to tell. But what she didn’t know—what she refused to hear—was that the lie became my truth somewhere along the way. I fell in love with her, irrevocably and painfully. And now, I was left to drown in the wreckage of my mistakes, wondering if I could ever fix what I had broken.

I stopped hiding from the world. It took time, but eventually, I pulled myself together. I got a haircut, straightened my posture, and returned to Archois City. Once again, I stepped back into the world I had built for myself—my restaurants, my passion. Once again, thank you very much. I became the hotshot chef everyone remembered.

The invitations started rolling in, just like before. TV shows, exclusive events, magazine features—everyone wanted a piece of me. But I turned them all down. Fame had lost its appeal. I didn’t want to go back to being a celebrity, and I didn’t want the spotlight casting its harsh glare on my life again.

I hated being the talk of the country. I hated the endless speculation, the rumors, and the way people twisted stories to entertain themselves. But most of all, I couldn’t risk anyone digging too deep. If they did, they might uncover the one thing I had buried—the engagement—my engagement to Charlotte.

If she ever found out, she would hate me even more than she already did. I couldn’t let that happen. I had hurt her enough. The last thing I wanted was to give her another reason to loathe me, another wound to add to the ones I had already inflicted.

So I stayed in the kitchen, where the stove’s heat drowned out the world’s noise. I buried myself in my work, in the chopping, stirring, and plating rhythm. Cooking had always been my escape; now, it was the only place where I could forget—if only for a moment—that I had lost the woman I loved.

What do you mean by that?" Lianne asked, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"You heard me. I don’t want to attend." My voice was flat, edged with irritation. "I’m too busy running a restaurant. And more importantly—why did you reply to that email on my behalf without even asking me first?"

Lianne crossed her arms, unfazed by my frustration. "Come on, Jack. This is good for you. It’s time for you to have a life outside your kitchen. Paris is the perfect place to escape everything, even if it’s just for a while."

"No." I didn’t even hesitate. My tone was final.

She sighed, shaking her head like I was being impossible. "Jack, please. I already booked the tickets for the round trip, so don’t start with excuses. This is an incredible opportunity, and deep down, you know it. I know how much you miss traveling and how much you loved sharing your knowledge and passion for cooking. And don’t even try to deny it—you love pastry the most."

I clenched my jaw. Damn her for knowing me so well.

"That was a long time ago," I muttered, looking away.

"No, it wasn’t." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You’ve just buried it. Just like you’ve buried everything else."

Her words struck a nerve, but I refused to acknowledge them. Instead, I returned to my work, grabbing a knife and slicing it more forcefully than necessary into the vegetables on the counter. "Drop it, Lianne."

But she didn’t. She never did.

One week later, I stood in front of my hotel room in Paris, staring at the door as if stepping through it would make this whole trip feel real.

I exhaled slowly, adjusting the strap of my bag before heading out. The streets of Paris stretched before me, familiar yet different, like an old song I hadn’t heard in years. The crisp morning air carried the scent of fresh bread and espresso, mingling with the distant hum of conversations in French.

And I hated to admit it—but I loved Paris.

I had missed this city more than I realized. The energy, the artistry in every little detail, the way food wasn’t just sustenance but a language of its own. Memories of past visits flickered in my mind—long nights spent in tiny cafés, tasting pastries that melted on my tongue, conversations with chefs who lived and breathed their craft.

But this time was different. I wasn’t here for pleasure. I was here for a seminar—a commitment I never agreed to in the first place.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, suppressing the frustration that threatened to resurface. Lianne had insisted this was what I needed, but was it? Could this trip change anything?

With a resigned sigh, I stepped onto the bustling sidewalk, letting the city swallow me whole.

Paris, show me what you’ve got.

I spent the entire day wandering through the streets of Paris, letting the city pull me in like an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. I strolled along the Seine, watching the river reflect the golden hues of the afternoon sun. I lost myself in hidden alleyways, where small cafés and charming boutiques whispered stories of a city that never truly slept.

The scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the occasional notes of street musicians playing soft melodies on their violins. I stopped by a quiet patisserie, indulging in a perfectly flaky croissant that practically melted in my mouth, reminding me why I fell in love with this place in the first place.

For the first time in a long time, I felt at ease. There were no expectations, no pressure, just me and the rhythm of the city.

When I decided to head back to my hotel, the sky had already darkened, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance like a beacon against the night. The streets buzzed with life—couples walking hand in hand, laughter spilling from dimly lit bistros, and the occasional hum of passing scooters. Paris was just as enchanting at night as it was during the day, and I found myself lingering, reluctant to end the evening.

Still, exhaustion tugged at my limbs, and with a final glance at the city, I made my way back, the echoes of Paris still humming in my mind.

I woke up early the following morning, my body still adjusting to the time difference, but there was no room for grogginess today. I had a seminar to attend—and more than that, I was the speaker.

The thought sent a rush of energy through me, a familiar thrill I hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t just about standing in front of a room full of aspiring chefs or seasoned professionals; it was about sharing something I loved that had defined me for years. Cooking wasn’t just a skill—it was a language, an art, a piece of my soul that I could pass on.

I pushed back the hotel curtains, letting the soft morning light filter into the room. The streets of Paris were already alive with movement—people rushing to work, vendors setting up their stalls, the aroma of fresh coffee and pastries wafting from nearby cafés. It was the kind of morning that reminded me why I had fallen in love with this city in the first place.

After a quick shower, I dressed in a crisp white chef’s jacket, symbolizing my profession and identity. I checked my notes one last time, though I hardly needed them—I had spent years mastering my craft, and this was second nature to me. Still, a slight nervous energy buzzed in my chest, the kind that came not from fear but from anticipation.

Today, I wasn’t just running a kitchen. I was stepping onto a stage, sharing my passion with others.

And for the first time in a while, I was looking forward to what was ahead.

The introduction was brief—just enough to cover my credentials and the seminar’s purpose—but apparently, that was all it took to send the women in the audience into a frenzy.

I was used to the attention. It came with the territory—the reputation, the success, the whole "celebrity chef" label that I had been trying to shake off for years. But today, it felt different. It felt more suffocating. Their eyes followed my every move, their eager smiles and flirtatious glances making it painfully apparent that they weren’t just here to learn about the art of fine cuisine.

They laughed too quickly at my jokes and leaned in whenever I spoke, some whispering among themselves as if sizing me up. Usually, I would have brushed it off and let it roll over me like background noise. But for some reason, their attention felt heavier today, more exhausting.

And then, just as I was about to speak again, my gaze locked onto the only person in the room who wasn’t interested in me at all.

The air seemed to shift, my breath hitching as I froze in place.

Charlotte.

My entire body went cold.

Her expression unreadable. Unlike the others, she wasn’t vying for my attention—she was avoiding it. But it was too late. I had already seen her, and the moment our eyes met, a thousand emotions crashed over me all at once.

Shock. Guilt. Regret.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

For a split second, I thought I was imagining her, that my mind was playing tricks on me. But no—those were her eyes, the same ones I had memorized down to the last detail. The same ones that once held warmth and laughter but were now distant, guarded.

I gripped the podium tighter, my fingers curling into the wood.

Paris was supposed to be an escape—a reset.

But now, looking at her, I realized there was no running from the past.