Chapter 35: No Invitation Needed

Hours passed in silence before the wheels finally touched the ground.

Paris.

The plane taxied across the runway and came to a smooth stop near a private hangar. When the door opened, a rush of cool evening air filled the cabin — softer, alive, nothing like the frozen emptiness we had left behind.

We stepped down onto the tarmac.

Almost immediately, several men in white lab coats approached us, confusion written all over their faces.

One of them adjusted his glasses and spoke first.

“Qui êtes-vous ? Cet avion transporte un colis confidentiel.”

I smiled calmly.

“Nous sommes les VVIP.”

They exchanged puzzled glances.

Another man frowned slightly.

“Les VVIP ? Nous n’avons reçu aucune information concernant des passagers.”

I kept my expression relaxed.

“Bien sûr que si. Vous avez été informés. Vérifiez encore.”

The first man hesitated.

“Nous… ce vol ne transporte normalement personne. Il est réservé au matériel fragile.”

I took one small step forward, voice steady.

“Exactement. Et nous faisons partie de ce qui est attendu. Tout est en ordre.”

There was a brief silence.

Then his posture shifted subtly.

“Ah… oui. Bienvenue. Excusez-nous pour la confusion.”

He stepped aside.

“Suivez-nous, s’il vous plaît.”

And just like that, no more questions were asked.

We exited the airport shortly after.

The moment we stepped into the streets of Paris, the contrast hit us.

The city glowed.

Golden streetlights reflected off wet pavement. Elegant Haussmann-style buildings stretched along the boulevards with wrought-iron balconies and tall windows lit warmly from within. Cafés buzzed with laughter and conversation. The scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee drifted through the air.

Cars streamed past in steady motion, headlights cutting through the evening.

Ayara stopped walking.

Her eyes widened as she turned slowly, taking everything in.

The lights.

The movement.

The people.

The towering buildings.

Her mouth fell slightly open in awe.

Then—

HONK!

A car horn blasted nearby.

She flinched violently, stepping back toward me, eyes sharp and alert like she expected an attack.

Another horn sounded farther down the street.

She tensed again, scanning for danger.

“It’s just cars,” I told her gently.

But to her, the noise, the speed, the chaos — it was overwhelming.

She looked up again at the glowing skyline, absorbing it all with stunned disbelief.

Paris was breathtaking.

But to Ayara—

It was terrifyingly alive.

As we moved deeper into the streets, I began noticing it.

The stares.

The whispers.

Then the laughter.

Groups of people slowed down as they passed us. Some openly turned their heads. Others tried — and failed — to hide their smirks.

And honestly… who could blame them?

We looked like we had escaped a disaster film.

Juliet leaned closer to me and muttered, “We really have to find somewhere to go. This is getting embarrassing.”

I gave her a sideways look. “Well, you shouldn’t have donated all your houses.”

“I obviously had no idea we would be in this situation,” she shot back.

I was about to respond when I looked at Ayara.

Her steps were slowing.

Her shoulders drooping slightly.

The city lights reflected in her wide eyes, but beneath the wonder, there was exhaustion.

“I have a friend,” I said finally. “I still remember where he lives. It shouldn’t be far from here.”

Juliet glanced at me. “Who?”

“A club promoter.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is he rich? Does he own his own house? Because there’s no way we’re walking into an apartment building without an invitation from the building owner.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s one of the richest.”

That seemed to calm her — slightly.

I took Ayara’s hand gently, and we began walking faster.

The city pulsed around us.

Cars streamed by, headlights flashing. Music spilled out from bars. Laughter echoed from terraces.

And people kept staring.

Especially at Ayara.

The oversized pilot trousers she wore were comically large on her frame. She had to hold them up with one hand as we walked so they wouldn’t slide down. The fabric bunched awkwardly around her legs, dragging slightly near her shoes.

Some teenagers openly laughed as we passed.

A woman covered her mouth, whispering to her friend.

A man pointed subtly.

But Ayara didn’t care.

She wasn’t embarrassed.

She wasn’t even aware.

She kept looking up — at balconies, streetlamps, glowing windows, neon signs. Every sound made her head turn. Every passing bus made her eyes widen again.

She was absorbing everything.

Paris was overwhelming her senses, but she refused to look away.

Eventually, we reached the neighborhood I remembered.

It was quieter.

More exclusive.

Tall gates. Clean sidewalks. Luxury cars parked neatly along the street.

And then we saw it.

The house.

Large.

Modern.

White stone exterior with black-framed windows. Warm golden light glowing from inside. A perfectly trimmed hedge lining the walkway. Security cameras discreetly mounted at the corners.

It was beautiful.

“Yeah,” Juliet murmured. “That’s rich.”

We walked up the short pathway to the front door.

I rang the doorbell.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Footsteps approached from inside.

The door opened.

But it wasn’t Victor.

A short, heavy-set man stood there instead. Round face. Thick neck. Wearing a football jersey and holding a remote control.

I blinked. “Where’s Victor?”

He looked at us up and down.

In a deep French accent he asked, “Are you guys tourists?”

“Not really,” I replied evenly. “We’re here to see Victor. Is he inside?”

The man snorted. “Victor isn’t here anymore. He sold me this house.”

I glanced at Juliet and Daniel.

Then back at him.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you should go to the homeless shelter and ask him.”

His eyes slowly scanned our appearance.

Dirty clothes.

Blood stains.

Oversized trousers.

Barely holding together.

“There’s probably more space for you guys there too,” he added with a smirk. “Look, there’s a match going on. I can’t miss it.”

He started to close the door.

“Wait,” I said sharply. “We need your help.”

He pointed outward aggressively.

“Get the hell off my property.”

My jaw tightened.

I reached forward and grabbed his hand, trying to lock eyes with him — trying to pull him into that familiar trance.

But he reacted instantly.

He yanked his hand away and swung.

The punch landed hard against my nose.

A sharp crack.

Warm blood filled my mouth instantly.

He spat something in French — angry, dismissive — and slammed the door shut.

For a second, everything went red.

Juliet grabbed my arm. “Timi, calm down.”

But I wasn’t listening.

I turned away from them and scanned the ground near the walkway. My eyes locked onto a small, flat stone near the hedge.

I picked it up.

Walked back to the doorstep.

Rang the bell again.

And again.

Footsteps approached fast this time.

I stepped back a few paces.

The door swung open violently.

“What?!” he shouted.

I threw the stone.

Not human strength.

Vampire strength.

It left my hand like a bullet.

The stone struck his forehead and tore straight through.

A wet, brutal sound.

The force carried it into the house, shattering a vase against the wall behind him.

He dropped instantly.

Dead before he hit the floor.

Silence.

Daniel stared at me.

Ayara’s eyes widened — not in fear, but in stunned disbelief.

Juliet’s grip on my arm loosened slowly.

I walked forward calmly.

Stepped over the body.

Entered the house.

Then turned back to them.

“Come in,” I said quietly.