Chapter 148 CHAPTER 148 – SECRETS OF PARIS

Chapter 148 CHAPTER 148 – SECRETS OF PARIS

POV: Mateo
PARIS – SIX MONTHS AGO
I met her on a rainy Tuesday at Shakespeare and Company, the most famous bookstore in Paris where tourists crowded for selfies but where I went because I needed to be surrounded by books in English when homesickness became too intense.
I was in the architecture section looking for a specific book on Haussmann when I heard a voice behind me speaking perfect Spanish with an accent I immediately recognized as American, though with inflections I couldn’t quite place.
—That book is terrible. The illustrations are beautiful, but the analysis is superficial.
I turned to find a woman my age, maybe a year younger, with dark hair pulled into a messy bun and eyes the exact same shade of brown as my morning café au lait.
—You read it?
—Unfortunately yes. For a class last semester. I lost three hours of my life I’ll never get back.
—You study architecture?
—Medicine. But my roommate studies architecture and forced me to read it because she needed someone to complain to about how bad it was.
I laughed because her brutal honesty was refreshing after months of French politeness where no one said directly what they thought.
—So what book do you recommend?
—For Parisian architecture or for not falling asleep while reading?
—Both ideally.
She stepped closer, reaching for a book on the top shelf I hadn’t noticed, her fingers brushing mine as she handed it to me, sending an electric spark up my arm that I blamed on static from the dry air inside the shop.
—This one is better. Written by an architect who actually understands the city instead of an academic tourist who spent two weeks here and decided he was an expert.
I looked at the book, then at her.
—Thanks. I’m Mateo.
—Sofía.
—American?
—From Miami. You too, from your accent.
—From Miami too. Small world.
—Too small sometimes.

We ended up having coffee at Café de Flore because she insisted that if we were going to drink coffee in Paris it had to be somewhere iconic, and I was too intrigued by this woman speaking Spanish in an English bookstore in a French city to say no.
We talked for three hours without pause.
About Miami and how we both missed it but also loved being away.
About medicine and architecture and how both disciplines are about creating spaces for people to live better.
About complicated families we loved but that sometimes suffocated us.
—My family is… intense —she said at one point—. Loving, but intense. My dad is a doctor, my mom is a doctor, my twin siblings are in medicine, and I’m a doctor too because apparently we don’t know how to do anything else.
—A full medical dynasty.
—And yours?
—Architecture and design. My dad is an architect, my mom an interior designer, my sister studies design. My younger brother is going into medicine, but that’s because his godfather convinced him.
—Doctor godfather?
—Yeah. My dad’s best friend. Brilliant cardiologist who’s basically family.
Something crossed her expression that I couldn’t read, but it disappeared so quickly I thought I’d imagined it.
—How long have you been in Paris? —she asked.
—Four years. I finished my master’s in architecture six months ago and now I work at a small firm while I decide whether to go back to Miami or stay here.
—I arrived a year ago for an emergency medicine specialization. Six months left.
—So we’re both in limbo between two worlds.
—Exactly.
We parted that afternoon with a promise to see each other again, exchanging numbers that I saved in my phone with butterflies in my stomach I hadn’t felt in years.
Sofía from the bookstore.
I didn’t ask her last name.
She didn’t ask for mine.
Two Americans in Paris bonding over shared nostalgia.
What could possibly go wrong?

THREE WEEKS LATER
Our third date was at my apartment because she wanted to cook something that wasn’t French food, and I had a bigger kitchen than hers.
She made arroz con pollo, said it was her grandmother’s recipe, and when I tasted it the flavor hit me with nostalgia so intense it almost hurt.
—This tastes exactly like my mom’s.
—It’s probably the same recipe. All Cuban grandmothers in Miami make the same arroz con pollo.
—Your grandmother is Cuban?
—My great-grandfather was. He came to Miami in the sixties and married an American. The whole family’s been in Miami ever since.
—Mine too. My great-grandfather came from Italy and married an American. I guess we have more in common than I thought.
We ate on my small sofa because the table felt too formal, talking about everything, our conversations flowing naturally as if we’d known each other for years instead of weeks.
When we finished eating, she leaned forward to grab her wine glass from the coffee table and her shoulder brushed mine, that simple contact sending electricity through my entire body.
I turned to look at her and she was already looking at me, her deep brown eyes reflecting the soft candlelight I had lit because someone once told me it was romantic, even though I’d never tried before.
—Mateo —she said, and the way she pronounced my name with that Miami accent we shared made something in my chest tighten.
—Yeah?
—Are you going to kiss me, or am I going to have to do it?
I didn’t need to be told twice.
I kissed her right there on my Paris apartment sofa with rain hitting the windows outside, and it was the kind of kiss you read about in novels but never believe actually exists until you experience it.
Soft at first. Exploratory. Then deeper when she responded, opening her mouth against mine and her hands moving to my hair, pulling me closer.
We broke apart breathless.
—That was…
—Yeah —she agreed—. Definitely yeah.
I kissed her again, and this time we didn’t stop. Her body pressing against mine as we fell back onto the sofa tangled together, hands exploring, breathing quickening, clothes beginning to disappear between kisses that tasted like wine and promise.
—Are you sure? —I asked when we reached the point where pulling back would require superhuman willpower.
—Completely sure.
I carried her to my small bedroom, to the bed that barely fit two people, and laid her gently on the sheets I had changed that morning with the hope that maybe this would happen.
We made love slowly that first time, learning each other’s bodies, discovering what made her moan my name, what made me lose control, building something between us that felt important in ways I couldn’t yet name.
Afterward we lay tangled together while the rain kept falling outside, her head on my chest and my hand tracing lazy patterns across her bare back.
—That was…
—Incredible —I finished—. That was absolutely incredible.
—Do you think it’s too fast? We’ve only known each other three weeks.
—I think when you know, you know. And I know I don’t want this to be just one night.
She lifted her head to look at me.
—Me neither. But Mateo, there’s something we should talk about.
—What?
—I never asked your full last name.
—Ferrer. Mateo Ferrer. Why?
I felt her body go rigid against mine.
—Ferrer, as in Emmanuel Ferrer the architect?
—Yeah. He’s my dad. Do you know him?
She sat up so fast she almost fell off the bed, grabbing the sheet to cover herself as she stared at me with an expression I couldn’t read—but it terrified me.
—Sofía, what’s wrong?
—My last name is Ramos. Sofía Ramos. My dad is Mateo Beltrán Jr.
The world stopped.
Mateo Beltrán Jr.
My younger brother’s godfather.
My father’s best friend.
The man who had been in my life since I was born.
—No —I said, because it was the only thing my brain could process—. No, that’s not possible.
—Your dad is Emmanuel Ferrer.
—Yes.
—And my dad is your dad’s best friend.
—Yes.
—Which makes us…
—Cousins —I finished, nausea rising in my throat—. We’re cousins. Our parents are best friends. We grew up in the same extended family. We probably met when we were babies.
Sofía jumped out of bed, grabbing her clothes from the floor, dressing with trembling hands while I sat there trying to process something that couldn’t be real.
—I have to go.
—Sofía, wait. We can talk about this.
—Talk about what exactly, Mateo? That we just had sex and we’re family? That our parents are best friends and now we have to tell them we slept together without knowing we were related?
—We don’t share blood. It’s different.
—It’s not different. It’s exactly the same as your parents. It’s worse, because at least they knew from the beginning what they were up against.
—My parents made it work.
—Your parents waited eleven years and caused a family scandal that people still talk about twenty-five years later. I can’t do that. I can’t be the next generation of Ferrer drama.
She left before I could stop her, walking out into the Paris rain without an umbrella, and I sat on my bed still warm from her body wondering how the hell something so perfect had turned into a nightmare in a matter of minutes.

TWO WEEKS LATER
I called her fifty times.
Sent a hundred messages.
Went to her apartment, but her roommate said she had gone back to Miami early.
She ran.
The woman I had fallen in love with had literally fled across the ocean to escape me.
I sat in my apartment staring at the bed where we had made love, where everything had changed, and I made a decision.
If she could run to Miami, I could follow her.
I quit my job.
Packed my life.
Bought a ticket home after five years.
Because if my parents had taught me anything my entire life, it was that true love is worth fighting for no matter how impossible it seems.
And Sofía Ramos—my cousin, the daughter of my father’s best friend—was true love.
I knew it the moment I kissed her.
I confirmed it when I held her in my arms.
And I wasn’t going to give up just because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.
History had repeated itself.
But this time, I wasn’t going to wait eleven years.
This time, I was going to fight from the beginning.

PRESENT – MIAMI
I came out of my flashback when I heard the terrace door open behind me.
Lucia.
—I was looking for you —she said—. Mom’s worried. You disappeared after dinner ended.
—I needed air.
—You needed to process whatever it is that has you terrified.
I turned to look at her.
—I promised I’d tell you everything after the family dinner.
—It ended an hour ago.
—I know.
—Then talk, brother. Tell me what happened in Paris that has you acting like the world is about to end.
I took a deep breath.
—I fell in love with someone.
—We established that already.
—With someone in the family.
—Also established.
—With Sofía Ramos.
Lucia froze.
—Sofía as in Uncle Mateo Jr.’s daughter?
—Yes.
—Your cousin Sofía?
—Yes.
—Shit.
—Exactly.
—Mateo, that is—
—Exactly the same as Mom and Dad. I know. That’s why I’m terrified.
Lucia sat down in a terrace chair, processing.
—Does she know?
—She found out after we slept together. She ran back to Miami. That’s why I came back.
—For what?
—To fight for her. Like Dad fought for Mom.
—This is going to explode spectacularly.
—I know.
—But it could also work.
—I know.
Lucia looked at me with an expression that was half admiration, half terror.
—History repeated itself.
—With a vengeance.
—So what now?
—Now I find Sofía and tell her I’m not giving up. That what we have is worth fighting for.
—Even though she’s your cousin?
—Especially because she’s my cousin. Because if our parents taught us anything, it’s that true love doesn’t care about labels.
—This is going to be a disaster.
—Probably.
—But I support you.
—Really?
—Really. Because I saw how Mom and Dad fought and won. And if you have even half that kind of love with Sofía, then it’s worth every battle that’s coming.
I hugged her, grateful to have at least one ally in what was about to unfold.
Because what was coming would be war.
But for Sofía Ramos—for the woman I loved—I would fight any battle.