Elena's POV
I stared at Margot, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst.
"You're saying if I meet him, I might die?"
Margot's face was pale. "The curse kills anyone he loves. And Elena, the way he's writing to you—those aren't the words of someone who just wants a friend."
My hands shook. I looked at the letters spread across the table. His beautiful handwriting. His desperate loneliness bleeding through every word.
Thank you for seeing me.
Something twisted in my chest. I knew that feeling. That desperate, aching need to be seen by someone. Anyone.
Six months ago, my whole family looked at me and chose Céleste instead. They saw me—and decided I wasn't worth keeping.
But this person, this impossible immortal man, had been invisible for 847 years.
"I have to meet him," I whispered.
"What?" Margot grabbed my shoulders. "Elena, no. You can't. The curse—"
"He's been alone for eight centuries, Margot. Eight hundred years of watching everyone he loves die. Can you imagine that kind of pain?" Tears burned my eyes. "I've only been alone for six months and it's killing me. How is he even still sane?"
"That's not your responsibility—"
"Maybe it is!" I pulled away, pacing the tiny kitchen. "You said my family cursed him. Isabeau Moreau was my ancestor. Her mother destroyed him because he loved the wrong person. Don't I owe him something? Don't I owe him at least the truth—that not all Moreaus are cruel?"
Margot's eyes filled with tears. "And if you fall in love with him? If the curse activates?"
"Then I'll be careful. I won't fall in love. I'll just... I'll just meet him. One time. Just so he knows someone answered. Someone cares."
Even as I said it, I knew I was lying to myself.
I'd already started falling. Every word of his letters had crawled into my broken heart and made a home there.
But I pushed that thought away.
"I'm going," I said firmly. "I have to."
Margot studied my face for a long moment. Then she sighed, defeated. "You're as stubborn as your mother was. Fine. But you take my phone too—the one with the emergency button. And you text me every five minutes. The second something feels wrong, you run."
"I will. I promise."
She pulled me into a fierce hug. "Be careful, mon cœur. Some curses can't be broken. And some loves aren't worth dying for."
But as I hugged her back, I wondered: what if this love was?
Midnight found me standing on Pont des Arts bridge, my heart in my throat.
The Seine River flowed dark below. Street lamps cast golden pools of light. A few late-night tourists wandered past, taking photos of the locks couples had attached to the bridge railings.
Love locks. Symbols of forever.
I wondered how many of those couples were still together. How many forevers actually lasted.
"E?"
The voice came from behind me—soft, careful, like he was afraid I'd run.
I turned.
And forgot how to breathe.
He was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Dark hair that looked black in the lamplight. High cheekbones. A jawline that could cut glass. But it was his eyes that stopped my heart—grey like storm clouds, ancient and sad and knowing in a way that made my soul ache.
He looked about thirty. Wore a grey coat like he'd promised. Stood with the kind of stillness that came from centuries of patience.
"A?" I whispered.
Something shifted in his expression—relief so profound it was almost painful to witness. "You came. I didn't think you would."
"I almost didn't." My voice shook. "This is crazy. All of it."
"I know." He took a careful step closer but kept his distance. "I know how impossible this must seem. A stranger claiming to be immortal. Letters appearing in hidden places. It sounds like madness."
"It is madness." I wrapped my arms around myself. "But I've been going crazy for six months anyway. What's a little more?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I read about your family. The betrayal. I'm sorry."
"How did you—" I stopped. "Of course. You looked me up."
"I had to know who was brave enough to write back." His grey eyes held mine. "Elena Moreau. Twenty-seven years old. Best antique restorer in Paris until your family destroyed your reputation. Betrayed by your fiancé and sister. Lost everything." He paused. "I know what loss feels like. I'm sorry you're learning it too."
Tears burned my eyes. "Margot told me about the curse. About Isabeau."
His whole body went rigid. "Then you know why this is dangerous. Why I shouldn't have asked you here."
"Why did you?" I took a step toward him. "Why risk it? Why write those letters at all if you knew someone might answer?"
For a long moment, he just looked at me. The sadness in his eyes was unbearable.
"Because," he said finally, his voice breaking, "I've been alone for 847 years. And your words made me remember what it felt like to be human. What it felt like to matter to someone." He laughed bitterly. "Selfish, isn't it? Risking your life just so I could feel less alone."
"It's not selfish." The words came out fierce. "It's human. You're allowed to want connection. You're allowed to want someone to see you."
"Even if it kills you?"
"Even then."
We stared at each other across the space between us. I could feel the pull—like gravity, like magnets, like something ancient and inevitable drawing us together.
"I can't touch you," he said quietly. "Not until I know you won't love me. Physical contact with someone who could fall for me causes... pain. A warning from the curse."
"Then we won't touch." I held out my hand, stopping just before reaching him. "We'll be careful. We'll be smart. We'll just be friends."
"You don't understand." His eyes held mine. "I've lived through seventeen centuries of art and music and poetry. I've loved before. I know what the beginning feels like."
"What does it feel like?"
"Like this." His voice was barely a whisper. "Like standing on a bridge at midnight with someone who sees the real you. Someone whose smile makes you forget you've been dying inside for 800 years. Someone you'd burn the world for after knowing them for five minutes."
My breath caught.
"I'm already in love with you, Elena," he said. "I fell in love with you the moment you wrote back. Which means you have one year to live. Maybe less."
The world tilted.
"Unless," he continued, his voice desperate, "you walk away right now. Forget you met me. Let me disappear. I've done it before. I can do it again."
My phone buzzed in my pocket—Margot checking on me. The five-minute mark.
I had a choice. Walk away and live. Or stay and risk everything.
I thought about his letters. His loneliness. His hope.
I thought about my own broken heart. My ruined life. My desperate need to matter to someone.
I thought about how it felt to be seen for the first time in six months.
"No," I said.
"No?" Hope and horror warred in his expression.
"I'm not walking away." I stepped closer, stopping just before touching him. "I'm going to break your curse. I'm going to save you."
"Elena, that's not possible—"
"My family cursed you. My family will free you." I lifted my chin. "I don't care if it's dangerous. I don't care if it's impossible. You've suffered enough. And I—" My voice cracked. "I need something to fight for. I need to prove I'm not useless. I need to matter."
"You already matter," he breathed. "More than you know."
Behind him, a shadow moved.
I blinked. Nothing there. Just darkness and lamplight.
But my gift prickled—a warning I'd learned never to ignore.
"Someone's watching us," I whispered.
Adrian's face went cold. He turned slightly, scanning the bridge without moving. "How many?"
"I don't know. I just felt—"
A phone camera flashed in the darkness.
Adrian cursed. "We need to go. Now."
"What? Why—"
"Because if anyone finds out you're connected to me, if your family discovers what we're trying to do—" He grabbed my hand without thinking.
The moment our skin touched, fire exploded through my veins. I gasped. He jerked back, but it was too late.
I saw everything.
Every life he'd lived. Every person he'd loved and lost. Centuries of pain and loneliness and desperate, endless hoping flooding through me like a tidal wave.
And there, at the end—a vision of my future.
Me, lying on cold stone. A ritual. Blood and magic and terrible choice.
My own death.
I stumbled backward, gasping.
Adrian caught me before I fell—then yanked his hands away like I'd burned him. "I'm sorry. I forgot. I shouldn't have—"
"I saw it," I whispered, shaking. "I saw how I die."
His face went white as death.
Another camera flash. Closer this time.
And a voice called from the shadows—a voice I knew too well:
"Elena? Is that you?"
My blood turned to ice.
No. Not her. Anyone but her.
Céleste stepped into the lamplight, her phone raised, her smile sharp as broken glass.
"Well, well," she purred. "What do we have here?"