CHAPTER 189: EUROPEAN VACATION.

The apartment door clicked shut with a hollow finality.

Annie exhaled slowly, keys in her hand, as she looked around the now-empty space that had been her safe corner of the world for the last few years. Bella stood beside her, a large rolling suitcase at her side and a soft sadness on her face.

"Doesn’t feel like we ever lived here," Bella said, running her fingers along the faint dent in the wall from a night of indoor badminton.

"I thought it would be harder," Annie whispered. "But it’s not. I’m ready."

They didn’t linger. The car was already waiting outside, with blacked-out windows and Roy in the front seat, as usual. Jay leaned against the doorframe, tapping away at his phone, until he noticed them come down with their bags.

"No press," he said casually. "No tails either. Roy took care of it."

Annie just nodded. She was quiet the entire ride back to the Four Seasons.

When they arrived, Lukas was already on a long call, pacing near the window with a half-empty glass of water. He glanced at them, gave a soft smile, then held up one finger—almost done.

Henry’s voice buzzed through the phone.

"They want the Milan stop first. Are you sure about that?" Henry asked.

"No. Change it," Lukas said. "Start with Paris. Something softer. Then Vienna, Prague, and Rome. Make it spaced. Three days in each. No tight schedules."

"Private jets?"

"Naturally. No airports, no terminals. Book the same crew, the ones who flew us to Zurich last winter. They know how to move without noise."

"Accommodations?"

"I’ll send you a list," Lukas said. "Use aliases. Same security team. No visible bodyguards. Bella doesn’t like the show of it. And Annie..."

He looked over. Annie was sitting now, letting Bella unzip one of the suitcases to reorganize a knit sweater. She wasn’t saying anything, just softly watching.

"She needs calm," Lukas finished.

"Done. I’ll text the confirmations tonight. First departure tomorrow evening?"

"Yes. Tell the staff to stock the plane for a longer stretch. I don’t want to land for fuel more than once."

"Copy that," Henry replied. "Anything else?"

Lukas paused. The line buzzed in the silence.

"Thank you," Lukas said at last.

Henry chuckled. "Don’t get soft on me."

The call ended.

Lukas walked over to the girls.

"We’re leaving tomorrow," he said. "Paris first."

Bella’s eyes lit up. "With croissants?"

"With croissants," he confirmed, kneeling beside the couch to meet Annie’s eyes.

She smiled a little. "How long?"

"As long as we need," he said. "Until it feels like we’re somewhere we’ll miss."

Annie reached out and touched his hand. "Thank you."

He only nodded.

That night was quiet. There was no celebration. No champagne. Just room service on fine white plates, movies playing low in the background, and the quiet hush of a goodbye beginning to form.

The next afternoon, the jet waited at a private airfield outside Philadelphia. Lukas arrived with both of them just as golden light started pouring through the hangar doors.

Roy loaded the bags. Jay coordinated with the flight crew.

And inside the jet, Annie sat in one of the reclining seats, running her fingers over her belly in small, absent circles. Bella opened the book of photography she packed.

Lukas stood at the top of the jet stairs for a moment, looking back toward the East Coast skyline.

Then he turned, stepped inside, and closed the door.

Above them, the sky waited—open and endless.

Paris didn’t greet them. It seduced them.

The moment Lukas, Annie, and Bella stepped off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport, it was as though the air itself whispered romance and history. Golden sunlight filtered through vaulted glass ceilings, casting long reflections over marble floors and murmuring travelers. The scent of espresso and warm croissants breezed in from nearby cafés.

They didn’t rush. Lukas moved slowly, hand gently resting on Annie’s lower back, her other hand interlocked with Bella’s. No cameras. No interruptions. Just them. It was a rare window of normal in a life built on intensity.

Henry had booked the suite at the Ritz Paris—the kind of place where time paused. Heavy velvet drapes, gilded edges on every surface, chandeliers catching the light like memories. Annie walked in first, her steps faltering slightly as she took it in.

"This isn’t a hotel," she whispered, wide-eyed. "This is a dream."

Lukas didn’t say anything. He just dropped their bags in the corner and pulled open the balcony doors. The Eiffel Tower stood distant, framed like a painting between two clouds.

For three days, Paris unfolded for them like a novel written only in moments. Mornings started with breakfast on the terrace—fresh fruit, soft cheese, coffee for him, and warm lemon tea for Annie. Bella insisted on pain au chocolat every day and had developed a sudden obsession with saying "bonjour" to every passing waiter.

They visited the Louvre but didn’t rush through it like tourists. Lukas led them past crowds to find quieter corners—the Raft of the Medusa, the Winged Victory, and paintings that looked more like dreams than oil.

"Do you think she knows," Annie murmured, standing before the Mona Lisa, "that people from across the world just come to stare at her?"

Lukas glanced at the painting, then at Annie. "If she does, I doubt she cares. She’s survived everything. Just like you."

She looked at him, a slow flush rising to her cheeks.

At night, Paris turned to candlelight and wine glow. They dined in small, tucked-away bistros where the menus were handwritten, and the staff never once blinked at Lukas’s fame. The city either didn’t notice or didn’t care. That was the magic.

One evening, Lukas took Annie to Pont Alexandre III. The bridge shimmered in the twilight—gold and cream sculptures, lovers strolling hand in hand, and street musicians playing soft jazz. Bella had fallen asleep in the hotel with a sitter Henry had secured. For the first time in weeks, it was just the two of them.

"Do you remember the first night in Tokyo?" Annie asked, leaning on the rail. "That rooftop?"

"Yeah," Lukas said. "You wore a red dress and pretended not to be impressed."

"I was terrified," she laughed. "But I also knew... that night, I knew you weren’t just a story."

Lukas turned to face her, the Eiffel Tower twinkling behind him.

"Are you still scared?" he asked quietly.

"No," she whispered. "Not of you. Just of how much I feel."

He pulled her closer, forehead to hers.

Paris didn’t end in a kiss. It paused in one—a silence deeper than words.

They left the next morning for Venice. But something in Paris stayed with them. Not as a city, not even as a memory. As a mood.

Venice did not greet them like Paris did.

It revealed itself slowly, like silk unraveling in candlelight.

From the window of their private jet, the city looked like it had been painted onto the water by hand—impossible and ancient. Lukas didn’t speak as the wheels touched down in Marco Polo Airport. Annie sat beside him, her eyes glassy with sleep but already flicking toward the coast. Bella was curled into her blanket, a stuffed giraffe tucked beneath her chin. Even in dreams, she held onto small wonders.

Henry had arranged everything. A private water taxi, sleek and silent, was waiting by the dock. Lukas helped Annie in first, lifting Bella gently beside her. Then he stepped aboard, letting the city pull him in.

The engine purred low, slicing the mirror-still water with elegance. Venice was morning mist and old stone. Bell towers cut the sky. Churches and cathedrals leaned toward the canal like aging scholars watching over their legacy.

Their hotel—Ca’ Sagredo—sat like a whisper of nobility on the Grand Canal. Lukas didn’t pick it for the gold or the reputation. He picked it for the view. From their suite’s balcony, Venice spilled out like a myth—rowboats gliding, gondolas cutting paths, and a violinist playing softly below on the pier.

Annie stood by the window for a long time.

"I feel like if I blink, it’ll vanish," she said.

Lukas stepped behind her, arms slipping around her waist.

"Then don’t blink," he said.

The city didn’t need to prove itself. It let the echoes do the talking. Murano glass sparkled in store windows like frozen dreams. Bridges curved with impossible poetry. Bella fed pigeons at Piazza San Marco and screamed with laughter when they gathered too close. Lukas just watched her—his daughter—and wondered if she’d remember this.

One afternoon, a soft rain fell, and instead of staying in, Lukas insisted they go out. He pulled coats over their shoulders and walked them down narrow alleyways and over tiny bridges that twisted and tangled like old memory lines.

They ducked into a trattoria with tables lit by candlelight and windows fogged from the warmth. Annie had pasta she couldn’t pronounce. Bella refused to eat anything that wasn’t shaped like a star. Lukas drank espresso and didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.

Later, as night turned Venice into a sea of shadows and soft reflections, they took a gondola ride.

The gondolier barely spoke. He didn’t need to. His oar sliced the canal with rhythm, like an old soul humming lullabies. Annie leaned her head on Lukas’s shoulder. Bella fell asleep again, curled in Lukas’s coat.

Lights flickered from the windows above—orange, amber, and gold—each one a story they’d never know. Lukas let the silence wrap around them.

"I don’t want to leave," Annie whispered.

"Then don’t," Lukas replied.

They wouldn’t stay forever. But that night, on the water, they didn’t have to.

Venice held them like a secret. And Lukas, for once, let himself be still.