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ᴠᴀʟᴇɴᴛɪɴᴇ's ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ ɪɴ ғʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴊᴀʀʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀɴ sʜᴇ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ.

The boat ride was long and tedious, and without a single word being shared between the three for It's entirety, she had little idea of what to expect. For most of it, she found herself dawdling around the hallways of the lower deck in a bid to waste time and avoid the awkwardness between her fiancé and his sister. She pictured the apartment that they would share, the cafes that she would explore. She imagined anything she could think of: anything to keep her from thinking of Michael Gray.

It was mild when they set foot on land and collected their bags, the wind picking at the wispy straggles that stuck out against her face. Though the car was expensive, the car journey was equally as painfully silent and boring, most of the time being spent staring out of the window thinking of the life she could of had. It did more harm than good. She was left with anger festering through her stomach, too strong for her to force down.

Valentine watched as the rolling waves slowly faded into mottled hills of the countryside and eventually into the beautiful, beige buildings of Paris. When the trio finally arrived in the city, the traffic was heavy, much alike to the rain that crashed down on the roof tops, creating a satisfying symphony of crashing and clanging that rose against the clamouring of the engine.

The boat had docked early that morning, meaning it was near noon in France and the shops were bustling with life, elegant women weaving with an air of prestige around each other, hands encased around large shopping bags. The city of love had an idyllic charm that no other city had to offer. London nor Rome could compare to it's exquisite glamour or handsome maturity.

It was her first time in Paris since she was six years old. She could still remember the views from her bedroom window- everything seemed so much bigger, so much more wondrous and grand.

She had hoped her first proper trip to Paris would be with the man she loved, a man she could spend hours with, roaming the sweet streets of the busy city in the early mornings. That was when her mother had said: Paris was it's sweetest at the Bois de Boulogne with some honest-to-goodness rain. It was the 'damp chestnut trees' she had said, that gave it such a beautiful scent. Nothing like the metallic and smoked smell of Birmingham.

Paris was for lovers and dreamers and philosophers; for the hopeless romantics, the culinary geniuses and the adventurers. But at that moment, looking out of the window at the happy faces looking up at the Arc de Triomphe, Valentine didn't feel like any of those things. In fact, she knew she wasn't a lover, a dreamer or even an adventurer. Everything seemed so bleak, so unimpressive and so mocking, as if they leered at her, knowing how hopelessly miserable she felt in despite of her surroundings.

Valentine would never find her dream here, not with Jean Pierre, or anyone else in Paris. Her dream stayed with Michael Gray in the simple town of Small Heath, and at that point, it seemed as unreachable as the moon.

The apartment they arrived at was significantly larger than any she had ever seen in a place like Paris, with a gorgeous parlour room, a filled up bar and a private balcony that wrapped around the entirety of the apartment. Valentine dumped her few bags in her bedroom and opened the french doors out onto the balcony and stepped onto the patio flooring, leaning against the cold railings. Carelessly, she leaned over the black bar, gazing at the astounding view the apartment provided her with. Gabriel had been right- the apartment was right next to the Eiffel Tower.

She sighed. Although her situation was not what she wanted with her life, not every girl was lucky enough to go to Paris and so she would try to make the best out of a bad situation. It would just take a little while.
That's all.

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