CHAPTER 92

Lisa's POV

I feel ill from being in bed for two days in a row. I felt sick when I woke up this morning, but I haven't yet left the bed.

Grandma was supposed to visit yesterday, but she never did. There was nothing I could do or read. I sobbed myself to sleep, and when I woke up, my eyes were still wet.

She is much missed.

I'm unsure whether she's still in America or not. I'm not sure whether it would be wise to contact her.

She needs to speak to me. I must express my regret for what I did. Although I know returning to America is the only option to ask for her pardon, I still want to do it.

I'm prepared. Am I prepared to confront everyone and everything, not just Damien?

I don't know what people are saying about the missing billionaire's wife, but when I do show up with a huge stomach, won't it make a roll?

I wish I could return to America, but I believe the moment is not right. Going back and seeing Damien or anybody who makes me think of him will cause me too much mental distress to endure.

Until I decided to return and give birth here, I had no idea whether Grandma would accept me back or allow me to remain in her home.

If she lets me inside her home, would she even let me return?

I'm so sick of rushing around from one location to another. Verona came first, followed by Tuscany, and Guadalupe, and now I'm fully situated in Paris.

I am certain that nobody would ever consider me to be in Paris.

I hiss at myself for being heavy and sluggish as I get out of the high bed, my stomach growling.

My desire for coffee suddenly arose. This is my current hankering. It was mashed potatoes and then grilled chicken a few months ago. Then, in my third month, I had a constant fried rice and milk craving. I was in serious need of eggs and bacon last month. I used to prepare it every day. It is now time for coffee.

Coffee is the only thing I want to drink right now.

Although there is a tiny coffee shop across the street, I don't have any coffee. The business is even visible from my window.

I recline back on the bed and get my jacket before leaving. I should definitely go downstairs to get the coffee so I can get some energy back before climbing back up.

I put a jacket on top of my pajamas and go out the door. I don't want to deal with the hassle of looking for new clothing. These days, even getting dressed makes me feel worn out.

I'm truly frustrated. Frustrated because I am alone and have no one with whom to discuss these feelings and ideas.

Just as two days before, a short note is attached to the door when I try to lock it, but this time there is no bouquet.

It reads when I take it up out of curiosity. "The universe values and needs you for your beauty. The absence of you hurts the cosmos because it wants to see you constantly.

I furrow my brow and look upward. Nothing can be seen while looking down the corridor.

Is this still a mistake or does my neighbor have a point after all?

I took the stairs down and squeezed the paper between my right palm before throwing it in the trash outside.

I can no longer tolerate this garbage, therefore whoever is doing this error had better get their act together as soon as possible.

This kind of makes fun of my appearance. I am aware of my lack of beauty, and I will not be duped by any foolish man's flattering comments.

By the time I reach the bottom step, I am furious and angry for no apparent reason. Most likely as a result of the stairs or the psychotic dude who placed this garbage on my doorknob.

Just about everything irritates me. Even the elderly landlady who won't refurbish this property and has an elevator here is grating on my nerves.

I leave the structure and go out into the street. I cautiously cross the street while looking to my left and right, then I see myself entering the little coffee shop.

I say "Bonjour" to the barista who is working behind the counter.

He responds after grinning at me. "Hello, madame,"

I offer him some money and say, "I need two cups of coffee."

Instead of accepting the cash, he extends two cups of coffee in my direction. "You are here."

He is one of the few locals who can speak English. He uses a sluggish voice.

I say "thank you" and put the money down on the table while pondering why he hasn't made me a fresh cup of coffee.

I spun back in shock as he said, "You can go with the money, someone already paid for you."

Someone paid, right? I inquired to confirm my understanding. He smiles broadly as he nods.

Do I have a stalker? This isn't just a secret admirer, either.

Do you know the individual? I questioned him in the hopes that he would respond. He still smiles while shaking his head.

"Is he English?"He's fluent in French. He also paid yesterday, but because you didn't show up for coffee, I'm giving you two cups.

I say "thank you" and walk away from him, my thoughts racing as I leave his store and return to the building.

I honestly don't know what else to think of this individual, but I'm slowly starting to feel afraid.

Do I have a stalker? Is he insane for thinking I'm handsome and paying for my coffee at the same time?

He is who? Why won't he appear so I can call him out on his stupidity?

Where am I safe?

I up the stairs, pausing sometimes to catch my breath and recall that I was meant to drink the coffee in his store before returning inside.

That particular piece of information had baffled me. There is no doubt in my mind that the so-called hidden admirer, who lacks the confidence to confront me, planned this and it is no longer an error.

He is tampering with people without knowing it.

I nearly give up when I reach the fourth story, but I let go of the reins and take several breaths before continuing to the fifth floor.

I'm so furious with the person doing this that I can't even remember to count to 50.

When I spy another box on the floor, I dangle my keys out to open it. This time, there is no note, and my worry grows.

I take a quick look around as a creepy sensation tempts me to open the door, rush inside, and lock my door from there till God knows when.

But I can't since I'm naturally curious. What is going on this time? I want to know. It seems like this person is monitoring me from somewhere and is aware of every move I make.

Is he an adulterer? Is he also looking in on me from the inside? I haven't looked out the window in two days, but does he notice me every time I do?

I grasp the package hastily, and it feels substantial. I drop it to the ground once again and start to remove the tape from it.

I remove the tape and uncover a bottle of wine when I lift the box's lid.

Vineyard, Adrianna.

My preferred wine.

a favorite wine of Damien's.

Damien wrote this, without a doubt. My affection for this wine is a secret that only Damien knows. I learned to adore this wine when I was in his home.

When I realize Damien is in Paris and he is the one doing this, a gasp escapes my lips, and I get up right away.

The alleged secret admirer is Damien.