The Paris Illusion – Season 3, Part 1

Paris was never supposed to be home. It was a hiding place, a graveyard for the man I used to be. Joe Goldberg died in a fire, and from his ashes, Jonathan Moore was born—a quiet, grieving father, alone in a city of love. I didn’t come here for art or beauty. I came for her. Marienne.

I had nothing but a name and a city. I wandered the arrondissements like a ghost, hoping to catch a glimpse. Not to chase her. Not to cage her. This time, it wasn’t obsession. It was… need. I needed to know she was safe. That not everything I touched turned to ash. She had fled to survive me. And for once, I wanted to be someone worth surviving.

I found a job in a small bookstore owned by an old man who didn’t ask questions. I shelved poetry, drank cheap espresso, and kept my head down. I lived above a bakery that opened before dawn and filled the stairwell with the smell of sugar and forgiveness. On the outside, I was nobody. Inside… I was fighting the urge to be somebody again.

Then one afternoon, in Montmartre, I saw her.

Marienne.

She was across the street, her daughter skipping beside her, hand in hand. She looked thinner. Tired. But alive. Real. I stood still, breath stolen. She didn’t see me. Or maybe she did. Her eyes flicked over the crowd, resting briefly where I stood, then moved on. She didn’t run. She didn’t scream. She simply walked away.

I could have followed her. I didn’t.

That was the moment I realized I didn’t want to ruin her life again. Letting her go was the kindest thing I’d ever done. I walked back to the bookshop and tried to leave her behind.

But peace doesn’t last when you’re built for chaos.

That’s when Kate walked in.

She was the opposite of Marienne—sharp, armored, unreadable. She managed an art gallery, spoke like she’d lived a hundred lives, and looked at me like she already knew mine. We met by accident, or so I thought. A spilled drink, an awkward conversation, a brush of sarcasm. She didn't flirt. She evaluated.

Her friends were worse—wealthy, reckless, hollow people who played with secrets like children play with fire. They didn’t like me, and I preferred it that way. But Kate kept inviting me into their world, pulling me from my solitude. I didn’t know if it was curiosity or cruelty. Maybe both.

Malcolm was one of them. Entitled. Arrogant. The kind of man who believed the world owed him something simply for existing. He noticed Kate noticing me and didn’t like it. At a party, he cornered me. Threw his drink at me. Laughed in my face. I walked away. I remember walking away.

The next morning, Malcolm was dead.

Stabbed. Bloody. In my living room.

I don’t remember how he got there.

I don’t remember killing him.

But the knife was mine.

The blood was on my hands.

I tried to clean it up, dispose of the body, erase the evidence. But something had changed. Someone was watching. That night, I received a message. No name. No greeting. Just a photo—me, dragging Malcolm’s corpse. Another message followed: “Nice work, Jonathan.”

I froze.

Someone knew.

Not just about Malcolm. About Joe. About everything.

I scanned the faces around me. Kate? No. She was too careful. One of her friends? Too obvious. The old man at the bookstore? Unlikely. But someone had been following me. Studying me. Toying with me.

I was no longer the hunter.

I was being hunted.

Days passed. More messages. More photos. “You’re not as clever as you think.” “You still haven’t changed.” “She’d never take you back if she knew.” I didn’t need to ask who “she” was. Marienne. This invisible enemy had found her, too. And if they hurt her…

No. I wouldn’t let that happen.

I started following the messages. Tracing IPs. Watching shadows. The bookstore. The gallery. The alley near Marienne’s apartment. I was slipping again, falling into the version of myself I swore I’d buried. But what choice did I have? You can’t outrun the past when it walks beside you.

Then came the final message.

A photo of Marienne.

Tied.

Afraid.

Captioned with one word: “Choose.”

Was it real? A trick? A warning?

I didn’t know.

But I knew what I had to do.

If someone was using my past to punish me, they’d learn I’m not afraid of blood anymore.

Because sometimes… you have to kill your way to freedom.

And this time, I wouldn’t miss.