The Tears Of a Rose

Chapter 1

Paris is a magical city. Epic and monumental like Notre-Dame, elegant and luxurious like the Champ Elysee, rich in folklore and local history like Montmartre, the Latin Quarter or the Jewish quarter of Le Marais.

Irene loves the magic of this city, loves its nightlife, the clubs of some areas always open until late at night. But she also appreciates the daytime Paris, the walks in the Luxembourg gardens, the coffee or the aperitif at one of the bars with tables facing the theater of the Opera, perhaps for a snack before entering to enjoy one of the shows.

It is already ten days in the city and usually she comes out most evenings. She needs to get distracted, pretending that her life is exactly as she wants it, even if she knows, at the bottom of her heart, that it is not. The false identity that she assumed to protect herself from the terrorist network, which would still want her head, allows her to move freely, albeit with extreme care. She travels constantly throughout Europe, she does not miss anything, but a part of herself, her deepest heart, is always in London.

She sighs slightly as she looks out the window of the car that runs along the long Seine. The voice of his companion next to her seems a rather annoying background noise now. The umpteenth man full of himself but of a mortal boredom. She hears almost nothing of what he says, but her ability to manipulate people is such that his companion seems to be sure to like her. Typical of those who talk a lot without ever saying anything really interesting.

Her mind inevitably returns to those moments with him. Those few short moments. The long silences in which their eyes crossed and seemed to say everything. That deep and warm voice, that brilliant mind. With him it was impossible to get bored. A fascinating continuous mystery that has chained her heart and her soul.

Irene turns to her companion now, smiling in the way as she knows how to do, with that captivating and magnetic smile, that makes every man and many women stutter when they are near her. The car stops in front of the hotel where she resides. The door is opened and with her natural elegance she descends giving her hand to his companion. They arrive together until the hotel entrance but before entering Irene stops. Her clear eyes rest on the man and her expression appears as the most sincere and angelic ever seen.

"Jean, I have been very well with you tonight, but I will not ask you to go up, not today at least" her warm voice is just a whisper while she speaks lightly putting her hand on his arm "you understand me?"

The man nods, placing his hand on hers, completely enmeshed by that look and words full of expectations and hopes.

"Of course Alice, I see. It was a very pleasant evening for me too. Rest well" he says, stroking her hand for a few more moments before she withdraws and moves away.

Finally left alone Irene sighs almost with relief. To pretend to be Alice, a rich widow of a good family, easily succeeds but bores her as never before. She would much rather return to being Irene Adler, The Woman, the Dominatrix who all fear and adore, The Woman who submits all to her will, except that damned detective with the funny hat that has upset her life.

As she climbs into the elevator, thinking back to that hunting hat with which he often appears in photos, a sincere, amused smile lights up her face and eyes. The doors open and the sound of her steps along the long corridor is muffled by the carpet. Finally, she enters her room, a luxurious suite on the top floor, and closed behind her the door, she goes to the table, placed in front of the large window from which one can admire the magnificence of the Eiffel Tower. She opens her laptop and connects to the internet, as she does most nights, opening the page of John Watson's blog. No new posts highlighted. She then opens the pages of major English online newspapers to read the news and see if there are any interesting cases that could attract Sherlock's attention.