I collapsed onto the bed in my room, still fully dressed, and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
And for the first time in weeks, I didn't dream about St. Paul's or the nine of us or the men hunting me down.
I dreamed about dark hair and soft hands and a woman who looked at me like I wasn't broken.
Like maybe—just maybe—I could be something other than damaged goods.
Even if it was only for one night.
10
MILA
Ileft the café at a run.
Not a cute jog. Not a Parisian glide like the women who looked born to cobblestones. An actual run—bag bouncing against my hip, camera strap biting my collarbone, breath snagging in my throat like I’d been chased.
Maybe I had.
Not by Connor. Not literally.
By the feeling of him.
By the way my body had taken that kiss and decided it belonged to me now, like a new language I couldn’t stop practicing in my head. By the way his fingers had closed around my wrist when I’d panicked about time—firm enough to stop me, gentle enough to remind me I was allowed to leave.
I kept hearing his voice:I’ll pay. For coffee. And dinner.
Like it was already decided.
Like he could say things like that and the world would shift to accommodate them.
I told myself it was nothing. Dinner wasn’t a marriage proposal. Paying for coffee was barely a gesture.
Still—my pulse had refused to come down since I’d walked away.
I made the turn onto the street where the shoot was happening and forced myself to slow before I reached the building. I couldn’t show up looking like I’d sprinted straight from a mistake. I inhaled, smoothed my hair with trembling fingers, and pushed through the glass door.
Inside, the air smelled like fabric dye and perfume and coffee that had been reheated once too many times. A boutique studio—white walls, a rack of linen dresses in soft neutral tones, a small backdrop set near a window that poured in late-afternoon light.
A woman with a sleek ponytail looked up from her phone. “Mila?”
“Yes.” I managed a smile that didn’t show teeth. “Sorry. The metro?—”
“Paris,” she said, shrugging as if that explained everything. “You’re good. We’re just doing a few looks.”
It wasn’t my usual kind of work. Fashion photography felt louder, more about control than discovery. But Élodie had encouraged me to try it, anyway, in that maddeningly calm way of hers.You don’t lose your eye just because the frame changes,she’d said.You might find something sharper.
I’d trusted her. I was learning that part of growth was letting myself be bad at something new long enough to find my footing.
The model turned from the mirror. She was tall and glowy in that effortless way that made me think she probably woke up like that and then felt genuinely confused when people complimented her. She offered a hand.
“Léonie,” she said.
“Mila.”
The stylist—Julianne, according to the clipboard—clapped her hands. “Okay. Linen in the window first. We’re selling ‘sun-drenched simplicity,’” she said, making air quotes. “Like she’s just wandered in from a romantic afternoon and isn’t thinking about anything.”
My stomach gave an unhelpful flip.
