By the time mid February rolls around, not a day goes by without a new article popping up about me. I've made the Oscar nominations, and Joanne is delighted to see the number of people wanting to hire me rise every day. However, she made it clear that we wouldn't make any decisions until after the ceremony. So, for now, while she reviews scripts and meets with studio execs, I get to fly to Europe for the second leg of Fashion Week.

Paris welcomes me with a horde of paparazzi, and the security detail that Joanne assigned to me gets me through without a hitch. I'm driven to the Four Seasons Hotel George V, gliding past the flashing cameras and the frenzied voices shouting my name. The brief encounter with the erratic press brings to mind the iconic verse from Beyoncé's Partition, where she encapsulates the chaos of fame in just a few beats.

How do I like being in Paris? Well, the city of love certainly brings out my inner star because I'm ready to set this place alight.

I couldn't believe my eyes when Joanne forwarded me the email about my seating arrangements for the Louis Vuitton runway show at the Musée d'Orsay—front row, next to Anne Hathaway.

I also vividly remember Joanne's advice for my debut in socializing with A-list celebrities: Act like a fan, and they will treat you as such. They are your peers now, let them engage first. 

I keep that advice in mind when I arrive at the venue the next day. The Musée d'Orsay, with its grand arches and intricate architecture, is a masterpiece in itself—a true temple of art. The atmosphere inside is charged with the opulence of high fashion, and the quiet hum of whispered conversations. 

I follow Joanne's code of conduct to the letter and even manage to remain calm when Anne Hathaway engages me before the show begins to tell me that my performance as a leading actress made her cry.

I made Anne Hathaway cry! 

I could die in peace knowing that. Before the day is over, there are new articles of me and Anne Hathaway laughing together, sending the internet into a frenzy. Suddenly, I'm being held to the same standard as her. Joanne sends me a message that simply reads: "You're doing great. Keep it up."

The next morning I get a call from her. She informs me that one of her old acquaintances, Lorene Merger, has invited me to an art exposition that her gallery is hosting on the last day of Paris Fashion Week.

For the event, I decide to wear the black Tom Ford dress that Joanne insisted I pack for any special evening events. After getting ready and seeing my reflection in the mirror of my suite, I have no doubt that I will be a showstopper tonight.

The dress is a testament of sensual femininity —a halterneck design that fits my body like a second skin, with a daring plunge in the middle of the chest, leaving no doubt that I'm not wearing a bra underneath. The backless silhouette is elevated by a gold chain that trails down my spine and diverges at my waist. My hair, a lustrous cascade of red curls, is swept over my right shoulder, enhancing the boldness of the dress with a scarlet touch.

When Lorene greets me at her gallery, her eyes widen in appreciation before she showers me with compliments that make me blush.

"Should I give you a gallery tour?" Lorene suggests. "Or do you prefer to look around on your own?"

"A tour sounds lovely," I reply.

The tone of the exhibition is apparent—each art piece a delicate balance of nature and femininity, with a touch of surrealism that draws the viewer in. Lorene's passion is palpable as she walks me through the gallery, recounting the stories behind each painting with a reverence that only someone deeply in love with art can convey. She speaks about art the way one speaks of a newborn baby—with absolute adoration. I can't resist the urge to point it out, and she seems delighted at my remark.

"This is the essence of art," Lorene tells me. "To make your soul vibrate with pleasure or weep in agony."

During our tour, we come across a painting that evokes the latter within me. The painting depicts a woman, her face half-illuminated by a bright, fiery red sun, while the other half fades into darkness, adorned with a once-vibrant flower now wilting, its petals scattered like lost memories. The sharp contrast between the radiant light and the encroaching shadow feels like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. It's as if I'm staring into a mirror reflecting a distorted memory of my mother.

She was the sun—brilliant and untouchable, her beauty radiant and her smile captivating. I remember how she filled every room with warmth, how people's gazes lingered on her as if drawn to the light she emanated. She was adored, revered even, just like the woman in the painting. Until she met my father.

The passion that once defined her began to dim, her vibrancy snuffed out, petal by petal. The woman who once laughed with the abandon of a carefree child became subdued, her smiles rarer, her gaze distant. I watched as the light in her eyes dulled, as the life she had so carefully cultivated withered away, suffocated by the weight of his presence.

This painting... It's like the artist reached into the deepest recesses of my heart and pulled out the most painful memories, splashing them across the canvas for the world to see. My chest tightens, and I force myself to take a slow, deep breath, steadying the whirlwind of emotions threatening to pull me under.

"Thalia? Are you alright?" Lorene must sense the shift in my mood because she turns to face me fully, her expression softening with concern.

I realize that she must have been talking to me but I was so entranced with the artwork that I didn't hear a single word. I manage a small nod, though my eyes remain glued to the painting. 

"It reminds me of someone," I confess. 

The image of my mother, vibrant and full of life, and then slowly fading, withering under the weight of a love that wasn't as kind as it first appeared, flashes before me. The woman who had once been my hero, my guiding star, became a cautionary tale of what happens when you let someone else's darkness consume your light.

As I stand there, rooted in place, the painting and the memories it unearths become intertwined—a painful reminder of the fragility of beauty and the destructive power of love. The painting has done exactly what Lorene said art should do—it's made my soul weep.

"This is a piece by one of our new artists, Damien Gaspard," she informs me. "I can introduce you if you'd like. I'm sure he would be honored to know how deeply his work resonated with you."

I agree to meet the artist. When Lorene comes back with him, something about his face seems vaguely familiar. After the introductions, she leaves us to discuss the piece privately. As he tells me about what inspired the artwork, I push aside the nagging sense of déjà vu. I'm not particularly into art, but it keeps coming back to my mind, and I can't resist the urge to ask.

"Have we met before? I have a feeling we've seen each other, but I can't remember where."

A pleased laugh escapes him. "I didn't want to mention it, to not appear intrusive, but yes—I attended Chiara Moretti's birthday party last month."

"Oh, I see. I don't think we were introduced then."

"We weren't, but you've met my friend Dario."

My memory of that night comes to mind—of Dario's eyes tracking me across the yacht. He was playing pool with someone... Was it Damien?

"So you're a friend of Dario?"

"Oh, we go way back. We lived together off-campus when we attended UCLA. The ladies were crazy about his Italian accent. My French one was no match," he adds with humor.

"I didn't notice an accent when I spoke to him."

"Really? He must have been too smitten to turn it on then."

I try to hide my satisfaction behind a question. "Is he coming to your exhibition?"

"He wanted to be here, but unfortunately, he couldn't make it. He's traveling for the WSL Championship Tour—I think he's in Hawaii this week."

We continue to exchange a few anecdotes about him getting into art until Damien has to go back to other potential clients. I then continue my tour of the gallery, eventually deciding to buy two pieces, including Damien's artwork that caught my attention.

Lorene tells me she'll take care of shipping them back to my place in L.A. I decide to call it a night after promising Lorene to meet her for brunch before I leave Paris.

I'm being escorted to the parking lot where my chauffeur is waiting for me when a voice calls out my name. I turn around to find Damien running toward me. He stops before me, his breath short, and bends halfway over his knees to catch his breath.

"Is everything alright?" I ask.

He holds out his phone to me. "There's someone for you on the line."

There's a flutter in my stomach at the thought of who it could be. 

I take the phone from Damien, anticipation bubbling in my chest as he steps away to give me some privacy. I bring the phone to my ear, holding my breath. There's a moment of silence on the other end before I hear the familiar voice, laced with a hint of urgency, cut through the air.

"Damien, did you catch up to her? Has she left?" 

"Not yet," I answer a bit amused.

I can hear the palpable relief in his voice when he greets me. "Hi, Thalia."

"Hi, Dario," I respond, trying to reign in the excitement unfurling inside of me.

"So, you're in Paris," he says, his tone shifting to something lighter, almost teasing.

"And you're in Hawaii. Looks like the universe is not really on your side," I tease back.

"I disagree," he retorts playfully. "What were the odds of you visiting the exact gallery where my best friend held his first exhibition?"

"If the universe was on your side, you'd be here too."

"Is that your way of saying that you want to see me?" he asks, his voice dropping to a tender whisper that sends a shiver down my spine.

I bite my lip, remaining silent, but my silence is more telling than any words could be. Dario chuckles softly, then to my relief he changes the subject.

"Congratulations on your Oscar nomination." 

"You knew?" I ask, surprised. Dario doesn't strike me as someone who keeps up with celebrity news.

"I watched the broadcast nomination," he admits. "You're almost there."

"I'm almost there," I echo, warmth spreading in my chest at his obvious admiration.

"I'm still betting on the universe," he adds, with confidence.

I let the silence linger for a moment, my pulse quickening before I finally speak. "I'm betting on it too."

"You are?" Dario inquires dubiously.

"There's a first time for everything, as they say," I reply, a hint of vulnerability creeping into my voice.

"Well, you're in luck," he says, his tone brightening. "The universe is on both of our sides today."

"You sound oddly optimistic." 

"Turn around."

Confusion washes over me, but I obey. When I spot Dario walking across the parking lot, my breath catches in my throat, disbelief flooding my senses. I blink several times, struggling to believe my eyes as he approaches, his form growing clearer with each step. He looks stunning in a tailored tuxedo, every inch of him exuding confidence and virility.

"How are you even here?" I ask, astonished.

He smiles, a slow, heart-stopping grin that makes my pulse quicken. 

"The universe wanted me to find you."