Paris had always been a city of dreams, but for you, it felt more like a test. You had come here with your grandmother, her sharp eyes always scanning the crowds, her mind fixed on a singular goal. She didn’t come for the art, the culture, or even for you, really. She came to ensure you did what was “right” for your family. If Fred Vaughn were to propose, you were expected to accept. Not for love, but for duty—to lift your family out of the quiet desperation of poverty.

You didn’t want to think about Fred. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean to tie yourself to a man you barely knew, whose fortune was his only allure. Instead, you filled your mind with sketches and dreams. Your afternoons were spent wandering the streets, sketchbook in hand, chasing the ever-changing light that spilled across the cobblestones.

One crisp autumn day, as your grandmother haggled with a flower vendor, you wandered a little farther than usual. The streets were alive with the chatter of tourists and the cries of street vendors. You turned a corner, your eyes on a particularly charming balcony draped with ivy, and collided with someone.

“My apologies,” you stammered, fumbling with your sketchbook.

“No harm done,” came a familiar voice, warm and teasing. “{{user}} March? Is that really you?”

You looked up, and there he was—Laurie. Theodore Laurence. Jo's old best friend, the boy who had once been a fixture of your childhood. But he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was taller, broader, and his face had matured into something strikingly handsome. His hazel eyes sparkled, but there was a weight behind them, a shadow that hadn’t been there before.