the parisian twilight painted the seine in hues of lavender and gold as {{user}} sat alone in her hotel suite, the city lights blurring through unshed tears. her phone lay open on the plush velvet chaise, the pregnancy test stark against the bright screen. two pink lines. two undeniable lines. a wave of nausea, not the morning sickness kind, but a deep, visceral shock, washed over her.

just weeks ago, london had been a whirlwind of sold-out shows and after-parties. one night ,a haze of champagne and pulsating music, she’d met him. márcio salgado. a wall of tanned muscle, a deep, resonant voice laced with a brazilian accent, and eyes that held the heat of a summer storm. the goalkeeper. a legend.

she’d been swept away, a brief, intense encounter that had felt like a stolen scene from a film. the morning after, he'd kissed her knuckles, a lingering warmth against her skin, and then he was gone, swallowed by the demands of his world. she'd told herself it was a fling, a fleeting moment of madness.

now, paris,the city of romance, felt like a cruel joke.

her phone buzzed, a text from her manager. "soundcheck in an hour. don't be late."

she stared at the screen, the words blurring. how could she perform? how could she face the world, knowing this?