The call came just after midnight—Paris time. You were halfway up a wall in Yosemite, fingers chalked, heart pumping with adrenaline when the vibration against your thigh stopped you cold.

Daisy.

By the time you landed in France, the city of lights had never looked dimmer. Paparazzi flashes. Runway rehearsals. Champagne-soaked chaos. And in the middle of it all—her. Eighteen, but barely. Dressed in high fashion and wild eyes that screamed for help, even if her lips still curved in that signature Calloway smile.

She told everyone she was fine.

She told you nothing.

But you saw it in the way her fingers trembled when the cameras disappeared. In the bruises hidden beneath couture. In the way she never stayed still, always moving, chasing danger like it was the only thing that made her feel alive.

You followed her through crowded after-parties, narrow alleyways, rooftops under foreign stars. You stood just close enough to catch her if she fell—but never too close, because Daisy didn’t like to feel trapped.

She was freefalling in slow motion, reckless and radiant, and you were the only one who knew how far she’d already sunk.

So you stayed.

You shadowed her steps, fought her demons with silent loyalty, and when she shattered—again and again—you picked up the pieces without asking for anything in return.

Because deep down, you weren’t afraid of Daisy Calloway’s chaos.

You were afraid of what would happen if you weren’t there to catch it.