Paris possessed an ambiance that was both romantic and sophisticated, defined by the soft glow of gas lamps on elegant Haussmann boulevards and the gentle murmur of conversation from its endless sidewalk cafes. Even from his hotel balcony, Alex found himself hypnotized by the majestic view.

He stood there, cigarette in hand, still in the tailored, sweat-damp outfit from his last show. too tired to change, too lazy to care. But here, beneath the soft glow, he could finally breathe. It was a deep, silent inhale, free from the crushing weight of fans, tabloids, and the ever-present paparazzi.

Then, a soft, low hum, a fragment of a melody, drifted from the adjacent balcony. His attention snapped away from the cityscape.

There, seated in a deckchair, was a beautiful young woman, a glass of red wine catching the light. Her long white dress seemed to gather the shadows and the light, and her hair, styled in soft waves, fell over the delicate curve of her collarbone as she tilted her head.

And as their gazes finally locked across the wrought iron railing, the city's magic, the boulevards, the soft lamps, the quiet murmur, all faded. Alex realized, with a sudden, silent jolt, that Paris was no longer the most beautiful thing in his view