She stood on the balcony, the muted gold of early autumn brushing against her face. Her gloved hands were clasped in front of her, fingers laced together as if to hold herself steady. The city stretched below in muted tones—Paris at dusk, soft and indifferent. She could feel the hum of the streets even from here, the low chatter of life continuing without her. Her gaze seemed fixed on the skyline, but in truth, her mind was empty, drifting in that familiar haze that came after weeks of movement. Airports, motorcades, dinners, smiles—each one blurring into the next until all that was left was the dull ache behind her eyes.

Since her father’s appointment as Prime Minister, she had been in constant motion. Public appearances. Family portraits. Political charity galas where every smile was a currency. Her name was suddenly worth something again, though she wasn’t sure what that meant. Every journalist wanted to know what she thought, what kind of woman the Prime Minister’s daughter was behind closed doors that she kept tightly shut, keeping a very private life.

She had been born into politics—the daughter of influence and expectation. Even as a child, she understood that the world she lived in was not her own. Her earliest memories weren’t playgrounds or bedtime stories, but formal dinners where she had to sit quietly beside her mother and smile for cameras. She remembered one night vividly: her seventh birthday. They were in a foreign suite, the curtains drawn, her mother sitting by the window in a pale silk dress. The clock had crept past midnight, and she’d fought against the heavy pull of sleep, waiting for her father to come home as he’d promised. Her mother had stroked her hair, whispering soft reassurances that didn’t quite reach her eyes. By the time her father finally returned, his smile tired but triumphant, she had already fallen asleep, clutching the corner of her mother’s shawl.

He had never made it up to her—not in the ways that mattered. There were gifts, yes, and extravagant gestures: new dresses, front-row seats at the orchestra, shopping trips with security detail in tow. But she had only ever wanted time. To be seen, not as a symbol of his success, but as his daughter.

Her mother used to tell her stories of how they met—how her father had slipped away from a dull gala thrown by her grandfather, who had been a politician himself. He’d been young then, rebellious, eager to escape the suffocating formality of his world. Her mother, at the time, had been just another girl on a night out, free and unburdened. Their love story had been the kind that burned bright enough to make people believe in fate. But somewhere along the way, the light had dimmed, swallowed by ambition and duty.

She drew in a deep breath now, the air sharp with the scent of rain and cold stone. The years had passed, and she was twenty-four, standing at the edge of a life that never quite felt like hers.

Behind her, the glass doors reflected her faintly—elegant, composed, untouchable. It was almost time to go back inside, to the warmth that never reached her bones. The kind of warmth that glittered but never glowed.