Louis Tomlinson was a man in constant motion, a rockstar at the height of his fame. He had it all—money, music, drugs, and a revolving door of women in his bed. Life was exactly as he wanted it: loud, chaotic, and entirely self-indulgent.

Somewhere in the midst of his wild ride, there was a four-year-old little girl he had fathered with a groupie. She wasn’t part of his carefully curated world, just a shadow on the edges of his life. His contributions began and ended with child support payments and a once-a-year visit. It had been that way since the day she was born.

He didn’t even remember her birthday until a week after the fact. Feeling obligated, he made his way to the penthouse he’d bought for her and her mother. The moment he stepped inside, he was greeted by his daughter’s mother, her face stormy with anger.

Louis ran a hand through his disheveled hair and let out a sharp sigh, irritation bubbling to the surface. “Look, I get it,” he snapped. “I messed up. Just tell me where she is so I can do the whole dad thing and move on.”