Paris was humming.
The city seemed to know it was Fashion Week. Or maybe it was always this alive and Eliana had just never noticed. But now, even the sidewalks buzzed. The streets glowed a little warmer. Every window display, every breeze that fluttered a silk scarf, every espresso that steamed outside a bistro—they all felt like they were part of the same performance.
And she was still pretending to belong in it.
It was Monday. The start of hell week. And she hadn't heard from Nicky since the party.
Not a text. Not a meme. Not a stupid voice note that made her smile in secret.
Nothing.
She had convinced herself she was okay with it. That if he could pretend like nothing happened, so could she. She wore it like armor. She smiled harder. Worked longer. Pulled her hair into tighter buns. Wore brighter lipstick.
But inside? She was rotting.
Luca had noticed. Of course he had. "You look like a tragic French indie film," he said two days ago, flicking her forehead gently. "You need air. And pasta. Probably dick. But mostly pasta."
She'd laughed. She still had that. Thank God.
And Liam.
God, Liam had been her savior.
He flirted shamelessly, like always, but she'd finally stopped taking it seriously. And when you stripped away the cheeky smiles and the overdone charm, Liam was actually funny. Smart. Annoyingly perceptive. And good at making her forget—even if just for a little while.
They'd spent the last few days knee-deep in silk samples and production schedules, chasing down fabric reps who ghosted them and begging seamstresses to fit one more model into an already packed schedule.
He never lost his cool. Never made her feel stupid. And tonight, when Luca had waved them off with a dramatic sigh and a promise to not call for at least an hour, Liam had looked at her and said, "Let's eat somewhere with wine that costs more than my rent."
She'd agreed before she could overthink it.
--
Now, they were tucked into a curved leather booth at a tiny restaurant with dark wood walls and slow jazz playing over the speakers. Eliana wore a simple black wrap dress. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine. Her feet finally out of heels.
"You should see your face when you're not working," Liam said, pointing his fork at her. "It's freaky. Like you're a whole different woman."
She snorted. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm used to you in Boss Bitch Mode." He gestured like he was imitating her with claws. "But now you're all... soft. Glowy. You look like someone who doesn't scream at interns."
"I don't scream at interns," she said, giggling.
He raised a brow.
"Okay. Maybe once."
They clinked glasses.
And for a moment—a real, true moment—she forgot the ache in her chest. She forgot the way Nicky looked in eyeliner. Forgot the weight of his thighs under hers. Forgot the feel of his breath near her ear, the sound of his voice when he whispered El, please.
She forgot it all.
Until she looked up.
And saw him.
--
Nicky.
Across the street.
Walking out of some bistro with a few people. Laughing. Not looking. Not noticing.
Until he did.
His eyes met hers.
She stilled.
Liam was still talking. Something about the wine. Something about how Italians make better silk than the French. She didn't hear a word.
Nicky saw her. Sitting in the booth. Laughing. With Liam.
He didn't scowl. Didn't flinch. Didn't look betrayed or even surprised.
He just... smiled. Small. Distant. And lifted two fingers in a casual wave.
Polite. Empty. Gone.
Then he turned. And walked away.
--
She blinked fast. Pretended her chest hadn't just cracked in two.
"You okay?" Liam asked, finally noticing.
She nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just—thought I saw someone."
"A ghost?"
"Something like that."
He didn't push. He just refilled her glass.
And she smiled. And drank. And laughed at his jokes.
But inside? She was setting fire to everything.
Because Nicky's smile had said it all.
We are not talking about it.
And if he could bury it? So could she.
Even if it killed her.
--
By the time dessert came, she was fully in her fake joy era again. Telling Liam stories. Complimenting his horrible French accent. Planning what they'd wear to the next designer meet.
And he? He made it easy.
She really did love him.
Just not in the way she wished she could.
--
As they walked out into the Paris night, the lights sparkled overhead and the breeze felt like silk. She linked her arm through his, laughing again at something he said.
But as they passed the alley next to the restaurant, she looked left.
Just once.
Just in case.
But Nicky was gone.
And so was the version of her that thought maybe... Maybe he could want her.
She buried it.
Right there, under the cobblestones and the streetlights and the sting in her chest.
Right where he left her.