Paris, 6th Arrondissement, Apartment near Duval Design Institute, Three Weeks Later, 8:02 AM
Lily discovered Paris's first secret: the city was most real in the morning light.
Her small rented apartment was on the fifth floor, no elevator, the staircase so narrow you had to go up sideways. But the window faced an inner courtyard with an old chestnut tree; morning sun filtered through its leaves, casting dancing light on the peeling wall.
Mornings here lacked New York's urgency. No roaring coffee grinder, no subway announcements, no phone vibrating with a dozen messages at once.
Only the faint bell from the bakery opening downstairs, the slow, deep tolling of a distant church clock, and the rustle of the grey cat jumping onto the courtyard wall.
Lily sat at the small table by the window, opening her laptop. Bloom's Paris user base had grown to 213—mostly her classmates and professors. What they shared in the app weren't Eiffel Tower selfies, but: the professor's handwritten notes in a café, a shared bottle of wine in the studio at 4 AM, the unnamed melody played by a street musician stumbled upon on Boulevard Saint-Germain.
Real moments. Imperfect beauty.
The doorbell rang. Lily checked the time—8:15, terrifyingly precise.
She opened the door. Outside stood her neighbor and "Paris survival guide," Chloé Dubois.
"Darling, you're still in pajamas?" Chloé's eyes widened. She wore a perfectly tailored cream linen dress, her hair in a casually-yet-carefully-designed French twist, holding two croissants and a coffee. "The meeting with Pierre is at nine, you forgot?"
Pierre. Gallery owner. A man Lily met at a café in her second week, around forty, with an old-school Parisian intellectual air—cardigan, silver-rimmed glasses, always talking about "the aura of art." He invited Lily to his gallery today to "discuss potential collaboration."
"I didn't forget." Lily took the coffee. "Just thought... no need to be too formal. You said Parisians appreciate casual."
"Casual, not sloppy." Chloé walked in, scanning the room like a general inspecting a battlefield. "Jeans are fine, but the APC ones. White shirt, but don't iron it too flat. Hair... God, you were coding again last night?"
Lily touched her messy curls. "Bloom's backend architecture needed optimization—"
"Stop." Chloé raised a hand. "Today you are not a programmer, you are an artist. A mysterious American designer, in Paris seeking inspiration. Mysterious, understand? Talk less, smile more, occasionally say 'c'est intéressant' in French."
Lily couldn't help but laugh. Chloé was someone she met at the design institute—French-Chinese, thirty, self-described as "former model, current stylist, lifelong hedonist." She took three days to overhaul Lily's wardrobe ("black, more black, and a little beige"), a week to show her all the non-touristy spots in Paris, and two weeks to teach her to distinguish between "actually worth dating" and "pure waste of time" Parisian men.
"Which category does Pierre belong to?" Lily asked while changing.
"Potential patron." Chloé scrutinized her. "His gallery specializes in promoting 'young artists with a story.' And you, darling, have quite a story: bankrupt American heiress, self-made designer... of course, we'll omit the lottery part for now."
Lily paused while buttoning her shirt. "Why?"
"Because the wealthy like to discover treasures, not buy already priced items." Chloé said meaningfully. "Let them feel they're the first to see your light."
An hour later, Lily stood in the white space of Pierre's gallery. Located on a quiet street in the Marais, it featured a series of photographs on "Loneliness in the Digital Age." Black and white images of people staring at glowing screens, faces ghostly in the blue light.
"Lily." Pierre approached, lightly kissing her cheeks—left, right, the Parisian greeting. "So glad you could come. Coffee? Or tea?"
"Water is fine."
They sat on wicker chairs in the gallery's backyard. A lemon tree stood in the courtyard, its fruit still green. Pierre lit a cigarette, a slim French one, smoke spiraling in the sunlight.
"Chloé tells me you're developing an application." His French accent made English sound like poetry. "About... real moments?"
Lily explained Bloom's concept. Pierre listened intently, occasionally nodding, only flicking the ash when it grew dangerously long.
"Intéressant." He finally said. "But why an application? Why not photography, painting, sculpture? Why choose such a... fleeting medium?"
"Because life itself is fleeting." Lily said. "A photo can be beautified, a painting altered, but the moment the app records—the second you press 'save'—is an unchangeable truth."
Pierre smiled. "You're an idealist. That's rare in Paris these days." He paused. "I have a proposal. Next month, the gallery is hosting a small exhibition, theme 'Behind the Interface'—exploring human connection in the digital age. I'd like to feature Bloom, not as a product, but as art."
Lily was stunned. "Art?"
"An interactive installation. Let visitors use Bloom to record their experience at the exhibition; those records become part of the show." Pierre's eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "It would bring you attention, and fits the gallery's direction."
"I need to discuss with Marcus—"
"Of course, of course." Pierre waved a hand. "But do consider. Paris's art world is small, but its influence is large. A successful exhibition... can change many things."
Leaving the gallery, Pierre gave her an exhibition catalogue, writing on the flyleaf: "For Lily, may your roses bloom in Paris." The handwriting was elegant as calligraphy.
Walking along the Seine, Lily felt a long-absent lightness. Not because of Pierre's proposal—that needed careful evaluation—but because of this moment: standing in Parisian sunlight, holding an art catalogue, only €87.42 cash in her pocket, but a growing dream in her heart.
No shadow of $85 million. No legal letters. No Patricia.
Just her, and this ancient city.
Her phone vibrated. A text from Marcus:
"NY Update: Patricia's lawyer filed supplemental materials, claiming your 'sudden departure abroad' is 'evidence of evading responsibility.' James says not to worry, process will drag on. Also, Bloom's DAU just broke 500! Your Paris users are active."
Lily replied: "Keep observing. Discussing an art exhibition collaboration, details later. Stay low-key."
She put away her phone and continued along the riverbank. Passing an old bridge, she stopped, took out the blank sketchbook from her bag, and quickly sketched the curve of the arch, the light on the water, the背影 of an elderly couple walking hand in hand.
On the first page of the sketchbook were a few words written the night she arrived in Paris:
"Here, I am just Lily."
Now, she added below:
"And that is enough."