Paris, The Following Four Weeks
Chloé was right: Paris was a training ground for love, and Lily received an intensive education over the next four weeks.
Lesson One: Pierre, the Gallery Owner's Kiss
The celebration after finalizing the exhibition collaboration, at Pierre's apartment in the Latin Quarter. High ceilings, walls of books, a gramophone playing Ella Fitzgerald. By the third glass of wine, Pierre began talking about his deceased wife—a Spanish dancer who died of cancer a decade ago.
"When she danced, the whole room breathed." His eyes looked into the distance. "You remind me of her, Lily. Not in looks, but that... inner light."
Lily knew it was a trap, but fell in anyway. Because of loneliness, because the Parisian night was too beautiful, because someone described you in such poetic language.
The kiss happened on the balcony. Parisian rooftops like grey waves under moonlight, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance.
His kiss was gentle, restrained, full of the echoes of regret. Lily closed her eyes, thinking she could touch the ghost of that departed dancer.
Until he whispered: "We could create a legend, you and I. Gallery and artist. Patron and muse."
She opened her eyes.
Muse. The word was a splash of cold water. She remembered Patricia saying "family," remembered the "friends" who appeared after the lottery win.
She took a step back. "I am not anyone's muse, Pierre. I am a creator."
His smile stiffened. "Of course, I meant a collaborative—"
"Goodnight." Lily picked up her bag. "Thank you for the wine."
Walking the streets at dawn, she felt not heartbreak, but clarity. First lesson: Beware those who want to fit you into their story.
Lesson Two: Giovanni, the Italian Chef's Kiss
She met Giovanni at Les Halles market. Lily was buying fruit; he was at the next stall selecting tomatoes, arguing with the vendor in fluent but heavily accented French about ripeness.
"No, no, these are too sour! I need San Marzano, must be San Marzano!" He waved his arms as if conducting an opera.
Lily couldn't help but laugh. He turned, saw her, his anger instantly transforming into a brilliant smile.
"You laugh at me?" He approached, still holding a tomato. "Then you must taste this and tell me if it's worth fighting over."
Giovanni was from Naples, running a small bistro in Paris. His kiss was like the sun of his hometown: direct, passionate, full of life. He took Lily to secret food warehouses, taught her to discern the vintage of olive oil; after closing, he'd make simple pasta with leftover ingredients, sharing it with her on bar stools in the kitchen.
"You don't ask who I am, where I'm from, what my past is?" Lily once asked.
Giovanni shrugged. "The past is yesterday's sauce; today's noodles are what matter." He took her hand. "I like you now. That's enough."
At first, it was refreshing. But by the third week, Lily realized Giovanni's "live in the present" was actually "reject any planning." He hated appointments, commitments, talking about tomorrow. When Lily mentioned Bloom, her desire to return to New York to develop it, his smile vanished.
"Why leave? Paris not good? Me not good?" He cupped her face, kissing her almost breathlessly. "Stay. We could open a bigger restaurant. You'd be my partner, my love, my—"
"Your what?" Lily gently pushed him away. "Giovanni, I have my own life."
"Life is eat well, love well, now well." He insisted.
The last kiss was in the rain. Outside Giovanni's bistro, he tried to use a kiss to persuade her to change her flight date. Lily tasted rainwater and the salt of his tears—he was genuinely heartbroken, but heartbroken because he couldn't accept she didn't belong to him.
Second lesson: Love should not be a cage, even one gilded with gold.
Lesson Three: Sophie, the Artist's Kiss
Sophie was Lily's classmate at Duval. German, one side of her head shaved, the other dyed pink-blonde, with seven piercings and at least three visible tattoos.
"Your Bloom is too clean." She said upon first seeing Lily's work. "Life is messy. Beauty hides in the cracks."
She took Lily to Paris's underground art scene: poetry readings in abandoned metro stations, dance theater in converted slaughterhouses, electronic music parties in cemeteries at 3 AM. Sophie's world had no rules, only expression.
The kiss happened in her studio. The air smelled of oil paint and incense. The walls were covered with unfinished paintings—twisted bodies, melting colors, no boundaries.
"I like you," Sophie said, fingers lightly tracing Lily's jaw. "But I like the part of you that's uncertain even more. That part is most real."
Her kiss was exploration, a question, an invitation. Lily responded, out of curiosity, a desire to understand another world.
They spent three days together. Sophie taught Lily to paint with her body, rolling on canvas to leave traces; Lily taught Sophie basic coding, the two attempting to create a "growing digital painting."
But on the third night, Sophie said: "You should stay. New York is too conservative. Here, we could create new things, new relationships, new rules."
"My partner, my project are in New York—"
"Then bring them." Sophie interrupted. "Or leave them. A true artist must choose."
Lily looked at Sophie's work in the studio—beautiful, but lonely. Each painting was a closed universe, not conversing with the outside.
"My art is about connection," Lily said softly. "Not separation."
Sophie smiled, but the smile held no warmth. "Okay. At least you understand who you are."
No kiss upon leaving. Just an embrace, and a whisper: "Don't become boring, Lily. That would be the greatest betrayal."
Third lesson: Even the freest souls may try to define freedom for you.
Lesson Four: Thomas, the Journalist's Kiss
Thomas was English, writing cultural commentary for The Guardian. They met at a reading at Shakespeare and Company; he was researching "the revival of craftsmanship in the digital age."
He was the closest to "normal": gentle, intelligent, respectful of boundaries. Their dates were discussions of the Renaissance on museum benches, exchanging books in cafés, walking along the Seine without needing to speak.
The kiss was natural. A rainy night, in his rented apartment on Île Saint-Louis, rain tapping against the plane trees outside, fireplace crackling inside. The kiss was like the night: warm, comfortable, safe.
Thomas asked for her opinions, listened to her thoughts, remembered details she mentioned. He supported Bloom, even offered several valuable suggestions.
"You remind me of my sister," he once said, fingers in her hair. "She also knows what she wants and just goes for it."
Lily thought this one was different.
Until that Sunday morning. They were buying flowers at the market. Thomas got a call. He stepped aside, voice low, but Lily still heard: "I know, darling... back next week... love you too."
When he returned, Lily already knew.
"You're married."
Thomas's face went instantly pale. "No... I mean, yes, but we're separated—"
"Does she have a key?" Lily pointed to the keychain in his pocket with a small silver heart pendant. "That's hers, isn't it?"
Silence. The market sounds suddenly seemed harsh.
"I do love you, Lily." He finally said, voice breaking. "She and I are... on different paths. But the legal process takes time—"
"Don't." Lily placed the flowers on a nearby stall. "Goodbye, Thomas."
No farewell kiss this time. Just the taste of rain and disappointment as she turned away.
Fourth lesson: The most dangerous traps are those that look most like safe harbors.
Rainy Night, Lily Returns to Her Apartment Alone
She stood by the window, watching raindrops trace paths on the glass. Four encounters, four kisses, four lessons.
None were about Lily Thorne—the real, complete her, with a past and a future. Pierre wanted a muse, Giovanni a partner, Sophie a fellow revolutionary, Thomas an escape from reality.
And her $85 million remained the silent elephant in the room—she hadn't told anyone, but sometimes she wondered, if they knew, would the story be different? Worse?
Her phone lit up. A message from Marcus:
"NY Update: Patricia's petition preliminarily dismissed by judge, insufficient grounds. But she's appealing. James says war far from over. Also: Bloom users surpassed 1,000. A few Silicon Valley VCs are asking. When are you back?"
Lily replied: "Soon. Just a little more time."
She needed time not for more encounters, but to digest these lessons.
What Paris taught her was not how to be loved, but how not to be defined by the wrong kinds of love.
At 3 AM, the rain stopped. The moon emerged from behind clouds, silver light spilling over damp rooftops.
Lily opened Bloom and created a new entry. No photo, just text:
"In Paris, I kissed four strangers and learned the same thing: True love doesn't ask you to shrink to fit someone else's dream. It finds a way to embrace you at your full scale."
She clicked save. This moment was for her alone.
Outside, Paris breathed under the moonlight, ancient and eternal.
And Lily Thorne, for the first time, felt ready—not for the next kiss, but to return to her own life.
Her life. Not Patricia's, not anyone else's.
Just hers.