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With a nod, Ruby swallowed the lump in her throat and went back to the attendant’s quarters.

Taylor glared at Kim, who simply turned her attention out the window as the plane began to taxi down the tarmac.

Jolted awake by the jet landing, Taylor’s eyes flashed open. She managed to get some rest on the plane. But only after Kim insisted on watching the training videos of all of her likely competitors.

Taylor had studied their moves so closely that she felt like she was dreaming about how to defeat them. As soon as the plane landed at Charles De Gaulle Airport, the doors were opened. Taylor reluctantly accepted her racket bag back from an eager attendant.

“How long are we going to keep up this charade?” she asked her mom.

Kim’s eyebrow raised as she processed the question. Even Gerald was taken aback by his daughter’s bluntness.

With gritted teeth and pursed lips, Kim breezed past the question. “When Garros is over, I want you to go to dinner with Connor Garcia. He’s in a… similar situation to yours.”

Taylor crossed her arms. “I’ll be too busy with training.”

“That is training.” Kim stood from her seat and strutted out of the plane.

Gerald stood, fixing his pants on his hips. “Don’t worry, hon. I’ll talk to her.” He placed a reassuring hand on Taylor’s shoulders and gave a squeeze. “Strong: good work.”

With a sigh, Taylor nodded. “Thanks, Dad.”

The rest of the afternoon was a blur: a few town cars, some Parisian boutiques. Taylor felt like she could breathe, a refreshing lack of paparazzi making it easier for her to move around freely. It was one of the best parts of Paris: incredibly strict regulations on the paps. Eventually, Taylor landed at her hotel. Most players stayed at the Four Seasons Hotel George V, and Taylor was no exception. Kim made sure to book out a block of three suites on the top floor.

Her bags trailing behind her on a gilded bellhop cart, Taylor strolled to the front desk.

Before she could even get to the receptionist, a manager appeared from behind the desk and spoke with a heavy, French accent. “Bonjour, Ms. Young. It’s a pleasure to have you. I shall escort you to your room.”

He came out from behind the counter and walked Taylor through the pristine lobby. Massive bouquets of flowers filled the hall, aligning with the towering, marble pillars. She rarely noticed the decor, having spent every May since childhood in this hotel. But something about this visit made the place feel… brighter.

Live music spilled out from the all-day lounge as they strolled by, and Taylor peeked inside. She rarely had time to explore the hotel when she was here – too busy with the Open to actually wander the halls, let alone Paris.

The elevator opened as if it had been waiting just for her, its grand doors hardly making a peep as they welcomed her. The manager, François, held it open for Taylor to enter. When she turned to look at the lobby, she saw the cart of her luggage being wheeled to a separate elevator.

François clicked the “P” button, causing Taylor to raise her brows.

Sensing her confusion, François smiled. “Mrs. Young requested that you have the penthouse to yourself. She’ll be staying in the Eiffel Tower Suite, just one floor below you.”

“Did she leave a message?” Taylor asked, clenching her jaw.

François nodded as he pulled a piece of stationery from his pocket. “Indeed she did.”

On a small piece of Four Seasons letterhead, the note read:

Penthouse is for champions. Bring home another Lenglen Cup, and this will be your stay for the rest of the season. Love, Kimberly.

Taylor tried not to roll her eyes. Discretion was a priority for the staff here, but she wasn’t willing to risk a press leak that she was annoyed at her coach. Instead, she tucked the note into the pocket of her joggers.

The elevator opened to a small hallway with a single door. François pulled Taylor’s keycard from his suit jacket, sliding it over the black key reader.

With a gentle hum, the lock released, and François held the door open for Taylor to walk inside.

“Damn,” Taylor whistled as she looked around the room. “You guys redecorated.”

Taylor dropped her racket bag onto the sleek, epoxied wood floors as she made her way to the living room. Down the hallway – with a wall of windows overlooking Paris to her right – she poked her head into the walk-in closet.

It was just slightly smaller than her closet at home, but it would certainly do for a couple weeks. François softly closed the front door behind himself as he trailed behind Taylor.

Punctuating the hall was a sprawling living room with stunning views of Paris’s main streets and modern furnishings. The crisp, white sectional looked like the perfect place to dig into a burger.After Garros, she reminded herself.