Page 13

Chapter Seven

T he plane touched down smoothly on the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle, and George barely had time to take in the towering glass windows of the airport before Myst was whisked away.

A swarm of people awaited her just past customs, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony: her manager barking updates about interviews, a stylist waving a garment bag as though it held the answers to life itself, and Jessie with her ever-present clipboard rattling off times like she was conducting a military operation.

George stood slightly behind Myst, his duffel slung over one shoulder, feeling more like an afterthought than a boyfriend.

“George,” Myst said, turning back to him with an apologetic smile. Her pale blue eyes softened, even as her hands clutched the edge of the itinerary Jessie had just thrust into them. “I’m so sorry, love. They’re... intense.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, forcing a grin. “I’ll be fine. Go be brilliant.”

“Promise you’ll explore? Paris is magic if you let it be.” She squeezed his hand briefly before being pulled into the current of her team, disappearing like a speck of glitter caught in the sunlight.

George sighed, adjusting the strap of his bag. He’d meant what he said, he’d be fine, but standing there alone in one of the most romantic cities in the world while Myst was swept into her whirlwind of fame left him feeling oddly untethered. Still, he wasn’t going to waste the chance to see Paris.

By mid-afternoon, George had checked off more landmarks than he thought possible for one day.

The Eiffel Tower stood regal and unbothered against the grey winter sky, but as George stared up at its intricate iron lattice, he felt.

.. small. Without Myst beside him, the city’s famed romance fell flat.

He wandered along the Seine next, snapping photos he wasn’t sure he’d ever look at again. Couples strolled by arm-in-arm, laughing as though they’d stepped straight out of a postcard. George shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, feeling like an outsider peering through a frosted window.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath. “Paris, magic, all that.”

The next day, George arrived at Le Zénith Paris early, stepping into the vast auditorium with its high ceilings and rows upon rows of empty seats. Myst’s voice, warm and electric, echoed through the space as she rehearsed on stage. George leaned against the sound booth, arms folded, watching her.

She was incredible. There wasn’t a better word for it.

Myst commanded the stage like it was an extension of herself, her voice soaring effortlessly above the quiet strums of her band.

Even without an audience, she shone, her energy palpable from where George stood.

He couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride, and maybe something deeper, as he watched her move from one song to the next.

“Again, Myst,” called her manager from the front row, cutting through the applause of the band. “You’re dragging the tempo on the bridge. It needs to be tighter.”

“Her phrasing’s off too,” chimed in someone George didn’t recognize, a wiry man with a clipboard who looked like he hadn’t slept in years. “Myst, can you try bringing more energy into ‘Wildfire’? It feels flat.”

“Flat?” Myst repeated, her voice laced with exhaustion, though she hid it well. “Okay, sure. I’ll give it another go.”

George frowned, his admiration warring with concern. He knew Myst was used to this level of scrutiny, but even he could hear how sharp and vibrant her performance already was. Yet she nodded without complaint, flipping the mic in her hand and diving back into the song as though nothing phased her.

“Excusez-moi?” came a voice from George’s right. He turned to find the venue manager, stocky, balding, with a clipboard tucked under one arm, studying him skeptically.

“Je ne parle pas francais,” George said apologetically, about the only words he knew in French, but the man cut him off with a wave of his hand and switched smoothly to English.

“No problem. We’ve got some VIPs coming in later; make sure security’s tight near the green rooms.”

“Security?” George blinked, confused for half a second before realization dawned. “Oh, no, I’m not…”

“Thanks,” the man interrupted, clapping George on the shoulder before walking off.

“Brilliant,” George muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Now they think I’m her bodyguard!” He glanced toward the stage, where Myst was powering through yet another round of critiques, her determination unyielding despite the strain etched into her posture.

For the first time since they’d landed in Paris, George wondered if he truly understood what being part of her world meant. Magic, Myst had called Paris. But right now, it just felt complicated.

The Seine shimmered under the golden glow of streetlamps, its rippling surface reflecting the lights of Paris in an ever-shifting dance.

George walked beside Myst, their steps falling into an easy rhythm on the cobblestone path.

The air was crisp but not biting, and her hand felt small yet warm in his as she leaned lightly against his arm.

“See? Magic,” she said softly, glancing up at him with a smile that tugged at the corners of her pale blue eyes. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the light like silk as they passed beneath another lamp.

“Alright, I’ll give you this one,” George replied. “It’s got a bit more charm than Brisbane River.”

“‘A bit’?” Myst gasped in mock indignation, halting mid-step and pulling him to face her. “George Dennis, are you comparing this, “ she gestured dramatically at the river, the skyline, the distant silhouette of Notre-Dame, “to... what? Muddy waters and mangroves back home?”

“Hey now, don’t knock the mangroves,” he countered with a grin. “Plenty of romance in dodging mozzies and watching mud crabs scuttle about.”

She laughed, a sound like wind chimes caught in a breeze, and it made something deep in his chest ache in the best way. He wanted to keep that laugh close, bottle it somehow for the moments when her world felt too far from his.

“Fine,” she relented, tugging on his arm to continue their stroll. “But Paris still wins.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, though he couldn’t disagree. Not with her here, wearing that soft black coat that flared slightly at her waist, the edges brushing against his leg every so often. Not with the way Paris seemed to bend itself around her, as if even the city knew how extraordinary she was.

They found a tiny café tucked away on a quiet side street, its entrance framed by flickering fairy lights.

Inside, the space was cosy and intimate, the walls lined with shelves of dusty books and old records.

A waiter greeted them with a knowing smile—one glance at Myst and he had clearly recognised her—but thankfully, he said nothing.

Whether it was professionalism or Parisian indifference, George didn’t care; he was just relieved they weren’t being swarmed by cameras or fans.

“Deux cafés et... oh!” Myst paused, scanning the menu with a furrowed brow before pointing to something. “Crème br?lée. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“Do I have a choice?” George teased, settling into the chair across from her.

“Not really.” She smirked, folding her arms on the table and leaning forward. The candlelight between them cast shadows that softened the tired lines he’d noticed earlier in the day. “I’m making it my mission to broaden your horizons.”

“Ambitious,” he said, lifting a brow. “What’s next? Teaching me how to sing?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh, absolutely. Can you imagine? My next album featuring George Dennis on backup vocals.”

“Yeah, no chance.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’d clear the room faster than a fire alarm.”

“Don’t sell yourself short! You’ve got the rugged athlete vibe, it could work. Like... rugby rock ballads.” She mimicked strumming an invisible guitar, her playfulness infectious.

“Right. And what would we call this groundbreaking genre?”

“Ruck and Roll, obviously .“ She grinned so wide he couldn’t help but laugh out loud, the sound echoing off the café‘s low ceiling.

For a moment, everything else fell away, the chaos of her schedule, the weight of his own insecurities, and it was just them, two Aussies sharing a joke halfway across the world.

But then her phone buzzed, shattering the bubble.

Myst’s smile faltered as she pulled it from her pocket, glancing at the screen.

Even in the dim light, George could see the tension creep into her shoulders as her thumb hovered over the screen.

Three missed calls. Five unread messages. Her jaw tightened.

“Ignore it,” he said quietly, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. “This is our night.”

She hesitated, then nodded, turning the phone facedown on the table. But the shadow didn’t leave her expression, and George hated that he couldn’t do more to take it away.

“Sorry,” she murmured after a beat, her voice softer now. “I know things have been... overwhelming.”

“Hey,” he said firmly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I get it. Really. You’re doing what you love, and I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”

Her eyes searched his, as if trying to gauge whether he meant it. He did, but part of him wondered if she could see the cracks forming beneath the surface; if she could sense just how out of place he sometimes felt in her glittering, fast-moving world.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her lips curving into a faint, grateful smile. Then, as if determined to lighten the mood, she added, “But I’m serious about the rugby rock thing. We’ll start rehearsals next week.”

“Not a chance,” he shot back, but his grin betrayed him.