Page 14

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the hotel curtains, warming George’s face and coaxing him awake.

He blinked groggily, reaching for his phone on the bedside table.

What greeted him wasn’t the weather app or his usual sports news feed, but a headline plastered across social media: “ Myst Sparks Romance Rumours with Antoine Delacourt: Is This Paris’s Hottest New Couple? ”

Below it were photos of Myst and some bloke, tall, sleek, classically handsome, with a sharp suit and a sharper smirk.

They were seated on what looked like a talk show couch, leaning toward each other as they laughed.

Another photo showed him holding her hand as she stepped down from the stage, Myst flashing that bright smile George had somehow come to believe was only for him.

“Bloody hell,” George muttered, sitting up straighter.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably, though he tried to tell himself it was ridiculous.

It was just the tabloids doing what they always did, spinning stories out of nothing.

Still, the images stuck in his mind, needling at the insecurities he thought he’d buried.

“Morning,” came Myst’s voice from the doorway. She was already dressed, her hair swept into a loose braid. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat and setting the phone down screen-first. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Something wrong?” she asked, crossing the room with a concerned frown.

“Uh...” He hesitated, then sighed, picking up the phone again and turning it toward her. “This.”

Her expression darkened as she scanned the article. “Oh, for…!” She cut herself off, exhaling sharply through her nose. “That’s rubbish. Antoine was just being polite. He helped me off the stage, and suddenly we’re soulmates?”

“Didn’t say I believed it,” George muttered, beginning to feel foolish and wishing he hadn’t called her attention to the article.

“Good.” She leaned down to give him a smacking kiss, and one of those smiles, before turning back to the door. “I’ve put the coffee on.”

George leaned on the edge of the balcony railing, staring out at the Paris skyline.

The city sprawled before him in a haze of pale morning light and soft grey shadows, its beauty undeniable but strangely distant.

He turned the coffee cup in his hands, the ceramic warm against his palms, though the drink had long since gone cold.

Behind him, Myst moved around the suite, humming absently as she packed her bag for the day’s busy schedule.

“Hey,” he said finally, not turning around. His voice sounded rougher than he intended, like gravel scraping over asphalt.

“Mm?” Myst answered, distracted.

“Do you ever…” He stopped, frowning down at the rooftops below. “I dunno…do you ever feel like you don’t belong somewhere?”

That got her attention. Her footsteps softened as she crossed the room and came up behind him. He felt the gentle press of her hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. A small touch, just enough to anchor him.

“Where’d that come from?” she asked, her tone careful now, layered with curiosity and concern.

He exhaled slowly, setting the cup down on the railing.

“Your world, Myst. This whole thing.” He gestured vaguely toward the city, as if it represented every stage, every flashing camera, every whirlwind schedule he’d been swept into since they’d arrived.

“I mean, bloody hell, look at me. I’m just some bloke who plays rugby. What am I doing here?”

“George…” She moved to stand beside him, her pale blue eyes searching his face. “You’re not ‘just some bloke.’”

“Feels like it,” he muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck, the memory of that tabloid headline still gnawing at him. “I know what you said about Antoine and all that, it’s just tabloid nonsense, but...it’s more than that. Your life, your career… it’s huge. It’s glamorous. And I’m...not.”

Myst tilted her head, studying him, her expression a mix of frustration and tenderness.

“You think I’ve got it all figured out? That I wake up every day feeling like I belong in this so-called glamorous world?

” She laughed softly, but there was no humour in it.

“Half the time, I’m faking it just to keep up. ”

“Doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing,” George said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. “You’re like a bloody rockstar superhero out there.”

“Yeah?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “And you’re Captain Australia, leading your team onto the pitch like some kind of gladiator. You think that doesn’t intimidate me ?”

“Intimidate you?” He blinked, caught off guard.

“Of course!” she said, throwing her hands up.

“You’ve got this whole other world I’ll never fully understand.

Rugby’s more than just a sport to you; it’s.

..it’s part of who you are. And I see how much pressure you’re under, how everyone expects you to be perfect all the time.

Do you really think I fit into that world any better than you think you fit into mine? ”

George frowned, her words sinking in deeper than he wanted to admit. “Guess I never thought about it like that.”

“Well, maybe you should,” Myst said gently, placing a hand on his arm.

“Maybe,” he murmured.

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken doubts hanging thick in the air between them. George could hear the faint hum of traffic below, the distant shrill of a siren. For once, even Myst didn’t seem to have the right words to fill the quiet.

“Anyway,” she said eventually, her voice softer now, almost fragile. “I’ve got to get to soundcheck. We can talk more later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, though he wasn’t sure what else there was to say.

Later that evening, George stood near the back of Le Zénith, tucked into the shadows while the crowd pulsed and roared around him.

The stage lights burned bright, cutting through the dark haze of the arena, and there she was, hisMyst. A firecracker wrapped in glitter and velvet, commanding the stage like she was born for it.

Her voice soared, raw and electric, wrapping itself around every note. The audience couldn’t get enough of her, cheering and singing along like their lives depended on it. George watched, unable to tear his eyes away, pride swelling in his chest despite the ache that had taken root there earlier.

“Elle est incroyable!” someone nearby shouted over the music, clapping George on the back.

He nodded stiffly, managing a polite smile before turning his attention back to the stage.

Yeah, she was incredible. But watching her like this, from a distance, surrounded by thousands of strangers, only made him feel further removed, like he was staring at something he could never truly be part of.

When the final song ended, the crowd erupted into deafening applause, and Myst flashed them one last dazzling smile before slipping backstage.

George lingered near the wings, waiting as photographers and fans swarmed the area, all clamoring for her attention.

She handled it with practiced ease, laughing and posing like it was second nature.

“George!” Her voice cut through the din, and she appeared suddenly at his side, her face glowing with exhilaration, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. “Wasn’t that amazing?”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile as he pulled her into a brief hug. “You were brilliant out there.”

“Thanks,” she said, pulling back to beam at him. But then her expression shifted, her brows knitting together as she studied his face. “Hey...you okay? You seem...quiet.”

“Just tired,” he lied, shaking his head. “Long day, you know.”

“Right,” she said slowly, though he could tell she didn’t quite believe him.

“Come on,” she added after a pause, tugging lightly at his hand. “Let’s get out of here. I need to breathe.”

“Sure,” he said, following her reluctantly, though he couldn’t help but wonder: no matter how close they were, would he always feel this far away?

The bass from the party thumped through George’s chest as they stepped into the glittering ballroom, its crystal chandeliers throwing light across sleek black suits and shimmering evening gowns.

He adjusted the collar of his jacket, a loaner Myst’s stylist had thrown his way with a quick, “This’ll do” and tried not to feel like an overgrown kangaroo in a penguin suit.

“Just stick close,” Myst murmured under her breath, her hand slipping into his for a moment before she was whisked away by one of her team.

George stayed frozen in place for a beat, watching her navigate the crowd with effortless grace; laughing, shaking hands, leaning in conspiratorially with people who all seemed to talk far too quickly.

“Ah, Monsieur Delacourt!” someone exclaimed nearby, and George turned just in time to see a tall, rakish man stride into the room, his perfectly tailored suit looking like it cost more than George’s entire wardrobe.

The man’s gleaming white smile practically reflected the chandelier overhead.

Antoine Delacourt, George realized grimly; the French actor he’d seen plastered across tabloids next to Myst earlier that morning.

“Bloody brilliant,” George muttered under his breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. The universe clearly wasn’t pulling any punches tonight.

“Excuse me,” a sharply dressed woman interrupted, tapping him on the arm. “Could you fetch another bottle of champagne for the table? Over there.” She gestured vaguely toward a corner of the room.

“Uh…” George blinked, glancing down at her. “I don’t…” But she had already turned away, apparently assuming he’d comply.

“Bodyguard,” someone else said behind him, nodding approvingly. “That makes sense.”

“Fantastic,” George muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He caught Myst glancing his way, her pale blue eyes lighting up when they met his. She waved him over, but he shook his head once, pretending he hadn’t noticed. This wasn’t his world. It never would be.

“George!” Myst came over, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, but before he could react, Antoine Delacourt had appeared beside her, draping an arm loosely around her shoulders in a way that made George’s jaw clench.

“Ah, so zis is ze boyfriend you mentioned!” Antoine declared, his French accent slicing through the air like a butter knife. His gaze swept over George appraisingly, lingering on his broad shoulders. “You are… how you say… imposing, no?”

“Good to meet you,” George replied stiffly, forcing himself to extend a hand. Antoine ignored it, flashing Myst a grin instead.

“Zey love us together in ze papers, non?” Antoine teased, earning a laugh from Myst that sent a pang of something sharp through George’s chest.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Myst said lightly, though her fingers tightened subtly around the flute of champagne in her hand.

“Of course, of course,” Antoine replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Je plaisante! Only jokes!”

“Right,” George said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. Myst glanced at him again, concern flickering briefly across her face.

“Hey,” she murmured, stepping closer to him. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he grunted, though the word tasted bitter on his tongue. “Look, I think I’m gonna head back to the hotel. It’s been a long day.”

“George…” Myst hesitated, her brow furrowing. “Are you sure? We can leave if you want…”

“Stay,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “This is your night. Enjoy it.” He pressed a quick kiss to her temple and turned before she could say anything else, weaving through the crowd toward the exit. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses followed him out into the cool Parisian night.

Back at the hotel, George sat slouched on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the city lights outside the window. His tie hung loose around his neck, and the collar of the borrowed shirt felt suffocating despite being unbuttoned.

He rubbed his palms against his thighs, trying to work through the tangled mess of thoughts swirling in his head.

Was this what his life looked like now? Standing awkwardly in corners while Myst dazzled everyone around her?

Being mistaken for hired help or, worse, feeling like little more than a bystander in her story?

“Pull yourself together,” he muttered aloud, running a hand through his hair.

But the knot in his chest only tightened.

No matter how much he wanted to fit into her world, it felt like every step forward mirrored two steps back.

And worse, he couldn’t shake the ugly fear that eventually, she’d realize it too.

The soft click of the door startled him, and he turned to see Myst walking in, her heels dangling from one hand, her expression stormy.

“Why did you leave like that?” she demanded, shutting the door behind her with more force than necessary.

“Because I didn’t belong there,” George shot back before he could stop himself. He stood, towering over her, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she squared her shoulders and glared up at him.

“That’s ridiculous!” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice. “I’ve told you a hundred times, you don’t have to know everything about my world to…”

“To what, Myst?” George interrupted, his voice rising. “To stand there like some idiot while everyone talks circles around me? To watch blokes like Antoine wrap themselves around you and joke about headlines like it’s nothing?”

“Antoine doesn’t mean anything to me,” she snapped, her cheeks flushing pink. “And if you trusted me, you’d know that!”

“Trust isn’t the issue,” George countered, pacing away from her. “It’s…” He paused, struggling to find the words. “It’s your whole world. It’s too big, too fast! I don’t even know how to keep up. And honestly? I don’t think I ever will.”

“Do you think it’s easy for me to understand your world?“ Myst shot back, her voice cracking slightly. “Rugby culture? The pressure of leading a team? Do you think I’ve got it all figured out? Because I don’t, George. But I’m trying.”

“And maybe that’s the problem,” George said quietly, turning to look at her. “Maybe we’re both trying too hard to fit into something that doesn’t work.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, without another word, Myst turned on her heel and stormed into the adjoining bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

George stared after her, his heart pounding in his chest. He sank back onto the bed, letting his head fall into his hands.

“Bloody brilliant,” he muttered. For the first time since they’d arrived in Paris, he wasn’t sure they’d make it out of this city together.