Chapter 200

SAMUEL POV

Paris welcomed me with a cold, brilliant embrace.

The plane landed at Charles de Gaulle on a gray autumn morning, the sky heavy with low clouds that seemed to perfectly mirror what I felt inside. I descended the aircraft stairs with my backpack over my shoulder and my guitar in its case, and the European air — humid, filled with the smell of fresh bread and exhaust — hit me like a reality I still wasn’t ready to accept. John, Mike, and Peter came right behind me, laughing loudly, excited, as if the entire world was a stage waiting for us. I tried to smile. I tried to pretend I was there with body and soul. But part of me had stayed behind in Chicago. With her.

A woman was waiting for us at arrivals. Élise Moreau. Tall, elegant, with wavy brown hair that fell over her shoulders as if it had a life of its own. Penetrating green eyes and a professional smile with a touch of genuine warmth. She was the label’s representative, fluent in English with a French accent that made every word sound musical.

“Bienvenue à Paris, The Wild Ones,” she said, shaking our hands firmly. “You’re going to love this city. It has soul. And you… you have fire. We’re going to do something great together.”

She took us to explore the city that same day. The car glided through narrow streets, past the Seine, the Eiffel Tower rising like an iron giant against the sky, cafés full of people talking loudly, boulevards steeped in history. Élise spoke nonstop — about the history of French music, legendary studios, and how Paris transforms artists. I listened, but my mind wandered. Every bridge, every corner, every light reflecting on the river made me think of Lily. How she would have loved seeing this. How I wished I was holding her hand there, in the middle of a city that seemed made for lovers.

The next day, we went to the studio. Monsieur Laurent Duval was waiting for us. A man in his fifties, with a neatly trimmed gray beard and sharp eyes behind round glasses. He was one of the most respected producers in Europe, known for turning raw bands into something the whole world would listen to. The studio was modern but had an old soul — exposed brick walls, state-of-the-art equipment mixed with vintage guitars hanging like trophies.

“You didn’t come here to do what you already know,” he said, his deep voice carrying a strong accent. “You came to reinvent yourselves. American music is direct. Here, we breathe. We feel. We’re going to turn what you have into something eternal.”

The pace was intense. Different from anything we knew back in the United States. There, we recorded fast, under pressure of time and money. Here, Laurent made us repeat the same vocal line dozens of times until the feeling was perfect. He changed arrangements mid-recording, asked for layers of guitar, piano, and strings I never imagined we could have. It was exhausting. It was magical. And I liked it. Because while I was inside that studio, lost in layers of sound, I had little time to think about her.

But the days off… the days off were hell.

The label gave us free days to “adventure through Europe,” as Élise would say with a smile. And I adventured. I went to Rome, Barcelona, Amsterdam. I walked through ancient streets, ate in crowded squares, visited monuments that seemed taken from dreams. But everywhere, at every moment, I only thought about Lily.

In Prague, sitting by the Vltava River, I wrote a letter I never sent:

“Lily,

If you were here, I would show you this city as if it were ours. I would kiss you on Charles Bridge at sunset. I would tell you that I miss you like I miss air. But I know I can’t. I know I hurt you. And I hate myself for it every single day.”

In Barcelona, I bought a postcard with the Sagrada Família and wrote on the back:

“I wish you could see this. I wish you were here, singing with me in the streets. I wish I could tell you I love you without destroying everything.”

I kept all the letters and postcards in a box at the bottom of my suitcase. I never sent any of them. It was my way of keeping her alive inside me without destroying what was left of my life.

I would return to Paris and dive back into work. The songs came out different. Deeper. Rawer. Laurent said I was finding my true voice. I knew I was finding true pain. And that’s how the band’s first album was born: Midnight Districts. A record about endless nights, empty streets, and loves that couldn’t be lived. Every lyric was about her. Every melody carried the echo of her voice singing at the Gallery Cabaret.

At Christmas, Laurent invited us to his home, an elegant apartment in the Marais. The living room was filled with candles, red wine, cheeses, and laughter. Peter and Mike came with me. John said he would arrive later. We played some new songs on the guitar, laughed, and drank. It was almost good.

Then John arrived. With Emily.

She entered the room like a breath of Chicago — brown hair, lively eyes, the smile I knew so well. My heart skipped a beat. Emily. Lily’s best friend. The one who knew everything.

We greeted each other with a brief hug. She was evasive. She avoided looking me in the eye for more than two seconds. She talked about Paris, the trip, the European cold. But she never mentioned Lily. And I understood perfectly. In her eyes — fed by Lily — I was the biggest asshole who ever existed. And she was right.

I chose not to ask either. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to hear that Lily was doing well, that she was moving on, that she had forgotten me. It hurt less to pretend she didn’t exist.

Emily stayed a few days with the band. We took her around, showed her the studio, played new songs for her. She smiled, applauded, but there was a distance. An invisible barrier.

At the end of her trip, when we said goodbye at the airport, Emily pulled me aside. Her eyes were serious, almost sad.

“Samuel… you should call home. Call Lily.”

I stood there, chest tight. She didn’t wait for a response. She turned and left, disappearing into the crowd.

I returned to the empty apartment, heart heavy. I took out my phone. I stared at her number. For a moment, I imagined calling. Imagining hearing her voice. Telling her I missed her. Telling her I was a father. Telling her I loved her.

But I didn’t call.

There was the agreement with Samantha. If I broke it, it would be very bad. For everyone. Even for Lily, who would never forgive me.

I put the phone away, stared at the city through the window, and wondered if I would ever be able to fix what I had broken.

SAMUEL POV

Time passed like a runaway train — too fast at some moments, painfully slow at others.

New Year’s arrived while we were in Berlin. The city exploded with fireworks, the sky lit up in vibrant colors, and the crowd sang and drank in the streets. We were on the rooftop of an old building, invited by a local producer, champagne glasses in hand. John, Mike, and Peter laughed loudly, toasting to the success of the album Midnight Districts, which had started gaining traction in Europe. I smiled. I toasted. I pretended to be happy.

But inside, I was only thinking about her.

Lily.

Always Lily.

I wondered what she was doing at that exact moment. If she was looking at the Chicago sky, if she was thinking about me, if she was okay. If she hated me as much as I deserved. The champagne tasted bitter going down my throat. I stepped away from the group, walked to the edge of the terrace, and stood looking at the illuminated city, the cold wind hitting my face. I took my phone out of my pocket, opened the gallery, and looked at the few photos I still had of her — a blurry selfie at Navy Pier, another of her singing at the Gallery Cabaret. I kept those images like relics. As proof that, at some point, all of it had been real.

The tour started soon after. All over Europe. Amsterdam, Brussels, Madrid, Rome, Vienna. Planes, hotels, stages, interviews, fans screaming our name. The life I had always dreamed of. The life I had sacrificed everything for. And that now felt empty.

During the shows, I lost myself in the music. I sang with a torn soul, the lyrics I had written thinking of her coming to life on stage. The crowds applauded, sang along, asked for encores. After the show, the adrenaline lasted for hours. But when I returned to the hotel room, silence swallowed me. I would lie on the bed, stare at the ceiling, and see her face. The way she smiled. The way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t watching. The way she cried by the lake when I said those horrible things.

The tour ended in Paris at the end of winter. The final show was in a packed venue, the audience singing every song. When we left the stage, producer Laurent hugged us, saying the album was an unexpected success. We toasted backstage. We laughed. We celebrated.

But when I returned to the hotel, exhaustion hit me like a punch. I entered the room, took off my jacket, and threw myself on the bed still fully dressed. The white ceiling spun slightly. I closed my eyes, feeling the tiredness of months of travel, shows, and pretending I was whole.

The phone rang.

I looked at the screen. Unknown number, but the area code was from the United States. My heart leaped. For a second, I thought it could be her. Lily.

I sat up in bed, my whole body tense. I answered.

“What is it, Samantha?”

There was a second of silence. A second that felt like an eternity.

Then she said, her voice low, almost solemn:

“Hello, Samuel… I’m calling to tell you that you are now a father.”

The world stopped.

I stood motionless, the phone pressed to my ear, my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my throat. The words echoed in my head like a gunshot.

You are now a father.

Father.

Me.

Of a child.

Of Lily’s.

Because it could only be hers. I knew it. Deep down, I had always known that if this ever happened, it would be with her.

“Samantha…” my voice came out hoarse, almost unrecognizable. “What are you saying?”

Then Samantha began telling me about the past few months, about parts of my life that had happened without me.

I got up from the bed, legs trembling. I walked to the window, looking at the lights of Paris below, but seeing nothing. The whole world felt distant, as if I were floating outside my own body.

“Why… why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked, my voice breaking.

“I was trying to protect you all. Protect the band. Protect the future. But now… now you needed to know.”

I closed my eyes. Hot tears ran down my face. I was a father.

“How is she?” I asked, my voice choked. “How is she handling this?”

Samantha hesitated.

“She’s strong. Stronger than I imagined. But she needs you, Samuel. Now more than ever.”

I leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor, the phone still pressed to my ear. The tears fell uncontrollably.

I was a father.

The American Consulate in Paris was an imposing, cold, and bureaucratic building, with flags waving outside as if to remind everyone that even here, we were still under the rules of another country. I sat in a chair in the waiting room, the thick envelope on my knees, my sweaty hands holding it as if it were a bomb that could explode at any moment. The air smelled of old paper, bad coffee, and the anxiety of dozens of people waiting their turn. My heart was beating hard and irregularly, as if it knew this was the point of no return.

I stared at the envelope and thought about the past few days. Everything had happened so fast that it still felt like a dream — or a nightmare — I couldn’t wake up from.

The next day, I told the band. We were in the studio, finishing the final adjustments to the album. John, Mike, and Peter looked at me as if I had lost my mind. I told them everything — the pregnancy, the secret, the fear, the guilt. Mike stayed silent. Peter ran his hand through his hair, muttering “fuck, man.” John was the only one who approached, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Did you know?” I asked him, my voice hoarse. “Did Emily tell you anything?”

John shook his head, his eyes honest.

“No. Emily never said anything about this. I swear, Samuel. If I had known, I would have told you.”

I nodded, believing him. John pulled me aside, away from the others.

“How do you feel about all this?”

I let out a bitter, humorless laugh.

“I’m a father, man. A father. And I don’t even know my daughter.”

John hugged me. A strong, brotherly hug.

“You’ll figure it out. You always do. But first, take care of yourself. Then take care of them.”

I nodded, but inside I felt completely lost.

Samantha called every day. Her voice was controlled and practical, as always. She updated me about the baby. In one of the calls, she was direct:

“Samuel, you need to go to the American Consulate in Paris. You have to fill out and sign the DS-3053 form. It’s the document that authorizes the baby to travel to Paris.”

I had done my research. I knew I needed to prove paternity.

“I know. I need the birth certificate and the DNA test…”

“It’s already being taken care of,” she said. “The birth certificate is on its way. You just need to take it to the consulate.”

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything.

“Okay. I’ll go.”

And now here I was. Sitting in the consulate waiting room, the thick envelope on my knees. I opened it with trembling hands. Inside were documents, forms, and the birth certificate.

I took the paper out carefully.

There it was.

Faith Brown.

I stared at the name for a long time. Faith. A name that carried hope amid the chaos I had created. I felt my chest tighten. A daughter. My daughter.

I understood the gravity of what I was doing. I was taking responsibility. I was bringing my daughter — and her mother — to Paris. To me. To a life I still wasn’t sure I deserved. But I was going to try. I was going to make it right. Even if it hurt. Even if Lily hated me. Even if the whole world judged me.

“Samuel Brown?” a voice called.

I stood up, the envelope clutched tightly against my chest.

It was my turn.

And I knew that from that moment on, nothing would ever be the same again.

SAMUEL POV

Four months had passed since I walked into that consulate in Paris with the trembling envelope in my hands.

Four months that felt like both an eternity and the blink of an eye. I threw myself into the band as if my life depended on it — and in a way, it did. Midnight Districts had gained traction in Europe. Sold-out shows, interviews, studio sessions that lasted until dawn. Laurent Duval pushed us to the limit, demanding more depth, more emotion, more truth. I gave everything. I wrote lyrics until my fingers hurt. I sang as if I were bleeding on stage. Because while I was lost in the music, I could, for a few hours, stop thinking about the future that was about to change.

But at night, when the silence of the apartment swallowed me, the thoughts returned. I imagined what the reunion would be like. What it would be like to see the baby for the first time. To feel the small, warm weight in my arms. To look into those little eyes and promise that I would be a better father than I had been as a man.

I prepared for it every day. I bought things for the room I was setting up in the apartment — a simple crib, neutral baby clothes, a teddy bear I thought she might like. I wanted to give them a good life in Paris. A future. Stability. I wanted to fix what I had broken.

The day finally came.

I was at Charles de Gaulle Airport, my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my throat. In my right hand, a light bouquet of lavender roses. In my left, a small teddy bear with a pink ribbon. I paced back and forth in the arrivals area, eyes fixed on the arrivals board. The flight from the United States had landed twenty minutes ago. Any moment now, they would appear.

I imagined the moment. The baby in her mother’s arms. Me running to them, hugging both. Saying I was sorry. Saying I loved them. Saying I would spend the rest of my life making everything right.

Passengers started coming out. I stretched my neck, searching. My heart raced with every woman who passed carrying a child.

Then I saw her.

A familiar figure, with her back to me, trying to adjust a baby in her arms. Shiny blonde hair under the airport lights. She looked exhausted from the trip but still managed to maintain an elegant posture. The baby was wrapped in a soft blanket, her little face hidden against her chest.

My heart leaped. It was her. Them.

I walked toward her, the bouquet trembling in my hand, the teddy bear pressed against my chest. The airport seemed to disappear around me. Only that moment existed.

“Hello,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion.

The young blonde woman turned around.

And the world stopped.

Ashley.

Not Lily.

It was Ashley Cooper holding our daughter in her arms.