The first few days in Paris were an absolute daydream. We spent long afternoons walking: Margot, Gigi, and I, laughing in the sunlight, exploring the old palace gardens, skipping rocks in the large park to the west, and dining on extravagant meals. “You’re going to make me gain fifteen pounds, easy,” Margot joked, saying she was bursting at the seams. Gigi fell into Parisian life quickly, picking up a few neighborhood friends at the playground. Her French took off like a sprint; her accent was even better than mine after day five. If I forced myself to stay on the surface, not thinking too much about what I was actually doing, I could convince myself this was the happiest I’d ever been.

Of course, the emails started coming in from the custody lawyer the moment I didn’t arrive to the meeting. We were six hours ahead, eating dinner, and my phone buzzed. It was a message from another time. He informed Kelsey rather quickly, who then began to ring me as well. I turned off the phone, feeling the eagle eyes of Margot. She knew what was happening. She knew I needed to figure it out, alone.

But instead, I threw myself further into this life. I purchased a baby grand piano for Gigi and hired a piano instructor. I spent sunny afternoons watching her practice, her little fingers tracing across the keys. Margot would read beside me, or go for a walk through the city alone. We’d fallen into this sun-drenched routine, colored with twinkling keys and long looks into one another’s eyes.

After one particularly long walk, Margot appeared back in the apartment, her cheeks red-blotched. She was gasping, her chest rising and falling like a rabbit’s. When I asked her what was wrong, she shook her head, her forehead wrinkling tightly. “Not in front of Gigi,” she whispered.

A few minutes later, Gigi scampered off, taking refuge in her room, with her army of dolls. I sat at the edge of the couch, waiting. Margot slipped a newspaper from her satchel and draped it on the floor between us. There, I saw my own photograph. I was walking, hand in hand with Gigi, along the Seine River. Margot was behind us, adjusting her sunglasses. Beneath the photo in French was written: “MOVIE STAR KIDNAPS CHILD, BROUGHT TO PARIS. MOTHER IN TEARS.”

“Shit,” I whispered. “Kidnapped? What a fucking dramatic word to use. Who is she kidding?”

Margot sighed. “I knew I needed to tell you the minute I saw it. Real life caught up to us, it seems.”

“We had a pretty good run, there.”

We paused. The silence was heavy, filled with a strange mix of desire and heartache and fear. I flipped the newspaper, reading more. Kelsey was wrapping her movie early in Los Angeles and had a top-notch lawyer ready to take me down. She was quoted as calling me a “bastard,” saying that I didn’t have Gigi’s best interests at heart. “He parties, non-stop. I can only imagine what he’s doing in Paris. And who is that mystery woman?”

The newspaper went on to speculate about the “mystery woman,” Margot. It described her, in detail. (I was grateful she couldn’t read French, and she didn’t dare ask.) The writer called her young and sheepish, with large, animal eyes, and an “appropriate” body type for a celebrity of my caliber. They speculated that she might be some kind of babysitter for Gigi, allowing me to live a hedonistic lifestyle. But they also affirmed it was probable that I was sleeping with her.

Shit.

“I’m sure it’s all over the American papers, as well,” Margot said, her head looking heavy. “What are you going to do?”

I stood and paced the room. My head began a sudden hamerring. Pointing toward Gigi’s bedroom, I asked, “Do you think you could take her outside? She hasn’t had a chance to run around today. I don’t want to have to deal with the consequences later.”

Margot nodded. After a brief, fearful look, she went to Gigi’s bedroom and told her, “We’re heading to the park in five minutes. Pack up, kiddo!”

Once the girls were gone, I poured myself a stiff whiskey. Sipping it evenly, I leaned against the doorframe of the terrace and rang up Marcus. He would be the consistent voice of reason in all of this. The man who’d never led me astray.

“Yo, man. I was actually expecting your call,” Marcus said, his voice booming. “I saw the papers. Everything all right out there?”

“Everything’s wonderful,” I said, answering honestly. “I can frankly say I’ve never been happier in my life.”

“So you’re getting with the babysitter?” Marcus laughed. I could almost picture him, seated on Wall Street with his feet up on the desk. A cigar in his mouth, for good measure.

“No. Nothing like that,” I said. I paused, wondering if it was possible to translate what “pleasure” meant, here. It meant long walks and simmering conversations and laughing with Gigi. It didn’t mean what it meant back home, in New York. “I just need to find a way to stay as long as I can. To get Kelsey off my back.”

“You wanted a beautiful life for yourself, and you built it,” Marcus affirmed. “But you see the pieces crumbling down.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I began, knowing I was flirting with disaster. “About marrying Mar—the babysitter.”

“I’m telling you man, it’s a straight ticket to getting out of this one,” Marcus said. “First off, it’ll make your ex-wife wild with jealousy. It’ll make everyone think she’s just accusing you of things because of jealousy. That takes care of that. Second off, it’ll prove that you went to Paris for a very unique, spontaneous reason. You wanted to marry your bride in secret, with your daughter present. Nobody could fault you there.”

“I could say I was just so lost in love…” I trailed off.

“That you weren’t thinking clearly. Fuck yes, my man,” Marcus said. “Although stepping off the bases and basically retiring your life out in Paris doesn’t sound like a dream to me, I got to respect it. You do sound pretty fucking calm.”

“So now I just have to convince her to marry me,” I said, laughing. The whiskey was swirling in my head. “Should be simple. Right?”

“Dude, have you forgotten who you are?” Marcus asked me. “You’re Jack Garrington. Any woman would say yes to you, no matter what. Even if you swore, over your mother’s grave, that you’d never love them. They’d be a fool not to agree to it.”

Never love them. Was I really so cold that I’d marry someone I couldn’t love? I hesitated, trying to fight my way out of the conversation. “I’ll give it a think over,” I said. “Thanks, Marcus. Really.”

“Let me know when you want me to swing out and celebrate your bachelor party,” he said, cackling. “I know of a few French strip clubs I frequented on a recent trip. I’ll send you back into marital bliss with a few stories up your sleeves.”

As if that was what I needed. I hung up the phone, simmering. I sat at the piano, bringing my fingers over the keys—finding chords, tracing old songs I used to know. When I heard Margot and Gigi on the steps outside the door, I froze. Gigi raced toward me, leaping onto my lap and hammering her hands on the keys, without rhyme or reason. Without thinking, I began to chortle with laughter.

“Daddy, you’re horrible at this,” Gigi said, laughing. “Maybe we should get you some lessons.”

Slipping myself out from beneath her, I left Gigi hammering. I turned to Margot, whose cheeks were pink and bright. Her hair, windswept, was shoved behind her ears. She seemed to glow. My breath caught in my throat. Everything in me told me not to do this.

“Can I talk to you out on the terrace?” I asked. “Alone?”

“Of course.” She followed, her head lowered. She shoved her hands in her pockets, as if she were expecting some kind of rebuff. The moment the door closed behind us, she started. “Listen, I’m really sorry if any of this is my fault. I tried so hard not to talk to anyone who looked suspicious and God knows I hid from every camera I could see. I didn’t want my picture in the paper any more than you did…”