My boy / Drew Starkey

45

Paris 

The stolen moments on set became their lifeline.

It started with fleeting glances between takes, fingers brushing when no one was looking, a kiss stolen in the dimly lit corner of a soundstage, the echo of their breathing louder than the hum of the equipment around them. It was thrilling, intoxicating, the kind of romance that didn't belong to the script but was unfolding in the quiet spaces between scenes.

Between call times and camera setups, they found ways to be alone. Some nights, when the exhaustion of pretending became too much, Mila would slip away to Drew's apartment, or he would find himself in hers, their bodies seeking each other out in the dark. They never spoke about what it meant—at least, not yet. It was easier to exist in the now, in the warmth of their tangled limbs under linen sheets, in the quiet sighs and whispered names against each other's skin.

And then he took her to Paris.

The invitation wasn't really an invitation at all—it was a text, short and cryptic.

Pack a bag. Trust me.

She tried prying for details, but Drew refused to tell her where they were going, only grinning in that maddening way of his as he dragged her through a private airport terminal. It wasn't until they boarded his jet that she realized what was happening.

Paris.

Her city. The place where she was born.

She turned to him, eyes wide, lips parting in shock. "Drew..."

"I know," he murmured, squeezing her hand. "I wanted to take you somewhere that feels like home."

The flight was a blur of champagne and quiet laughter, of Drew's fingers tracing idle circles on her thigh as they shared a plate of macarons. Every so often, she would catch him looking at her—not with the kind of casual affection he had in front of cameras, but with something deeper, something real.

When they landed, the night had settled over the city, blanketing it in golden lights and the hum of possibility. They were greeted by a chauffeur standing beside a sleek Rolls-Royce, the car's polished surface gleaming under the airport lights. Their security trailed behind them in a Range Rover, blending seamlessly into the Parisian night.

Mila couldn't stop staring out the window as they drove through the familiar streets. The city had never looked more beautiful. Maybe it was the way the Eiffel Tower shimmered against the dark sky, or maybe it was the way Drew's fingers found hers, lacing them together in the space between them.

They pulled up in front of the Ritz Paris, the entrance glowing with an old-world elegance that felt untouched by time. And then the concierge led them to their suite.

The Suite Impériale.

Mila had only heard about it, read about it in glossy magazines. Now, she was stepping inside, her breath catching at the sheer opulence—the gilded moldings, the towering ceilings, the antique chandeliers casting warm, golden light across the velvet furnishings. The suite was an homage to French royalty, a place meant for kings and queens.

She turned in slow circles, taking it all in. "Drew, this is..."

"Perfect," he finished for her, watching her reaction. "You deserve perfect."

He didn't give her time to argue. He just walked toward her, his hands finding her waist as he pulled her into him. His lips brushed against hers, slow, reverent, as if he were trying to memorize the moment.

Paris had always been a dream. But standing here, wrapped in his arms, she realized this was what she had been dreaming of all along.