Billionaire Proposal in Paris

The wheels slam against the runway with a jarring thud, and my whole body jolts against the seatbelt. My stomach does the same—half turbulence, half disbelief. Paris. I’m here.

I press my forehead against the cold oval of the airplane window. Raindrops streak the glass, blurring the gray morning outside until it looks like a watercolor painting someone forgot to “nish.

My chest is so tight it feels like I might be holding my breath.

“Paris,” I whisper, testing the word on my tongue. It feels dangerous, like I’m pretending to belong in a city that eats con”dence for breakfast.

I think back to the email that started this whole thing— “Congratulations, you’ve won an all-expenses-paid trip for inspiring con!dence and style.” I’d checked the sender a hundred times, waiting for a sign it was fake.

Who wins something like this? Not me, not the girl who learned to stretch thrift store !nds into blog-worthy “looks.” But now I’m here, my tote bag digging into my shoulder, my thighs sticking uncomfort‐ ably to the seat as we taxi.