Chapter 1: New State
Paris’s POV
The alarm went off before the sun had fully decided to rise.
RING. RING. RING.
I hated that sound with my whole heart. I reached for the clock without opening my eyes, slapped the top of it, and accidentally hit snooze instead of turning it off. For five beautiful minutes, the room became quiet again. I was already slipping back into sleep when it screamed at me a second time.
RING. RING. RING.
Paris: “Ugh, I heard you the first time.”
From the other side of the bedroom door, Dad’s voice came like a warning bell.
Dad: “Kids, wake up! We have a morning train to catch. Paris, Hope, don’t make me come in there.”
I buried my face into the pillow for one more second. Then the reason for the alarm finally hit me. We were leaving Bologna today. Not for a vacation. Not for a weekend. We were leaving because Dad had lost his job, because his boss had betrayed him, and because threatening to expose a powerful man had cost him everything.
That was how people like us were punished. Rich men protected their reputations. Middle-class families packed their lives into suitcases.
I sat up slowly. The room was half-empty already, the walls naked where our old photos used to hang. Cardboard boxes were stacked near the door. Hope’s side of the room looked like a storm had passed through it, which was normal. My side looked perfect, which was also normal, because I needed at least one thing in my life to stay under control.
I got out of bed and opened the curtains. Bologna looked quiet outside, as if the city did not care that my whole life was about to change. I stood there for a moment, letting myself feel sad. Then I forced it away. Dad and Hope needed me smiling today. I was the eldest daughter. That meant I could cry later.
After brushing my teeth, fixing my hair, and spraying enough perfume to make myself feel alive again, I went to wake Hope. She was tangled in her blanket, one arm hanging off the bed, her phone still in her hand.
Paris: “Hope, wake up. We have to go.”
Hope: “Five more minutes.”
Paris: “That’s what I said. It did not work.”
Hope groaned dramatically and pulled the blanket over her head.
Hope: “Tell Dad I died peacefully.”
Paris: “If you don’t get up, I am packing your volleyball shoes in the kitchen box.”
Hope shot upright like I had insulted her soul.
Hope: “You wouldn’t dare.”
Paris: “Try me.”
That worked. While she dragged herself to the bathroom, I went to the kitchen. Dad was already there, making breakfast even though we were late and even though he had more right than anyone to fall apart. He had always been like that. When Mom died, he learned how to be two parents in one body. He cooked, cleaned, worked, attended school events, remembered birthdays, and still somehow found time to ask if we were okay.
Our family had only three people now: Dad, Hope, and me. Sometimes the emptiness where Mom should have been felt like a fourth person sitting quietly at the table.
Mom passed away when I was nine and Hope was four. Cancer took her before we even understood how sick she was. She hated hospitals and ignored pain until the doctors could only speak in soft voices. I still remembered Dad’s face on the day she left us. It was the first time I understood that adults could break too.
Dad placed toast and eggs on the table.
Dad: “Eat quickly. We still need to check the tickets.”
Paris: “You made too much again.”
Dad: “Moving requires energy. Also, your sister gets dangerous when hungry.”
Hope, entering the kitchen with wet hair and one sock on, pointed at him.
Hope: “That is family slander.”
Dad smiled. It was tired, but it was real, and that made the morning easier.
I should probably introduce myself properly before everything becomes messy. My name is Paris Morgan. I am twenty-four years old, a struggling model, bisexual, and currently trying not to panic about starting over in another city. I have long ginger-brown hair, hazel eyes, light skin, and lips my best friend says I should be grateful for. I don’t want to brag, but I am gorgeous. There. I said it. Confidence is free, and right now free things are my favorite.
Hope is nineteen, stubborn, and somehow both my baby sister and my biggest headache. She studies sports science and lives for volleyball. Joshua, her boyfriend, is also a model and has been in her life for two years. I like him, mostly. He is sweet, respectful, and makes Hope laugh. The only problem is that he visits whenever he gets free time and then takes over our computer like he pays rent.
Still, I was glad he lived in Verona. Hope had been doing long distance with him, and now she would have one familiar person waiting for her in a city that still felt like a question mark.
Verona was Dad’s hometown. He had left it when he married Mom because her parents were ill and she refused to move away from them. That was the kind of love I grew up seeing. Not perfect, not easy, but loyal. Dad gave up his house, his job opportunities, and the life he knew because Mom needed him. I used to think love like that existed everywhere. Growing up taught me it was rare.
We ate breakfast too fast, talking with our mouths full while Dad pretended to scold us. Then we checked the rooms one last time. My chest tightened when I saw the empty marks on the wall where our family photos had been. I ran my fingers over one pale square of paint and whispered goodbye to the room that had watched me grow up.
The taxi arrived outside. Dad carried the heavy bags before I could argue. Hope hugged the doorframe like the house might hug her back.
Hope: “This feels weird.”
Paris: “I know.”
Hope: “What if Verona hates us?”
Paris: “Then Verona has terrible taste.”
She laughed, and I was glad. Making Hope laugh had become one of my silent jobs after Mom died.
The train ride took two hours. Bologna faded behind us, and Verona waited ahead, beautiful and old, with terracotta rooftops, pale stone buildings, narrow streets, and the kind of river view that looked like it belonged on a postcard. It should have felt romantic. Instead, it felt intimidating. I watched the city through the window and wondered if it would accept us, or if we would always feel like visitors in our own second chance.
Our new house had three bedrooms, which was the first good surprise of the day. No more sharing with Hope. No more waking up to Joshua on video call or Hope yelling at a volleyball match replay. The house was smaller than our old memories but big enough for us to breathe.
Dad looked around the living room with a quiet expression.
Dad: “It’s not much yet.”
Paris: “It’s home if we are here.”
He turned away quickly, but I saw the emotion in his eyes. Dad had lost a job, not his pride. I wanted him to remember that.
We spent the afternoon unpacking the basics. Hope claimed the bedroom with the better window. I let her have it because I am generous and also because I was too tired to fight. By evening, our suitcases were open, the kitchen had plates, and Dad had already started making dinner like our life had not just been pulled apart and stitched back together.
When I finally stood alone in my new room, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I had to restart my modeling career here. I had to find a new agency, prove myself again, and help my family without making Dad feel like a burden. I had to become successful, not someday, but soon.
Paris: “New city, new agency, new life. No pressure.”
My reflection looked unconvinced.
I laughed softly, then unpacked my favorite jacket and hung it in the closet. Tomorrow, I would start searching for my future. Tonight, I let myself be scared.
But only for one night.
I looked at the last unopened suitcase and made myself one more promise. I would not let Verona turn me into someone bitter. We had already lost enough. If this city gave me closed doors, I would knock until my knuckles hurt. If people underestimated me because I came from a struggling family, I would let them. Being underestimated had one advantage: people never saw you coming until you were already standing where they said you could not reach.
Before sleeping, I checked on Hope. She was curled on her side, phone beside her, probably texting Joshua. Dad’s door was half open, and I could hear him moving around, still unpacking when he should have been resting. I wanted to tell him everything would be fine, but promises felt too big tonight. So I whispered it to myself instead.
Paris: “We will be okay.”
It sounded small in the new room, but it was a start.
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•T•B•B•
