Paris at night always had a way of swallowing Arianna whole. The city glittered with light, the streets pulsing with music and laughter, but inside it all, she had never felt smaller. She wasn't the kind of girl who slipped past velvet ropes or wandered into champagne-soaked parties. But tonight wasn't about her.
It was about him.
Luca DiLaurentis.
The boy on her dorm-room posters. The golden star of France's beloved team. The boy she had watched grow from a scrappy teenager with a crooked grin into the nation's heartthrob, a man whose smile could make stadiums scream.
And tonight, she was breathing the same air as him.
The Hôtel de Crillon's ballroom shimmered with chandeliers and camera flashes when she slipped inside. Music pulsed. Laughter rang against marble walls. Men in tailored suits and women draped in sequins filled the room, their glasses raised high. Arianna clutched the strap of her dress, willing her trembling hands to still.
She hadn't brought anyone. Everyone else arrived in clusters, dates, friends, entourages. She came alone. She wanted this night, this memory, to belong only to her.
She told herself she'd stay at the edge of the room. Watch him smile. Maybe snap a photo from afar. That would be enough.
But fate rarely listened.
Her heel caught on the polished floor, and she stumbled straight into someone solid, unyielding. A breath lodged in her throat. She looked up, and the universe played its cruelest trick.
It was him.
Luca DiLaurentis.
He stopped mid-stride, his easy charm flickering into something startled, then softened, as his gaze locked with hers.
Her pulse roared. She'd seen him a thousand times, on screens, on billboards, in her daydreams. But in person? His presence knocked the air from her lungs. His amber eyes didn't just glance at her. They searched her, as though he'd been waiting.
"Sorry," Arianna blurted, her voice swallowed by the music.
But he didn't wave her off. Didn't brush past. Instead, he stood there, still, intent, like she had stopped time.
And then he smiled.
"Don't apologize," he said, his voice smooth, lightly accented, threaded with amusement. "I should be thanking whoever made us collide."
Her lips parted. Was he…flirting? With her?
He extended a hand, slow and deliberate. "Luca."
As if she didn't know. As if the world hadn't spent years chanting his name from stadium seats.
Her palm trembled as she slid it into his. "Arianna," she whispered.
The handshake lingered. Too long. His thumb brushed hers, by accident or design, she couldn't tell, and her heartbeat stuttered.
"I like your smile," he said suddenly, the words sounding like a confession. His gaze flickered to her mouth, then back. A quiet laugh escaped him, almost self-conscious. "I don't usually say things like that. But I had to."
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "And I don't usually talk to football stars."
"Stars?" He tilted his head, grinning. "You mean players who get lucky on the pitch?"
"No," she said, surprising herself with her boldness. "I mean you. You don't look real on TV. But standing here, you're even more handsome."
She wanted to swallow the words back, too much, too forward. But Luca only studied her, as though she'd spoken a truth no one else dared.
"You watch me on TV?" His voice softened.
Her throat went dry. She could tell him the truth, that she'd been watching since she was fourteen, that she knew the arc of his career better than her own life. She could confess the diary pages, the posters, the years of impossible daydreams.
But not here. Not when his hand still brushed hers, and his gaze pressed against every secret she carried.
"I might have seen a few games," she managed, forcing a casual smile.
"Just a few?" His tone teased, low, like he already knew.
She lifted her chin, her lips curving. "Enough to know you're good."
His laugh was warm, wrapping around her, pulling her closer than the music ever could. "I'll take that."
The crowd shifted, voices and bodies surging, but Luca didn't step away. If anything, he leaned closer, lowering his voice until it belonged only to her.
"Can I have your number?"
The question hit like lightning. Not a celebrity humoring a fan, but a man, genuine, certain, intent.
"You…want my number?"
"Yes." His eyes glinted. "Unless you'd rather I didn't have it."
His phone was in her hand before she could think. Fingers trembling, she typed her digits, pressed save, and gave it to him.
He looked at the name, Arianna M., and smiled like she'd given him something rare. A moment later, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Now you have mine too.
Her chest tightened. This couldn't be real.
She'd come here to watch him from a corner. Instead, he had found her. Chosen her. Asked for her number.
If she wasn't careful, she might start believing in fairy tales.
Luca's breath brushed her ear as he leaned in, his words threading fire across her skin. "Don't disappear tonight, Arianna. I'm not finished with you yet."
By the time she turned, he was already gone, swallowed by teammates and flashes of light.
Her phone glowed in her hand. Another message appeared.
Luca: Smile again for me. I can't stop thinking about it.
Her knees nearly gave. She pressed a hand to her chest, her lips tingling, her pulse unsteady.
And in that moment, Arianna Morel knew one thing with absolute certainty.
This was only the beginning.
********
Arianna couldn't remember how she'd left the ballroom. Her heels carried her across polished marble, her clutch pressed tight against her chest, but her mind was still inside, replaying his smile. His wink. The low rasp of his voice when he whispered, I'll call you.
Her heart was a trapped bird, beating so hard she thought her ribs might break. Dizzy, aching from the grin she couldn't erase, she whispered the words back to herself like a secret.
He noticed me.
Not just noticed. He had looked at her as if she were the only person in the glittering hall. As if she wasn't ordinary, wasn't invisible. No, Luca DiLaurentis, France's golden striker, Paris's darling, had stared at her with intent. And then said the words every girl in that ballroom would have sold her soul to hear:
I'll call you.
Arianna pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh that was half hysteria, half joy. Fate. That was what it felt like. Fate had made her stumble into him, fate had placed her in his path, fate had given her the kind of moment she had dreamed of since she was fourteen.
She barely remembered hailing a cab. Paris at night blurred around her, the cold air on her skin, the sweep of lights, the hum of traffic. None of it mattered. Her phone lay in her lap the entire ride back to her tiny student apartment, her gaze fixed on the screen as if sheer will might make it ring.
⸻
By the time she reached her building, her cheeks still hurt from smiling. She kicked off her heels, tossed her clutch aside, and collapsed onto her bed.
Then panic set in.
What if he didn't call?
Her stomach twisted. He was Luca DiLaurentis. His days were packed with training, endorsements, interviews. Maybe she was just… a passing moment. A number forgotten by morning.
Her chest tightened. She paced her room, biting her lip. "Should I have asked for his instead?" she muttered at her reflection. Her flushed face, her mussed hair, her restless eyes, all of it looked foolish now.
She checked her phone again. Nothing.
Minutes stretched into hours. She tried to study, but words blurred. Tried the TV, but every channel seemed to flash his face. She gulped water she didn't need. Paced again. Her mind replayed everything: his voice, his eyes, the warmth in his smile.
Still nothing.
When her phone finally buzzed, she nearly dropped it. Her heart leapt, wild and frantic, until she saw the name.
"Maman."
Arianna exhaled and answered. Her mother's gentle voice filled the line with questions, was she studying, eating, taking care of herself? Arianna murmured automatic replies, her eyes darting to the screen, distracted, impatient.
"Yes, Mama, I'm fine. Yes, I promise. I'm just tired… long day."
Her mother laughed softly. Ma chérie, go to bed. Don't burn yourself out.
Arianna promised, but when the call ended, the screen was dark again. Silent.
She lay back, phone clutched in hand, staring at the ceiling as the city hummed outside her window. Doubt pressed against her ribs. What if she had imagined the way he looked at her? What if she was already forgotten?
Her eyes grew heavy. She told herself to let it go. To stop holding on to the impossible.
And then her phone lit up.
She bolted upright, heart crashing into her throat. An unknown number.
She didn't hesitate. She slid her thumb across the screen. "Hello?"
Silence. And then,
"Bonsoir, Arianna."
Her entire body shivered.
Luca.
His voice was lower than she remembered, softer, like velvet at her ear. Not the roar of the stadium star, not the grin for the cameras. This was private. Close.
"You… you called," she whispered.
"Of course I called." He chuckled, low and intimate. "I said I would, didn't I?"
Her breath tangled. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, why me, what did you see, how can this be real, but the words caught in her throat.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he went on, his voice dipping lower. "That smile…" A pause, and then the faintest exhale, like even he had lost his breath. "Do you always do that to people you bump into?"
Her cheeks burned. "I didn't mean to bump into you."
"I'm glad you did." His tone was teasing, but underneath was something heavier. Something that made her pulse quicken. "Otherwise, I might have missed you."
Her heart thudded. Missed her. As if he'd been looking.
"You're so busy," she murmured. "I didn't think you'd really call."
"I'm never too busy for the right person." His voice softened to a whisper. "And I think you might be her."
Her breath caught, a hand flying to her mouth as though she could hold the moment in. His words wrapped around her, dangerous and sweet, and she felt her world tilt.
She swallowed hard. "Why me?"
On the other end of the line, she heard his smile.
"You'll find out," Luca said.
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