Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
sam
“You’re being weird,” Rose said as we crossed Pont Royal, the sun glinting off the Seine like it was trying to blind us.
“No, I’m not,” I replied too quickly.
“Um, yes, you are,” she said, not even looking at me. “Your face is doing that weird thing. The thing where you look like you’ve seen a ghost and you’re jumpy, and I don’t know…”
I sighed, “He’s having lunch with my dad. Today. Like… right now.”
“Oh shit, so that means your dad is here, in Paris, and you’re here.” She blinked hard, like she was doing a math problem in her head or something. I know she does this when she’s processing, but it’s creepy.
“Exactly.”
She let out a low whistle and started walking again. “You don’t do boring. I’ll give you that.”
“I don’t do family dynasties either,” I muttered.
We turned onto the museum steps, the grand stone facade of the Musée d'Orsay towering above us. The tourists clustered near the entrance, and somewhere inside were the quiet hallways I’d been looking forward to, my kind of sanctuary.
Stillness, beauty, and rooms full of people who didn’t know or care who Samantha Hayes used to be.
We made it through security and headed toward the Impressionists wing, dodging slow walkers and kids on school tours.
“I just hate that everything is always tied back to Hayes,” I said as we climbed the stairs.
“Even when I’ve built my own life, my own career, my own world…
it circles back. Like I can’t outrun it. ”
“You’re not running,” Rose said gently. “You’re flying, remember?” I cracked a smile despite myself.
We walked in silence for a moment, letting the colors and strokes of Monet and Degas pull us into their stillness. Then Rose leaned in. “So… do you think you’re going to see him again?”
I shrugged. “He asked.”
“And…what did you say?”
“I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no.” Rose let out a low hum.
“Well. That’s progress.” I glanced at her, “What about you? You and the pilot? I didn’t notice if you came last night.” Now it was her turn to blush.
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “You came…”
“Samantha!”
She yelled at me, and I just laughed, looking at her so she could continue spilling the tea.
“We got drunk last night, and we spent the night together at his hotel room,” she said, suddenly fascinated by a Renoir.
“But he is a jerk, and while he fucked me amazingly good, whatever happened is not happening again.”
“Rose, you are allowed to have fun.”
“Yes, I know, but not with Captain Flirt. He is an asshole, and he is like twenty years older than me. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake, twenty years older that fucked you amazingly good. Got it,” I cackled, loudly enough that everyone looked at me.
“Oops,” I whispered.
“Art makes her emotional. I'm so sorry,” she said loudly, making an excuse for me. We were standing in the museum gift shop, Rose flipping through a stack of postcards with vintage aviation prints, when my phone buzzed.
Naomi Hayes: We need to talk.
Call when you can.
My stomach dropped.
Naomi never texted first. Hell, Naomi barely texted at all unless there was a birthday, a funeral, or a scheduling conflict at the Christmas table. I quickly typed back.
Me: I’ll call soon.
Naomi Hayes: What time zone are you even in?
Me: I’m just a few hours ahead of you.
She didn’t reply.
By the time we stepped out of the museum and into the chill afternoon air, the weight of her message had settled deep in my chest. Rose flagged down a passing vendor for a Nutella crepe, and I walked a few feet away, phone pressed to my ear.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Samantha.” Her voice was tight, clipped. “Thanks for calling.”
“Hi. You’re scaring me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” she said, then paused. “It’s just that—, I talked to Susan this morning.” The name alone made me roll my eyes. “And?”
“And apparently, Dad’s sick.” The words landed like a drop of ink in a glass of water. Sinking, spreading, staining everything around it. “Sick? Sick how?” What the hell is happening?
“They’re not saying everything yet, but… Susan told me it’s something with his liver.” Her voice dropped. “He’s stepping down because he has to, not because he wants to. The board’s already preparing to announce the transition, but they’re keeping the health issues private.”
I leaned against a stone wall near the museum gates, watching tourists take selfies and pretending my stomach wasn’t suddenly in knots. “Why would Susan tell you this if he doesn’t want anyone to know it?”
“I don’t know Samathan, maybe because I actually have a relationship with them.”
“Of course you do.” Naomi sighed.
“Look, I know you and Dad have… whatever it is you have going on. But I figured you should know before you see it in the press.” I didn’t respond right away.
Max Hayes had always been more of a boss than a father.
He gave me my last name and a spreadsheet full of expectations.
The man was made of ambition and obligation.
Love was never part of the contract. Yes, I was the ‘favorite daughter’ up until they realized I didn’t care about anything Hayes-related.
“Thanks for telling me,” I said finally.
“I didn’t know if you would care, but you’re still his daughter, Sam.”
“Technically.” I rolled my eyes.
“You still matter to him.” We stayed on the line for a few more seconds. The kind of silence that comes from two people related by blood and not much else.
“I have to go,” I said. “Thanks for the call.”
“Of course. Take care,” Naomi said softly.
I hung up just as Rose came over, with a warm crepe in hand. Her eyes were curious, but cautious. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. She handed me the first bite without asking, and we kept walking.
We cut across a quiet street lined with patisseries and designer storefronts, the crisp afternoon air pressing against our coats as we walked toward Galeries Lafayette. Rose was unusually quiet, letting me process in the lull between bites of crepe and cobblestones.
Finally, I said, “Naomi just told me my Dad’s sick.” She stopped mid-step. “What?” I nodded, barely looking up. “Something with his liver, apparently. That’s why he’s stepping down.” Her expression softened immediately, the playful glint from earlier gone. “Damn.”
“Yeah.” We kept walking, the sound of traffic and distant church bells threading through the quiet. Paris was moving on, like nothing had shifted in my orbit. “I know he’s here,” I added after a beat. “Somewhere. Having lunch. In a restaurant where the bill will probably be higher than our rent.”
Rose glanced over. “Do you want to see him?” I didn’t answer right away. We passed a florist, the scent of fresh lavender and eucalyptus wafting out in waves. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I should call. Or wait until I’m back in New York. Or... not do anything at all.”
Rose tilted her head. “Okay. So, what’s the real question?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not asking if you should call him,” she said gently.
“You’re asking if calling him makes you care.
” My chest tightened. Because she was right.
I didn’t want to care. I’d built an entire life to prove I didn’t.
I’d taken a job that flew me thousands of miles away from boardrooms and quarterly earnings and all things Hayes.
But now my father, distant, driven, and difficult, was here. In the same city. Possibly dying, and I didn’t know what to do with that. “I just don’t want to regret not doing it,” I murmured. “But I also don’t want to play the daughter card only when it matters, like now that he’s sick.”
Rose linked her arm through mine. “Then don’t do it for him. Do it for you. Call him, or don’t. But whatever you decide, just make sure it’s by choice, not out of obligation.”
We reached the edge of the shopping plaza, glass walls gleaming in the late afternoon light. Tourists milled around the entrance, their bags swinging with the promise of retail therapy and distraction.
“I could really use a new pair of sunglasses,” I said, my voice lighter but still far off. “And maybe a nice coat,”
“For when you accidentally bump into your father’s new CEO,” Rose said, and I laughed, the tension loosening just a little.
“Let’s go spend money we don’t have,” I said.
“Now that’s the Sam I know. Although you do have it, you just don’t use it.” I rolled my eyes at her.