Paris is a city that doesn’t whisper—it sighs. Every cobblestone, every window display, every golden hour moment across the Seine feels like an invitation to feel something deeper, richer, more intoxicating. And when I landed there for a weekend—not for work, not for a shoot, just for pleasure—I let myself be seduced by the city itself.
It started at Le Meurice. The suite overlooked the Tuileries, and the moment I walked in, I exhaled. Crisp sheets, velvet upholstery, a bathroom made for lovers or solitude—whichever you needed more. I unpacked slowly, as though I had all the time in the world. And for once, I did.
The days were unstructured. I wandered through the Marais in vintage Chanel and oversized sunglasses, sipping espresso and pretending I wasn’t being watched—though I always am, and I don’t mind. I bought a silk scarf, not because I needed it, but because it reminded me of a dream I once had about dancing on a rooftop in the rain.
That evening, I had dinner at Girafe with a man I adore. He flew in from Dubai just to see me for 24 hours. We talked about art, power, and what it means to be deeply seen. He told me I had the kind of laugh that made other people want to be in on the joke. That’s intimacy to me—not just touch, but being understood without having to explain.
We sipped champagne until the Eiffel Tower lit up, and then wandered back to the suite like something out of a black-and-white film. No urgency. Just chemistry.
But the moment that stays with me most happened the next morning. He had already left for a meeting, and I sat by the window in one of his shirts, legs tucked underneath me, watching the street wake up. The city looked like a painting. I felt beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with makeup or approval. Just me, with croissants and silence.
That’s what Paris gives you. It slows you down until you start to notice yourself again. And in that noticing, you remember: luxury isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s as quiet as warm pastries, a silk slip, and someone who really sees you across a candlelit table.
I left the city changed—not dramatically, but subtly, like someone had whispered something into my soul. And the best part? I didn’t have to perform. I simply belonged. That’s the gift of true romance, and Paris delivers it in spades.