Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me novel Chapter 203

Chapter 203

It’s just past noon in Paris, but it’s almost six a.m. in Chicago, and June’s face is drowsy with sleep when she answers my video call.

Her hair’s a mess, her eyes half–closed, and there’s the distinct outline of the S of her necklace against her cheek like she slept on it.

The moment she sees me, though, her smile stretches wide, and she practically throws herself at the screen.

“Spring!”

1 laugh. “Hi, Summer. I’m sorry I’m calling so early.” Any later and I would have been too late.

Other than brief texts and calls, the time zone makes talking to my sister a bitch.

She shakes her head, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “No, no, it’s fine. I miss you so much, Spring.”

My heart tugs a little. I’ve only been gone two weeks, but something about Paris compresses time. Maybe it’s the pace, or the constant stimuli, or the unfamiliar air. “I miss you, too, baby. But guess what I did this morning?”

She perks up. “You bought a croissant bigger than your head?”

“Almost. Pain au chocolat. And I ate it on the Seine.”

June gasps. “That’s so cool!”

I laugh. “I know.”

I shift the camera to show her my studio apartment–the sloped ceiling, the wooden floorboards, the already cluttered desk in the corner, piled with sketches and fabric swatches.

The open window lets in the sounds of the city–birds, a distant accordion, and the occasional chatter from the café across the street.

“Everything smells like espresso and butter here,” I say, turning the camera back to my face. “And I swear, people dress like they’re walking runways.”

June rolls her eyes. “So it’s like the movies?”

I chuckle. “It’s exactly like the movies. I feel like April in Paris”

“What about school?” she asks excitedly. “Tell me about school!”

Fashion school is everything I expected–and ten times more brutal.

From the moment I stepped into the sleek glass–and–steel building of the Institut Français de la Mode, it’s been one giddy moment after the other–equal parts exciting and scary.

My professors speak fast, switching between French and English without warning, and give critiques that feel like minor surgeries.

There’s Madame Arlette, who once designed for Dior and has eyes that scan you like a pattern waiting to be corrected.

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Chapter 203

She told me my first sketch looked like it belonged on a “cheap reality show.” I chose to take that as a heavily disguised compliment.

Then there’s Amir, a second–year from Morocco who walked in on my meltdown in the bathroom and handed me a macaron with the solemnity of a priest. “You’re not a real designer until you cry on the toilet,” he’d said.

Julian was more than pleased to hear that particular story.

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Despite the chaos, I’m thriving. My fingers have micro injuries from hand–stitching. I fall asleep to Duolingo every night, and I think my French is improving.

I’ve already finished a draping assignment that earned a rare nod of approval from Arlette. “Très bien,” she said, and I nearly burst into

tears.

Whenever Julian’s schedule allows, he insists on showing me a new corner of the city. Some afternoons, we wander through cobblestoned alleys in Le Marais, dipping into vintage shops and tucked–away patisseries where the pastries look like miniature art.

Other days, we climb the steps of Montmartre, stopping to catch our breath beneath the watchful eyes of the Sacré–Cœur, or lounge by the Seine with crêpes wrapped in paper and dripping with Nutella.

For the first few days, Eliza and Peter joined us, trailing alongside with her ever–curious eyes and sharp observations, before they continued to Amsterdam.

But before they left, Julian made sure we squeezed in every bit of Paris he could share. He knows every shortcut, every story behind every square and statue.

He’s more animated here than I’ve ever seen him, and his presence has honestly made the transition easier and much less lonely.

June listens to all of this with wide eyes, her mouth forming a little ‘o.‘ “You’re really doing it,” she whispers. “You’re living your dream.”

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Yeah, baby, I really am.”

She goes quiet for a moment, then says softly, “I’m so, so proud of you.”

I smile. “I love you, Summer.”

“Love you more. I have to go get ready for boring American school.”

I laugh. “Have a great day, hon.”

We blow kisses, and I end the call, still grinning as I grab my bag and head out.

The café across the street is called Le Canapé Bleu–The Blue Couch. It’s tiny, with all vintage velvet chairs and marble–topped tables.

The owner, Monsieur Thierry, greets me with a nod and a fresh notebook–sized menu scribbled in loopy cursive.

“Votre coin habituel, mademoiselle?” he asks. It’s only been two weeks, but I’m already a regular.

I nod. “Oui, merci.”

My usual spot is near the window, where the light hits just right. I order a café crème and a slice of tarte aux poires.

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18:26 Wed, Oct 22

Chapter 203

The pastries here are practically edible art, and I like the way the locals linger–no one fushes, no one checks the time,

It’s like everyone knows they’re living in the middle of something surreal.

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I pull out my sketchbook and fabric samples, working on my latest assignment: reimagining a classic silhouette using modern streetwear influences.

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