Paris didn’t whisper. It roared. And tonight, it roared for them.
They stepped into Hôtel Costes like they owned it—which, in a way, they did. Not by title, but by presence. His custom-tailored coat swung with silent confidence. Her silk gown shimmered under the low lights, clinging to her like a secret no one else was allowed to know.
The afterparty was a blur of champagne and sharp conversations. Models. Financiers. European aristocrats pretending relevance. But they were there for one reason only.
Marianne Leduc.
“She was Drex’s handler before he turned public,” she whispered in his ear, lips brushing his skin. “Knows every skeleton in his closet.”
He found Marianne near the bar, wrapped in Chanel and menace. Older. Brilliant. A woman who’d survived every power shift by anticipating the next one.
She raised her glass. “So, you’re the boy king.”
“And you’re the queen with teeth,” he said.
They talked. Cautiously at first. Then like old enemies considering alliance. She hinted at something bigger—an offshore account, stolen data, a former Drex partner looking to switch sides.
They left the hotel past two a.m. Paris glowed behind them. A different kind of electricity pulsed in the air.
“Are we really doing this?” she asked, kicking off her heels in the back of the black S8.
“We are.”
She crawled into his lap and straddled him. “Because it’s smart?”
“No,” he said, kissing her. “Because it’s ours.”
Their bodies crashed together with all the tension of the deal, the risk, the fire they refused to name. Her nails dug into his shoulders. His hand tangled in her hair. The windows fogged. The city forgot them.
When they reached the penthouse, he carried her up the marble stairs, still half-dressed.
He pushed open the bedroom doors with his back, her laughter hot against his neck.
In the dark, under Paris skies, they didn’t just make love.
They made history.