Paris was electric.
We landed Thursday morning to grey skies and the particular energy that pulses through a city built on revolution and romance.
The product launch venue needed finalizing, press materials required approval, and a dozen last-minute crises demanded attention.
But through it all, I couldn't stop watching Sebastian.
He was in his element here—commanding every room, making decisions with sharp confidence, inspiring the local team with a passion I'd never witnessed in London.
He spoke to vendors and executives with the same intensity, treating every detail as if it mattered.
Because to him, it did.
By evening, the work was done. The venue gleamed. The press materials were approved. Every crisis had been resolved with Sebastian's particular brand of brilliant efficiency.
We should return to our separate hotel rooms. Order room service. Get a full night's sleep before tomorrow's chaos.
"Walk with me?" Sebastian asked instead.
I should have said no. Should have maintained professional distance.
"Okay," I said.
Paris at night was impossibly romantic. We wandered along the Seine as the city transformed around us—streetlamps casting golden light, cafes glowing with warmth, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance.
Conversation came easier than it ever had. No barbs. No sarcasm. No professional masks.
"You're different here," I observed as we passed a couple sharing wine on a bridge. "Less... aggressive."
"London requires armour," Sebastian said. "Paris lets you breathe." He glanced at me sideways. "Or maybe it's the company."
"Don't start being charming. It's unsettling."
He laughed softly, and the sound loosened something in my chest.
We walked in comfortable silence for a while. The city wrapped around us like a secret, intimate and vast all at once.
"Can I ask you something personal?" I said eventually.
"You can ask. I might not answer."
"What drives you so hard? And don't say ambition—I want the real answer."
Sebastian was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than before.
"When I was seventeen, I interviewed for my Cambridge scholarship. Sat in front of a panel of professors in their fancy robes, trying not to let my hands shake."
He stared out at the water, jaw tight.
"One of them looked at my application. Saw my address. And asked, in front of everyone, if I was 'sure I'd fit in' at Cambridge."
"God."
"I almost walked out." A bitter smile. "Almost gave him exactly what he expected—the council estate kid who didn't belong in their world. Instead, I gave the best interview of my life. Out of pure spite."
"You got the scholarship."
"I got the scholarship. But that feeling…" He shook his head. "Being judged before I opened my mouth. Being dismissed because of where I came from. It never left."
I reached out, my fingers brushing his arm. He didn't pull away.
"You wanted to prove them wrong."
"Partly." He exhaled slowly. "And partly because I'm terrified of going back. Of losing everything I built. Of proving them right after all."
We stopped on a bridge overlooking the glittering city. Sebastian leaned against the railing, and I stood beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
"There's something else," I said quietly. "Something you're not telling me."
His hands tightened on the railing. "You're too perceptive for your own good, Ashworth."
The silence stretched between us. I thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "When I was fifteen, I came home from school and found my mum on the kitchen floor."
My heart clenched. "Sebastian..."
"She'd collapsed. Exhaustion. Too many shifts, not enough rest." His voice was flat, controlled. "She went back to work three days later because we couldn't afford for her not to."
"I'm so sorry."
"I don't like talking about it. But you asked what drives me. That's it. That image. Her on that floor."
I didn't know what to say. So I simply moved closer, pressing my shoulder against his, letting him feel that he wasn't alone.
We stood there for a long time, watching the lights dance on the water.
"Can I tell you something I've never told anyone?" Sebastian asked eventually.
"Yes."
"I'm tired." The word came out like a confession. "Tired of proving myself. Tired of fighting for every scrap of recognition. Tired of wearing armour so heavy I've forgotten what I feel like underneath it."
He turned to face me, grey eyes raw in the lamplight.
"I just want to feel enough. As myself. As the kid from Birmingham who got lucky and worked hard and still feels like a fraud half the time."
My chest ached with the weight of his confession.
"You are enough."
“You’re saying it just to make me feel better.”
I stepped closer, eliminating the distance between us.
"You're brilliant and infuriating. You're kind. And loyal. And you care more than you want anyone to know."
"Belle..."
"I see you," I said quietly. "Not the suit. Not the title. You."
Something shattered in his expression. The walls he'd built so carefully, the defenses he'd maintained for years—they crumbled in a single breath.
We returned to the hotel in charged silence.
Sebastian turned toward me. His grey eyes held mine with devastating intensity. He looked like he wanted to say something. Do something.
"Goodnight, Belle," he said instead and left.
I retreated to my room, changed into pajamas with trembling hands, tried to calm my racing thoughts through sheer force of will.
It didn't work.
I was staring at the ceiling, heart pounding for reasons I refused to examine, when a knock came at my door.
I opened it.
Sebastian stood in the hallway, breathing hard, eyes dark with something that looked like surrender. His hair was disheveled, his shirt untucked, like he'd been pacing his room wrestling with a decision.
"I can't." he started. Then his mouth crashed into mine.
He pushed me inside, kicking the door shut behind him. His hands were everywhere—my hair, my waist, pulling me against him with desperate urgency.
I kissed him back with equal hunger, all rational thought dissolving into pure sensation.
"I tried to stay away," he groaned against my lips, fingers digging into my hips. "But I can't stop wanting you, Belle. I can't fucking stop."
"Then don't." I pulled his shirt over his head, running my hands across his bare chest, feeling muscles flex beneath my palms. "Don't stop."
We shed clothes like they were on fire. His mouth traced burning paths down my neck, my collarbone, lower still. When his lips closed around my nipple, I arched into him with a moan.
He lifted me then, and I wrapped my legs around him instinctively, feeling how hard he was pressed against my center. He carried me to the bed and laid me down, then stood back to strip away the last of his clothes.
I watched him—the lean muscles, the hunger in his grey eyes, the hard length of him that made my breath catch.
"I've thought about this," he said roughly, settling between my thighs. "Thought about you like this. Every single night since we met."
He positioned himself at my entrance, holding my gaze. Then he pushed inside with one deep stroke.
I gasped at the sensation—the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming rightness of him filling me completely. He stilled for a moment, jaw clenched, giving me time to adjust.
"Okay?" he breathed.
"More." I lifted my hips, pulling him deeper. "I need more."
He moved slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, watching my face as I moaned beneath him.
Learning what made me gasp, what made me dig my nails into his shoulders, what made me cry out his name.
"So tight." he breathed.
His pace increased, thrusts growing harder, deeper, more urgent. I met him desperately, legs wrapped around his waist, nails raking down his back.
"Cum for me," he demanded, voice rough. "I want to feel you cum."
I shattered, his name tearing from my lips as ecstasy crashed through me in waves. He followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt with a groan, spilling inside me as my body clenched around him.
It was nothing like I could have imagined.
It was better.