Le Meurice was where old money went to pretend it wasn't obscene—all gilded molding and crystal chandeliers, overlooking the Tuileries like it personally owned the sunset. Which, let's be honest, it probably did.
I felt like a virgin sacrifice being led to the altar, poured into emerald silk that clung to every curve Alan had specifically chosen to display. The dress was a weapon. Elegant. Severe. Expensive enough to fund Amélie's treatment for a month.
And I hated—absolutely fucking hated—how powerful it made me feel.
Like I was his to display. His statement. His declaration.
Alan was already there when I arrived, standing beside Anna and a silver-haired man who radiated political power. Senator Artois. He looked every inch the perfect fiancé, his posture impeccable, his expression carved from ice.
Then his gaze found me.
For maybe half a second, the mask cracked. His eyes went dark and hungry, raking over the silk covering my body like he could peel it away with his stare alone. Possessive. Feral.
Then the Man of Glass snapped back into place, and he turned to murmur something to Anna like I'd never existed.
I wanted to scream. Or throw something. Or both.
The dinner was haute cuisine masquerading as torture. Anna played the perfect hostess, all cool smiles and subtle jabs wrapped in politeness. "Élise, darling, that dress is... bold. Alan has such specific taste."
Translation: you're wearing his choices like a kept woman.
Senator Artois was worse. He had a politician's smile—all teeth, no warmth—and predator's eyes that tracked movement like he was calculating vulnerabilities.
And he kept staring at me.
"So," he said, leaning across the table with false intimacy, "you are the one who keeps my future son-in-law so... focused."
"I'm his assistant, Monsieur." Professional. Neutral. Boring. "I assist with strategic operations."
"How very modest." His smile widened like a shark scenting blood. "I'm sure a woman in your position knows all his secrets."
Across the table, Alan's wine glass cracked. Not broke—just a hairline fracture that spiderwebbed across crystal.
His knuckles were white. His jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle pulsing. Anna was saying something to him, touching his arm, but he didn't move. Didn't blink.
He was staring directly at us. At the Senator's smile. At the way he leaned too close.
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
I murmured something noncommittal about confidentiality agreements and tried to focus on my plate. The food probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I couldn't swallow a single bite.
Later, when dinner dissolved into champagne and networking, I tried to disappear. Blend into expensive wallpaper. Become invisible.
Epic fail.
Senator Artois cornered me near the terrace doors, his bulk blocking escape like a human wall. "You're very loyal to Alan," he said, stepping into my personal space.
Way too close. Invading-my-oxygen close.
"I value my position, Monsieur." I stepped back. Hit wall. Fuck.
"Of course you do." His hand landed on the small of my back, heavy and possessive. "A beautiful woman with... limited options. You must be very grateful for his generosity."
My skin crawled. Every instinct screamed run.
His hand slid lower—from my waist down to my ass, squeezing like he owned me. "We could be great friends, you and I."
His breath was hot against my ear, reeking of cognac and entitlement.
Panic spiked through me, sharp and immediate. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. My mind scrambled for an exit that didn't exist—
"Get your fucking hands off her."
The voice wasn't loud. It was lethal. A command that sliced through champagne chatter like a blade through silk.
Alan crossed the room in three explosive strides. No hesitation. No warning.
He seized the Senator's wrist, his grip crushing. The older man's face went white, then purple. A hiss of pain escaped his lips as Alan forced him to release me.
The entire salon went dead silent. Conversations evaporated. Every eye turned toward us.
Anna looked horrified—not at her father's assault, but at Alan's public loss of control. At the scene. The embarrassment.
Before I could process what was happening, Alan's hand clamped around my arm. Not gentle. Not asking.
"You're with me."
He dragged me through the crowd. Past frozen faces. Past Anna's shock. Past the whispers already starting.
He shoved open the glass doors to a dark terrace overlooking rain-slicked Paris, and suddenly we were alone in cold air and darkness.
I ripped my arm free, fury exploding. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Manhandling me in front of—"
"Me?" He roared, the sound echoing off stone walls. "What am I doing? You let him put his hands all over you! You just stood there and—"
"I did NOT let him! I was trapped, you asshole—"
He lunged.
The space between us evaporated. He slammed me back against cold stone, the impact knocking air from my lungs and sense from my brain.
Then his mouth was on mine.
Not a kiss. A claiming. A brutal, punishing assault that tasted like rage and five years of suffocating want.
He bit my lower lip—hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make me gasp—and his tongue invaded before I could breathe. Dominating. Taking. Devouring everything I hadn't offered.
His hands fisted in my hair, yanking my head back at an angle that should have been painful but instead made something dark and desperate unfurl low in my stomach.
I should have hit him. Should have kneed him in the balls and run.
But my starved, traitorous body melted into him instead. A broken sound tore from my throat—half fury, half surrender—and I kissed him back with equal violence.
Fuck professional. Fuck boundaries. Fuck everything.
My nails dug into his suit jacket, expensive fabric bunching under my desperate grip. He growled against my mouth—a low, possessive sound that vibrated through both of us and straight between my legs.
Then I felt it. Hard and unmistakable against my stomach—proof that he was as wrecked as I was.
He pressed closer, grinding against me in a rough, desperate rhythm that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with raw, animal need. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my hips, sliding down to grip my thigh.
A moan escaped me. Shameful. Honest. Completely involuntary.
His hand slid up my leg, over silk that suddenly felt like nothing, over the lace top of my stocking to bare skin that burned at his touch. His fingers dug into my thigh, hiking my leg up around his hip, opening me to him.
The sensation was electric. Overwhelming. Wrong and perfect and absolutely fucking devastating.
I could feel him, hard and insistent, pressed exactly where I needed—
He tore himself away.
We stood there gasping like we'd both been drowning. Separated by maybe two feet that felt like continents. Rain began to mist around us, cold droplets on overheated skin.
His eyes were wild. Feral. Completely unhinged.
He stared at my swollen, bruised lips—at whatever he saw in my face—and something shifted. Horror. Recognition. Like he'd just looked in a mirror and seen a stranger.
"This," he panted, his voice wrecked and harsh, "did not happen."
Four words. A denial. An erasure.
He turned and walked back into the party, straightening his jacket with shaking hands. Every movement precise. Controlled. Like he could force himself back into the shape of the Man of Glass through sheer will.
Leaving me there. Alone. Shaking so hard I could barely stand.
My lips were swollen. My hair was a mess. The taste of him was still on my tongue, and I could feel the phantom pressure of his hand on my thigh, his body against mine.
The rain picked up, soaking through silk, plastering the dress to my skin. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't pretend anymore that this was just survival. Just protecting Amélie. Just a job I needed to keep.
Because what I'd felt when he kissed me—when I'd kissed him back like my life depended on it, like I'd been waiting five years for exactly this—wasn't strategic.
It was real. Raw. Terrifying.
And he'd just walked away like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
Like we hadn't just set fire to everything between us and watched it burn.