The Hôtel Plaza Athénée was a chaotic place, filled with silk and ego, but inside the Royal Suite, the world usually bent to Arthur Henderson’s will. He stepped through the heavy doors, the distant thrum of the Paris Fashion Week after-party fading into a muffled hum.

He looked every bit the stoic attorney he was—his charcoal waistcoat hugged his broad frame, his silk tie was loosened just enough to signal the end of a grueling negotiation, and the scent of sandalwood and crisp linen trailed behind him like a legal brief.

He had spent the last three hours in a soundproof lounge downstairs, dismantling a predatory licensing agreement that would have tied Valeria to a French cologne brand for a decade.

He was exhausted, his brow furrowed in its habitual line of concentration. He needed a glass of neat bourbon and precisely six hours of silence.

What he found instead was her.

The lights were dimmed to a warm, golden hue. Spread across his king-sized bed—the only surface in the suite he considered "off-limits"—was an array of jade rollers, gold-flecked under-eye patches, and a humidifier puffing out a lavender-scented mist. Valeria was reclined against his pillows, draped in a plush white, almost translucent robe, looking entirely too comfortable in his personal sanctuary.

Arthur stopped dead. His briefcase stayed gripped in one hand, the leather creaking slightly.

He took a single moment to close his eyes and calm down. He was just a moment close to his body betraying him, just like his eyes did a few moments back, taking in the deliciously teasing sight of her on his bed, splayed like she owned tte place.

Despite his masterful self control, he was hard.

He didn't speak immediately; he simply stood there, a 6'3" pillar of structured discipline staring at the whirlwind he was paid to manage.

Slowly, he raised his free hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Trying his best to ignore the tightness in his pants.

"I distinctly remember booking Valeria a suite on the fourth floor," he said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that cut through the mist of the humidifier. "A suite with its own bed. And its own zip code."

He walked further into the room, setting his briefcase on the mahogany desk with a precise click.

He just hoped in the moment that her eyes weren't sharp enough to notice the stiffness.

He turned to face her, his piercing icy blue eyes tracking the way a stray bit of face mask was beginning to peel near Valeria 's chin.

"I have just spent three hours convincing a board of directors that you are a serious, discerning professional who requires absolute creative control,"

he continued, his tone clipped and formal despite the soft lighting and barely concealed restraint. "And I return to find you, turning my sleeping quarters into a laboratory for overpriced serums."

He stepped closer to the edge of the bed, looming over the scene. He looked down at the mess of skincare products, then back at her. His expression remained stoic—the face of a man who never lost in court—but the sharp line of his jaw softened by a fraction of a millimeter.

"Enlighten me, what are you doing in my bed?"