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Towering glass doors. Doormen in vintage tailcoats. Marble floors reflecting crystal chandeliers. Every detail screamed exclusivity. I clutched my worn canvas bag and dragged my scuffed black suitcase behind Marcelo, trying not to look like I'd wandered into a palace by mistake.

At the front desk, a slick-haired French manager with a golden key pin smiled and stepped forward.

"Bonjour, Mr. Moretti. Welcome back to Paris." His English was flawless, accent polished as glass. He took Marcelo's ID with both hands.

"Bonjour, Mr. Rene." Marcelo nodded.

Mr. Rene tapped at his computer. Then frowned.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Moretti." He looked up, face tight with apology. "There's been an error in the system. Your two rooms were merged into a single suite. Due to Fashion Week, we're completely booked. This is the only suite available."

I froze.

One?

One suite?

Marcelo's brow furrowed, displeasure flickering across his face. "Rene, this isn't the first time. Your booking system needs to be torn out and rebuilt."

"My apologies, Mr. Moretti. We're upgrading, but there are still bugs... This is our fault entirely. This Royal Suite has the best view in all of Paris. We'll waive all charges for the week and include daily private dining from our three-Michelin-star chef. Again, we're terribly sorry."

The manager's forehead glistened with sweat.

"Mr. Moretti, this isn't appropriate!" I stepped forward before he could agree, lowering my voice, words tumbling out. "We have a superior-subordinate relationship. Sharing a suite is completely improper! I can stay at a regular hotel, or a hostel—anywhere near the venues—"

"During Fashion Week, you can't book a cot in a basement anywhere in Paris." Marcelo turned, frowning. "And my assistant will not be staying in some sketchy third-rate district where thieves can steal core pattern files from the company."

He paused, plucked the black brass keycard from the manager's tray, his tone commanding and cold. "Go upstairs. Drop off your luggage. Don't stand here looking like a homeless refugee. We'll figure out sleeping arrangements after tonight's schedule."

His expression left no room for argument. I swallowed the rest of my protest and followed him into the elevator.

The suite was more extravagant than I'd imagined. A curved wall of floor-to-ceiling windows framed the tip of the Eiffel Tower.

I didn't even take my shoes all the way off. I perched on the edge of the massive goose-down bed, hands gripping my skirt, mentally rehearsing whether to grab the bedside lamp or its base if he tried anything tonight.

But Marcelo didn't give me a single suggestive glance.

He walked into the dressing room, hung his suit, and came out wearing a black cashmere crewneck, checking his watch. "Ready?"

I snapped back. "Ready? Wait... Mr. Moretti, isn't today schedule-free? The Durand fabric preview and the avant-garde show don't start until tomorrow—"

"When did I say Paris was just about official runways?" He grabbed the car keys from the entryway and glanced back, lips curling in a predatory smile. "Five minutes. Fix your makeup. I'm taking you somewhere."

"Where?"

"Your job is to listen to your boss, assistant." He pulled open the door.

I bit down hard, grabbed my bag, and jogged after him.

The car didn't head toward the flagship stores on the Champs-Élysées. Instead, it turned into a narrow, hidden cobblestone alley in the Marais.

Crumbling nineteenth-century brick walls. Vines wound through iron window grilles. The sedan stopped in front of a tiny shop with no sign.

I pushed open the wooden door. Brass bells chimed overhead.

Inside: aged linen, beeswax, wool dust. Half-finished draping forms lined the walls. Stacks of yellowed pattern paper covered the floor.

"Well, look who's here."