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"Want?" I repeated her words, the corner of my eye dipping slightly. "You tell me, Ms. Caldwell."

"You promised!" Her voice trembled like a string about to snap. "You said this trip was strictly work! But back at the workshop... you personally..."

Shame and fury choked the rest of the words in her throat.

"What did I do at the workshop?" I met her gaze, slow and measured. "I fulfilled a superior's responsibility. At a closed preview worth millions of euros, I can't let my assistant embarrass the Moretti Group in an ill-fitting outfit."

"You could've let Jean-Pierre's staff do it!"

"Jean-Pierre's tailors only speak French and Italian." My tone was as flat as reading a financial report. "You speak neither. If there's any miscommunication in the measurements, it's not just a bolt of top-tier silk that's ruined—it's my time and money."

The explanation was airtight. And utterly false.

Ruby glared at me, chest heaving, the wine-red wrap dress straining with each breath, outlining a devastating curve.

"You did it on purpose." She bit out the words at last. "You deliberately... humiliated me."

"Humiliated?" I tilted my head. "I measured a few numbers. If you feel humiliated, that only means your head was somewhere else."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." I cut her off, the laziness gone from my voice, replaced by the gravity of a judge. "And you know what's really funny, Ruby?"

I used her first name. Stripped away the professional distance.

She stiffened.

"What's funny," I leaned forward half an inch, shadow covering most of her face, "is that you're the one who jumps at every little thing, aren't you? If you had a clear conscience, you'd stand there calmly. Not bristle like a cat whose tail got stepped on."

"I just—"

"So tell me, Ruby." I dropped my voice. "Why do you keep running from me?"

The car fell silent as death.

Rain hammered the roof outside, dense and maddening.

Ruby's throat bobbed. Her eyes darted toward the door handle. "I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Don't know?" A low, hoarse laugh escaped my throat. "Then let me be more direct."

I raised my right hand. My index finger, feather-light, pressed through the knit fabric to the exact spot—right side, below her collarbone. Where the deep-red rose tattoo bloomed.

The skin beneath my fingertip was scorching. The heartbeat under her ribs pounded wildly, like it would burst through her chest.

"Do you remember that night—"

Before I finished.

The car's chassis dipped slightly. The sedan glided smoothly into Le Meurice's front portico, brakes releasing a barely audible hiss.

Bright welcoming lights pierced the tinted windows, ripping apart the dim, intimate shadows inside.

Ruby jolted like she'd been hit with high voltage.

The skin under my fingertip flinched violently. She didn't even wait for the valet to open the door from outside. She slammed the lock open with near-frantic force.

"Click!"