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"You're mocking me." I bit my lower lip and turned my head, trying to avoid those fiercely invasive gray-green eyes. But the wild rise and fall of my chest completely betrayed how rattled I was.

"I never mock women." He laughed softly, finally releasing his hold on me. But that deep gaze still coiled around me like a chain. "Come on. Brandt won't stop pestering me until he sees you again. I can't hold him off."

When we returned to the hall, the expo was winding down. Brandt grabbed me and talked my ear off until his assistant reminded him it was time to leave.

"Next time you're in Florence, you have to visit my atelier." He clapped my shoulder. "I'll show you what real quality looks like."

"I will." I smiled and promised.

By the time we left the Grande Palais, a fine drizzle had started falling over the Paris night.

The black stretch Bentley glided through the Champs-Élysées, the wet streets reflecting streaks of light like liquid gold. Soft cello music played inside the cabin. Warm amber ambient lighting wrapped the back seat in quiet intimacy.

I leaned back against the plush leather seat, watching the scenery slide past the window, the warmth of excitement still humming in my chest.

Everything that happened tonight felt like an absurd, gorgeous dream. Brandt's roaring enthusiasm. The shock in my peers' eyes. The dignity of being treated, for the first time, like a real professional designer. The shadow that had been crushing me for twenty-four years felt like it had been ripped open tonight, letting sunlight flood in.

"Happy?" His deep voice came from beside me.

I turned. Marcelo was holding a glass of soda water, watching me with a gentle gaze. The commanding authority he wore in public had melted away inside the car, leaving only a calm, mature presence that felt... safe.

"Yes. Very happy." I didn't hide my smile. My amber eyes sparkled in the window's reflection. "I never imagined I'd get to present my design philosophy in front of a top European supplier—and that they'd actually listen. Thank you for bringing me tonight, Mr. Moretti."

"You earned it. I told you—Moretti Group doesn't make bad investments." His tone was casual, his expression unruffled.

He paused, then added almost offhandedly, "By the way. That hand-woven olive oil-emulsified cashmere jacquard Brandt was showing? Sixty meters total. I had legal buy out the entire lot."

I froze. My fingers tightened around my clutch.

"You bought it all? The budget for the group's secondary line could never support fabric at that level. That's haute couture material..."

"The secondary line can't use it." Marcelo turned the snake-head ring on his finger, then looked at me. His gray-green eyes were fathomless in the dim light. "It's an investment from the Moretti private foundation. A personal purchase. For a very promising 'emerging designer.'"

The cabin fell silent except for the low hum of the cello.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a warm hand. A wave of emotion—sharp and overwhelming—crashed over me.

Sixty meters of top-tier antique hand-woven fabric. Worth tens of thousands of euros, easily. He didn't need it. The group didn't need it. He bought it for one reason only—because two hours ago, I stood at that booth and showed interest in that fabric.

"Mr. Moretti... this is too much. I can't..." My voice caught. Mary's warnings circled my tongue, but I couldn't force them out.

"Then repay me with a design worthy of it, Ruby." He cut off my protest. His deep gaze locked onto my face, his voice low and certain. "Don't disappoint me."

I looked at his cold, sincere profile. My hands folded tightly in my lap. I nodded hard.

Outside, the rain picked up. Water streaked down the glass in winding trails.

The car sped through the city and finally pulled smoothly into the underground private garage of Le Meurice.

We passed through the empty VIP elevator. The metal doors slid open at the top-floor suite. The foyer's motion-sensor lights came on, casting a soft amber glow across the polished marble floor.

The adrenaline that had kept me wired for hours at the expo drained away all at once, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My heels throbbed against the soles of my feet. I let out a long breath and turned to the man behind me.

"Mr. Moretti, thank you again for tonight." I gestured toward the master bedroom, my voice edged with tiredness. "I'm going to take a hot shower and get some rest."

Marcelo stood in the entryway and nodded calmly. He raised his hand and unbuttoned his suit jacket, shrugging off the tailored coat that carried the scent of cedarwood and cool rain. He tossed it casually over the back of a nearby armchair, then rolled up the sleeves of his black dress shirt with deliberate precision, revealing his solid forearms and the expensive Patek Philippe on his wrist.

"Go ahead. You did well today." He turned, pulled a thick stack of legal documents about the Puglia dye mill acquisition from his briefcase, and settled onto the wide leather sofa. He switched on the reading lamp on the coffee table. "I've got a few international calls and asset inventories to review. Don't worry about me."