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His rough palm instantly wrapped around my cool fingers.

We changed into casual clothes.

Marcelo shed his sharp three-piece suit for a black cashmere crewneck sweater, dark fitted trousers, and a tailored charcoal wool coat. The gray at his temples looked even sexier under casual wear, the whole edge of his corporate power softened—like a European scholar strolling through town.

I pulled on a simple black turtleneck sweater, vintage high-waisted jeans, a loose beige trench coat, twisted my hair into a messy bun, and slipped into comfortable leather ankle boots.

Walking out of the hotel lobby, the Bentley wasn't waiting. Marcelo led me straight toward the Métro entrance at Place de la Concorde.

"Wait... Mr. Moretti?" I stopped, stunned, staring at the damp, dim subway turnstiles ahead. "We're taking this?"

"What, you thought I only travel by helicopter and armored sedans?" He raised an eyebrow, pulling two paper Métro tickets from his coat pocket like a magician, sliding them smoothly through the turnstile, then turning back with a half-smile. "Being ordinary once in a while isn't so bad. In Paris, the Métro's the fastest vein through the city."

It was late morning rush hour. Line 12 was packed.

The train lurched forward violently. The car shook hard. I stumbled, unprepared, and before I could cry out, a solid arm locked around my lower back.

Marcelo pulled me into him.

My back slammed straight into his broad, hard chest, my nose filling instantly with that intense scent of fig and cedar. The French chatter around us seemed to vanish behind glass, leaving only his steady, powerful heartbeat behind me, and the arm across my waist—burning so hot it felt like it could scorch through fabric.

"Hold steady, Ms. Caldwell." He leaned down slightly, warm breath grazing my earlobe, his voice husky and devastatingly low. "Hold on to me."

The train slowed at Abbesses station.

We climbed out onto the stone steps of Montmartre. Paris's morning breeze carried the faint scent of buttery croissants, and the white dome of Sacré-Cœur Basilica soared majestic against the blue sky.

Street artists crowded both sides of the cobblestone path, easels lined with watercolors and oils, the air thick with the smell of turpentine.

I stopped in front of an elderly painter's easel, mesmerized by his rendering of Parisian rooftops shrouded in morning mist. My feet wouldn't move.

"You like painting?" Marcelo stood beside me, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted toward me.

"I used to. A lot." I smiled bitterly, fingers unconsciously rubbing the hem of my coat. "Actually, when I graduated high school, what I really wanted to study was fine art. But fine art's too expensive—canvases, paints, and that endless road to recognition you can't even see the end of... My mom worked alone as a hospital nurse. She couldn't afford to support a starving artist. I had to pick something that could pay the bills fast, something that could land me a job. That's why I busted my ass working part-time to save tuition and got into FIT for fashion design."

I looked down, kicking at a loose pebble. "Sometimes when I see people painting freely like this, I feel kind of... shallow."

"Shallow?"

Marcelo's voice suddenly hardened. He turned, gripping both my shoulders, forcing me to look up at him.

His gaze was dead serious, gray-green pupils reflecting my face. "Ruby, listen. Fine art might preserve beauty on a canvas, but your designs give beauty to living, breathing people. You're trying to shatter the twisted standards this era forces on women. You're fighting to give dignity back to communities that get ignored—that's way more powerful than any painting hanging in a gallery waiting to be sold. Don't ever diminish the road you walked. You're the most vital designer I've ever met."

Something slammed into my chest, sour and burning.

No one had ever affirmed me like that.

Mary always said I was too naive, my ex said I wasn't good enough, and even I doubted my own talent.

"Mr. Moretti..." I swallowed hard, my eyes stinging.

"If you call me by that boring surname one more time, I'm going to seriously consider kissing you right here on this street, Ruby." His gaze dropped to my parted lips, pointed.

My cheeks flamed. I spun around and hurried forward. "There's—there's a flea market up ahead, let's go check it out!"

His low, amused laugh followed behind me.

The aisles of the Saint-Ouen flea market overflowed with vintage treasures—brass telescopes, yellowed black-and-white postcards, old silverware.