Emily stepped out of the car, her return to Italy marking the end of her Paris show. Dressed in a figure-hugging outfit that left little to the imagination, she was clearly prepared to reclaim Francisco's attention.
Her long legs moved with practiced elegance, hips swaying with purpose. Every step down the hall was calculated, every glance aimed to captivate.
As she descended the stairs, a maid stepped into her path.
"Ma'am," the maid said politely, "please don't go to the boss's room. He's busy right now."
"Busy?" Emily arched a brow, a slow smile curving her lips.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and purred, "If he sees me, he won't be angry."
She turned to head up the stairs, confident, poised... until the maid spoke again.
"Ms. Emily… he's with his secretary."
Emily froze. Her smile faltered.
"What did you say?" Her voice was low, sharp.
The maid didn't flinch. "Yes, ma'am. The secretary is in his room."
Emily's chest tightened. Her eyes drifted toward Francisco's door. A cold wave washed over her.
Francisco had never allowed anyone else into that room.
She was the only one he let stay—even if it was never for the whole night. Just a few stolen hours. But they had felt important. Exclusive.
Now, someone else was in there.
Another woman.
He let another girl in.
The thought echoed in her head like a warning bell.
The revelation hit Emily like a storm. Disbelief rooted her to the spot.
Could it be that Francisco's desire for her had reached its end?
The maid's voice snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts.
"Ms. Emily!"
Emily clenched her fists. Without a word, she turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Her heart felt heavy, and questions raced through her mind like thunder.
What does this mean, Francisco?
Who is she—the woman you stayed with all night?
For two years, Emily had been by his side. She gave him everything he asked for. Their arrangement had its benefits, yes, but she never saw it as just that. She loved him. Truly. She accepted being his mistress, believing it was temporary... that one day, she'd be more.
But the thought of him choosing someone else?
It cut deep.
The next morning, Hazel stirred beneath the soft covers. Her eyes stayed closed, lingering in the haze of sleep. Her hand wandered across the sheets until it touched something firm and warm.
A chest.
She blinked slowly, trying to focus. Her fingers brushed across smooth, hard skin—broad and steady.
Still half-asleep, she barely registered what she was doing. Then a strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer.
She didn't resist.
The touch was warm. Strangely comforting. It felt… familiar, as if this had happened before.
Hazel closed her eyes again, resting her head against the firm chest.
But as the moments passed, something in her stirred. She cracked one eye open... and froze.
In a flash, Hazel jolted upright and scrambled to the edge of the bed. Her back faced him now, her breath unsteady.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice sharp with confusion. She didn't feel the need to address Francisco with a Sir.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. Francisco lay there, shirtless and composed, his sculpted abs on full display, as if this was nothing unusual.
He blinked slowly, then propped a hand behind his head.
"I'm sleeping," he said, cool and unfazed.
"You are sleeping here with me? Why?" Hazel stared, unimpressed.
"As you can see, you were sleeping with me," he replied, lips curving slightly.
His calmness, that trace of amusement in his voice... it threw her off.
Her brows drew together in disbelief. Without a word, she stood and turned her back to him. The mirror on the wall caught her reflection.
She was wearing a white silk nightie. It clung to her skin and stopped high on her thighs, revealing more than she ever would have shown him.
The silk nightie clung to Hazel's skin like a whispered secret, its smooth touch both sensual and unfamiliar.
A stunned silence fell over her as she stared at her reflection. The white fabric, barely reaching her thighs, hinted at an intimacy she couldn't remember. Her mind raced.
Did something happen last night?
Her eyes dropped to her collarbone... there, a faint mark stood out against her skin. A bite? A bruise? Her brows knitted as uncertainty crept in.
"What..." she muttered, then turned sharply. "What happened last night?"
Her voice cut through the quiet, firm and clear.
Behind her, the bed creaked as Francisco stood. He walked toward her slowly, each step steady, deliberate. He stopped right behind her, eyes locked on hers in the mirror.