Paris was a dream wrapped in sin. The kind of dream where everything sparkled, even the shadows. Olivia had been in the city three days, and already the gold-trimmed luxury of the Hôtel de Crillon had dulled beneath the weight of solitude.
Alexander had called it a honeymoon but between shareholder crises and encrypted calls in hushed corners, it felt more like an exile. He was never there. And when he was, he was... absent. Present in body but tethered to another world, one she was beginning to realize she'd never fully belong to.
That night, she sat by the balcony in a black silk robe, watching the Eiffel Tower glitter in the distance like a lie told too beautifully. Her wine was untouched. Her thoughts were not.
She didn't hear the door until it closed behind her; she turned and there he was, Liam.
No knock, no warning, just presence. Tall, dressed in black, eyes stormy.
"You shouldn't be alone in Paris," he said.
She blinked. "How did you get in here?"
He ignored the question.
"Why?" she asked, voice sharper now. "Are there thieves?"
He stepped closer, voice low. "No. There's me."
Her pulse stumbled. She should've screamed, called security. Instead, she wrapped her robe tighter and stepped away - but not far.
"You followed me," she said.
"I am protecting what's mine," he answered calmly.
"I'm not yours," she responded sharply.
And without a flinch he whispered, "Aren't you?"
They walked through Montmartre just past midnight, the world dimmed to candlelight and cobblestone. Musicians played near closed cafés. Drunken lovers laughed in alleyways. The city was alive and yet she had never felt more suspended in a dream.
He told her about his childhood. About the pressure of being a Sinclair. About how Alexander molded him into a weapon, "business before breath," he said, "emotion is a liability, that was the first lesson."
She asked about his mother.
He hesitated. "She loved champagne and silence," he said. "And once told me I looked like a prison she'd built herself."
Olivia's heart ached in a way that felt dangerous.
He wasn't cold. he was frost layered over fire. He wasn't cruel, he was a boy abandoned in a castle.
As they sat at the base of the Sacré-Cœur, the war between them paused, for a moment. The basilica glowing white in the moonlight.
"You aren't what I expected," Olivia said.
Turning his gaze at her he responded, "Neither are you". Wearing an unreadable gaze on his face and the silence settled between them like smoke and then he leaned in.
She didn't move.
His mouth found hers with startling intensity: not soft, not slow, but like a fuse lit in the dark. His hand tangled in her hair, her fingers curled into his jacket, every warning bell screamed but her body didn't listen.
The kiss was fire meeting gasoline.
She broke it first, breathless, trembling.
"This is wrong," she said, voice shaking.
Liam's gaze burned through her. "You didn't stop me."
Behind them - the sound, click!, a camera shutter.
They both turned. Nothing. just the wind. A rustle of leaves. A shadow disappearing around a corner.
But it was enough.
"Someone followed us," she breathed.
Liam's expression changed instantly. Cold, focused.
"Stay here." he sprinted up the hill, vanishing into the dark.
Olivia stood frozen, heart pounding. What had she done? What had she let happen?
Her phone buzzed. Blocked number. One message. Beautiful kiss. Shame it's going to ruin both of you. Her knees went weak.
Liam returned, empty-handed, and there she was seated on the cold steps, gripping her phone like a weapon.
"Gone," he said, breath ragged. "Whoever it was knew what they were doing."
She handed him the phone. He read the message.
His jaw clenched. "This was a setup."
She nodded, eyes wide. "You think it was Vincent Harper?"
"Maybe." His eyes flicked to hers. "Or maybe it was Clara."
"Your mother?"
"She's been waiting for something to destroy me. And she hates you more than she ever hated my father's mistresses."
A silence stretched between them, tense and tight.
"You kissed me," she said, almost accusing.
"You kissed me back."
She looked away. "This was a mistake," she whispered.
But neither of them believed it.
Back at the hotel, Olivia didn't flinch an eye, sleep had departed from her as she lay in the king-sized bed alone, listening to the rain fall against the windows, replaying the kiss again and again, her lips still tingled. Her heart still raced.
And the message, that cursed message, burned in her mind.
The kiss wasn't a secret anymore.
Someone had proof, someone was watching, and someone wanted them ruined.
The next morning, as Olivia descended the staircase for breakfast, there sat Alexander waiting with a folded newspaper in his hands.
He didn't speak. Just held it out.
Front page. Heiress to Sinclair Fortune in Midnight Rendezvous — With Her Stepson.
A full-color image. Her. Liam. locked in a kiss beneath the Sacré-Cœur.
Alexander's voice was soft but deadly.
"Tell me this is Photoshop."
And Olivia, throat dry and world collapsing, realized two things: someone had declared war, The battlefield was now her marriage.