The Plaza Athénée was as magnificent as Ava had imagined a Parisian luxury hotel would be. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across marble floors. Perfectly uniformed staff moved through the ornate lobby with the kind of discreet ease that only came from decades of serving the world's elite. Even the air seemed to shimmer with wealth and history, as if she had stepped into a fairy tale.
"Monsieur Drake," the concierge greeted warmly, his tone reserved for repeat guests of true value. "Welcome back to Paris. I trust your flight was comfortable?"
"Perfect as always, Henri," Lucien replied. His French accent was flawless, the switch between languages effortless. "I believe you have our reservations prepared."
"Mais oui, naturellement. The presidential suite is ready for your immediate occupancy." Henri's eyes flicked toward Ava. The look carried curiosity but not impropriety, the practiced discretion of a man who had seen everything. "However, I must apologize. There has been a slight complication with the second accommodation."
Ava's stomach tightened. The plan was clear: two adjoining rooms on the executive floor. Professional. Appropriate. She had spent the entire flight convincing herself boundaries would hold, even in the intimate setting of international travel.
"What kind of complication?" Lucien's voice was calm, though she noticed the faint stiffness in his shoulders.
"The pipes in the junior suite failed this morning. Flooding. Très regrettable." Henri sighed with genuine regret. "Our maintenance staff is working without pause, but the room will not be usable for at least two days. Of course, we have alternatives—a room on the eighth floor, or perhaps our sister property—"
"That won't be necessary," Lucien cut in smoothly. "The presidential suite will be fine."
Ava stared at him. The presidential suite. One room. One bed. A space designed for couples or single VIPs, not colleagues trying to maintain professionalism.
"Excellent." Henri beamed, relieved that his prestigious guest was not demanding the impossible. "The suite is magnificent, as you know. The view of the Eiffel Tower is spectacular at this time of year."
He handed over the key cards with a small flourish. Ava found her voice at last. "Perhaps I should stay at another hotel. I'm sure there are plenty of business-appropriate options—"
"Nonsense." Lucien's hand pressed lightly against the small of her back. The touch appeared casual. To her, it burned through the silk of her blouse. "We have early meetings tomorrow. Efficiency demands we stay close."
Efficiency. As if efficiency explained sharing a room with a man who had been slowly dismantling her defenses for months. But Henri was watching. Other guests had begun to glance their way. Making a scene would only feed the speculation Lucien seemed determined to encourage.
"Of course," she said, though even to her own ears her voice was strained.
The presidential suite was everything Henri promised. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine. The interior radiated understated French elegance—silk wallpaper, antique furnishings, fresh flowers that likely cost more than a month's groceries. Every detail whispered of refinement.
But none of it mattered compared to the massive bed dominating the main room.
It was easily king-sized, possibly larger. Egyptian cotton sheets looked softer than clouds. The carved wooden headboard was practically a museum piece. Under different circumstances, the bed would have been the stuff of fantasy.
Here, it felt like a trap.
"The sitting room has a sofa," Lucien said behind her, his voice deliberately neutral. "I'll have linens brought—"
"Don't." The word was sharper than she meant. "Don't pretend this isn't exactly what you wanted."
He stepped closer, close enough for her to catch his cologne, to feel the heat of his body. "You think I arranged a plumbing failure?"
"I think you're opportunistic enough to take advantage of one." She turned, chin high despite her racing pulse. "I think you saw a chance to put me in a compromising position and refused to waste it."
His dark eyes studied her face, that unsettling gaze stripping her bare. "And what position would that be, exactly?"
The air between them grew heavy with unspoken meaning. They both knew what position—a woman sharing a bedroom with a man who wanted her, who had never hidden it.
"You know exactly what I mean," she whispered.
"Do I?" He closed the space, backing her until the cool glass of the windows pressed against her shoulders. "Because from here, I see two business colleagues adapting to an inconvenience."
"Is that what we are? Business colleagues?"
The question escaped before she could stop it, driven by weeks of tension and the constant pull she felt near him. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, or maybe satisfaction that she had finally voiced what neither had dared.
"What do you think we are, Ava?"
He was close now. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises. Close enough that, if she lifted her hand, she could trace the sharp edge of his jaw or the curve of lips that haunted her sleep.
The thought shocked her. This was his strategy—to blur lines, to erode her boundaries until she forgot why they existed.
"I think we're employer and employee," she said firmly. She stepped sideways, out of his reach. "I think you're a man used to getting whatever he wants, and I'm someone in no position to refuse."
Something dark flashed across his face. "That's what you believe? That I'd force myself on someone who couldn't say no?"
"Wouldn't you?" The words bit sharper than she intended, sharpened by weeks of helplessness. "You've tied my compliance to my mother's care. What else should I call that, if not coercion?"
"I call it insurance," he said coldly. "Insurance against competitors making you promises they can't keep."
"Like Alexander Vance?"
"Like anyone who would use you to get to me." His voice grew quieter, more dangerous in its restraint. "You're naive if you think your value to others ends with your typing speed."
The truth in his words stung. She had seen it—the speculative looks in meetings, the whispers, Alexander Vance's attention that was anything but professional.
"So what am I?" she asked, her voice low with exhaustion. "Your secretary? Your prisoner? Your shield against French businessmen?"
"You're mine." His tone was flat, final. "That's all you need to know."
The certainty in his claim chilled her even as it stirred something deep, something she hated herself for feeling. A dark part of her thrilled at the idea of belonging so completely.
The rational part recoiled. She remembered the surveillance, the threats, the erosion of her choices.
"People can't be owned," she said softly.
"Can't they?" His smile was sharp, almost cruel. "Then tell me why you're here. Why you're standing in this suite instead of scraping coins for bus fare in Queens."
Because of her mother, she wanted to say. Because he was the only one who helped. Because she had been drowning and he threw her a rope, even if it was tied to chains.
But she couldn't say it. It would only prove him right.
"I'm here because it's my job," she said instead.
"Your job." He poured two fingers of expensive scotch, his movements deliberate. "Does your job include sharing a bedroom with your boss?"
"Apparently it does now."
He laughed, humorless. "Don't look so tragic, Ava. I won't attack you in your sleep. For all you think of me, I do have standards."
The dismissal cut deeper than it should. As if the idea of sharing a bed with her was beneath him, not even worth consideration.
"Good to know," she said, her attempt at casualness failing.
"Besides," he went on, loosening his tie with predatory grace, "if I wanted to seduce you, I wouldn't need plumbing failures and forced proximity."
His confidence stole her breath. Because he was right. Despite everything—the manipulation, the threats, the loss of control—she still felt drawn to him. Still caught herself watching his hands, wondering how they might feel against her skin.
The attraction was wrong. Twisted. Maybe Stockholm syndrome. But real.
"How would you do it, then?" The question slipped out, reckless curiosity pushing past reason.
He paused with his cufflinks. His eyes locked on hers, sharp and consuming. "Are you sure you want to know?"
She wasn't sure. About anything. But the not knowing was worse. She nodded.
He set his drink aside and moved toward her with that deliberate grace that always made her pulse race. When he spoke, his voice was intimate, meant for her alone.
"I'd start slowly," he said. He stopped just close enough for his heat to touch her skin. "I'd be patient. Gentle. I'd wait until you came to me, until you admitted you wanted this as much as I do."
"And if that never happened?"
His smile was certain, almost inevitable. "It will."
The conviction sent a shiver through her. Not because of the words, but because he truly believed them. And because part of her feared he was right.
"You're very sure of yourself," she managed.
"I have reason." His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face with aching gentleness. "You feel it too, Ava. This pull between us. You can fight it, deny it, rationalize it—but it doesn't go away."
His touch sent fire racing through her. She wanted to lean in, to surrender. But she knew surrender meant losing the last shred of independence she still held.
"What I feel," she said, stepping back, "is tired. It's been a long day. We have meetings tomorrow."
Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps. But he nodded, stepping away to give her space.
"Of course." His voice returned to its controlled calm. "I need to make some calls. Get settled. Order food if you'd like. We'll go over tomorrow's schedule at breakfast."
The dismissal was polite, absolute. Ava gathered her things, heading for the bathroom and the privacy she craved. But his voice stopped her at the doorway.
"Ava."
She turned. He was removing his jacket, the simple act intimate in its ease. His white shirt stretched across broad shoulders, fabric straining over muscle.
"Yes?"
He tossed the jacket over a chair. His dark eyes held hers with quiet command.
"You can take the left side. Don't disturb me."
The words were casual, delivered like any other instruction. But they carried inevitability, the quiet assertion that sharing a bed was now fact.
As if her protests meant nothing.
As if he had already won.