Vincent’s voice lingered in Riley’s mind long after the atelier emptied—a low, determined rumble: “We have to make them believe us.” She’d never been this close to the epicenter of ambition, or to someone so untouchable. The rumor was everywhere already: Leclair’s genius had chosen her, and every glance, every touch, would be catalogued. She felt both luminous and exposed—a raw wire strung between desire and dread.

She found him waiting in the atelier’s dusky heart, sleeves rolled up, hands cradling a whiskey glass he hadn’t touched. “Ready to rehearse?” he asked, his eyes betraying something she couldn’t name—loneliness, maybe, or longing he never let slip. She hesitated. “If we’re convincing in public, we should know how it feels in private,” he murmured, tone steady but coaxing a spark between them.

Their first kiss—yesterday, staged for the cameras—had haunted her. This, now, was different. He stepped closer, running a thumb along her jaw. “Okay?” He waited for her nod, then closed the distance. His mouth was warm, tasting of daring and midnight secrets. Riley’s hands found his chest, clutching fabric, as she let herself respond, her lips parting, breath mingling with his. The kiss deepened, urgency rising—their rehearsed affection melted into something messy, unbidden.

Vincent pressed her against the sewing table, both breathless as hands slipped beneath jackets, exploring the angles of shoulders and backs. His fingers memorized the nape of her neck; her nails grazed his scalp. Heat stirred low in her belly as his kiss left her dizzy—every thought of pretending forgotten. For a moment, nothing existed but touch, friction, the grind of desire escalating.

She gasped when his hands slipped beneath her blouse, his lips traveling the hollow of her throat. “Should we stop?” he whispered, voice frayed by restraint. She shook her head, pulse tripping. Her own hands ran along his hips, pulling him closer, as his mouth found hers again with a hunger that left them both shaking. Shirts tangled, buttons gave way. Riley’s bare skin met his; their bodies pressed flush, warmth and want blossoming.

They half-fell into a chair, his thigh between hers, her hands slipping up his back—neither able to stop. Vincent kissed her collarbone, then lower, as Riley bit back a moan, the ache in her body matching the ache in her chest. When he finally pulled away, both were trembling, breathless, undone. He traced her lips with his thumb. “This complicates everything,” he said softly. Riley only nodded, dazed, heart pounding.

“I’ll never be what they want,” she whispered, gaze dropping. He lifted her chin, searching her with storm-dark eyes. “Neither will I.” The honesty flickered between them—dangerous and electric.

Moments later, feet echoed down the corridor. Vincent smoothed his shirt, mask slamming back into place. Delaney stepped in, sharp-eyed, assessing. “Done with rehearsal?” she cut in, brittle smile hiding old wounds. Vincent bristled, but before anyone could answer, Riley’s phone buzzed with a blocked message: You left me once. Don’t make the same mistake again.

Riley’s stomach twisted. She pocketed the phone, but Delaney caught the tremor in her hands. “Everything all right?” Delaney’s voice softened for just a moment, exposing the fractures she usually hid.

Vincent’s gaze lingered, reading her fear. “We’re done for tonight,” he said quietly. Riley slipped past, needing cold air, needing distance. Outside, Paris glimmered—but the message burned in her palm. The past she’d spent years escaping was coming for her, and no one here—not Vincent, not Delaney—could protect her.

As she disappeared into the night, the atelier’s lights flickered out behind her. Vincent watched from above, jaw tight, heart in free fall as desire and secrets tangled deeper than ever.

To be continued...