Riley nearly burst through the office door, her pulse loud in her ears, gripping a folder she barely remembered picking up. Delaney looked up, sharp as a blade in navy silk, her fingers splayed across the conference table. Riley was trembling, already speaking before her mind could stop her. “You and Vincent—how long?” Her voice cracked. Vincent, across the room in a flurry of torn sketches and shattered trust, stiffened.

Delaney’s mouth curled, not cruel, but bruised. “Riley, this isn’t the place—”

“No, this is exactly the place,” Riley spat, breathless with indignation, feeling the heat of a dozen stunned eyes. “You act like I’m the scandal, but you two—”

Vincent’s gaze found her, as raw as she’d ever seen. “It’s not what you think.”

Riley laughed, a sound that splintered. She wanted to hate them both, wanted to run, but she was glued to the floor by hurt and the desperate need to be seen.

Delaney gathered her composure, spine rigid. “Whatever happened is over. This—” She motioned between herself and Vincent, and the air felt electric, perilous.

But Riley saw the flicker of longing barely masked behind Delaney’s eyes. Rage rolled through her. “You think I don’t see the way you look at each other? I’m not your pawn.”

She turned, the door slamming behind her, leaving silence in her wake.

Alone in a forgotten hallway, Riley pressed her back to the wall, swallowing the humiliation. She couldn’t bear the thought of Vincent’s hands on Delaney, couldn’t escape the feeling that she’d only ever be the fresh intrigue, never the real thing.

Luca appeared, untucked and anxious, drawn by the fallout. “Riley?”

She blinked fast, barely holding it together. Luca hovered closer, his expression shifting from concern to something deeper—fear, longing, all at once.

He reached for her cheek, his thumb gentle against salt-stained skin. “You deserve better than all of them,” he whispered.

Riley’s lips parted, protest hovering, but Luca surged forward, kissing her. It was tentative at first, his hands trembling, desperate for permission. She hesitated, letting herself collapse for a second—into warmth, into wanting to be wanted, into someone whose hope hadn’t yet worn brittle.

Her mind scattered, heart pounding with confusion, guilt, and the faintest thrill. She pulled away, breathless. “Luca, don’t—”

He looked wrecked, hope flickering and dying. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t feel anything.”

Before she could answer, her phone vibrated—Tessa’s name lighting up, a message that turned her blood cold: Heard the rumor about your mother. Ugly stuff. Watch your back, darling.

Riley bolted down the corridor, the walls closing in. Tessa, perched on the staircase, smiled—pure venom in velvet and pearls. “Losing your touch, Hart?” she cooed. “They’ll eat you alive.”

Riley wanted to scream, but instead she squared her shoulders, fire returning. “Not before I take you with me.”

Inside the conference room, Vincent and Delaney collided—pain and desire flooding the space between them. Delaney’s words trembled. “You ruin everything you touch.”

Vincent seized her wrist, desperation bleeding through. “You still want me.” He crashed into her, his mouth hot and punishing.

Delaney’s resistance melted, fingers clawing at his shirt. Years of resentment and longing ignited. His hands explored old territory, mapping the path down her silk blouse, the slip of bare skin against his palms. Their bodies tangled, all finesse stripped away—anger dissolving into need, the taste of regret and history sharp as teethmarks. Delaney gasped, pulling him onto the table, skirts bunched at her waist, Vincent’s grip bruising as he thrust against her, harder each time they thought they could stop.

She bit his shoulder, stifling a cry, nails digging into his back as climax ripped through, as blinding as fury, as deep as grief. For a breathless moment, only their panting filled the empty atelier—then Delaney shoved him away, eyes stinging with tears that would never fall.

No words. Just devastation.

Meanwhile, Riley lingered by Tessa, vowing silently never to let herself be destroyed—not by Vincent, not by Delaney, not by anyone.

The next morning, a tabloid headline exploded across every device in Paris: LECLAIR & HART—REAL OR RUTHLESS? INTIMATE PHOTOS SPARK CONTROVERSY.

Riley stared at the screen, her world burning. No one would come out clean.

To be continued...