Before I knew it, I was soaring through the skies on a flight to Paris. My mind was a whirlwind, intoxicated, overwhelmed, and buzzing with adrenaline. Paris had always been the city of my dreams and romantic, poetic, dripping in elegance—but going there with him, the most dangerously charming man I knew… who also happened to be my boss's worst enemy? That was a cocktail of confusion I hadn't signed up for.
He didn't say a word to me during the entire flight. Not a glance. Not a breath in my direction. The silence between us felt louder than the engine's roar.
As the plane descended, the view below snatched my breath away. Paris glistened under the golden sun like a city sculpted by the gods themselves. The Eiffel Tower pierced the sky with timeless grace, the Seine shimmered like a trail of liquid diamonds, and the rooftops looked like they belonged in a fairytale. It was heaven painted across the Earth.
Once we landed, I stepped out into the crisp Parisian air, and there he was—Walter, waiting by the curb with a brand-new baby pink Porsche, sleek and shiny like it had just driven out of a dream. The sight was almost laughably cinematic. He walked over, opened the door like a true gentleman, and I slid into the passenger princess seat, still half-dazed.
As I fumbled with the seatbelt like a complete idiot, he leaned over to help. In the process, his hand accidentally brushed my boobs. His body jolted away like he'd been struck by lightning, and a shiver coursed down my spine so intense, I thought my soul had left my body. I somehow managed to buckle up, pretending everything was fine—when clearly, nothing was.
"I don't even understand the need for all this like coming to Paris," I muttered, trying to pull something—anything—from him.
But he kept his eyes glued to the road, not even blinking in my direction. Cold. Focused. Distant.
I tried again to pierce the silence, to chip away at the tension, but it was like I didn't exist. I could've turned to smoke, and he wouldn't have noticed.
Then, out of nowhere, his hand landed on my thigh.
My heart stopped.
Just this morning, he had sworn he wouldn't touch me without permission. Sworn it.
I whipped my head toward him, words boiling on my tongue, but before I could explode, he cut in with a voice that was steady but laced with urgency.
"Listen carefully—and don't freak out. Look in the side mirror."
I did. My blood turned to ice.
Thirteen blacked-out cars were tailing us, weaving between cars like sharks circling prey.
"They're not Ezel's men. These are my enemies. Old ones. Dangerous ones. It's fight or flight—and right now, the traffic's too heavy to escape by car. So in about two minutes, we're ditching this ride and running through the streets of Paris. We've got thirty minutes to vanish. Be ready."
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!"
The words ripped out of me as I gripped the door in panic. I looked again—this time more clearly. The cars were speeding up. Windows lowered slightly. Men in dark suits with faces like stone stared us down. One even raised something that looked way too much like a gun.
My dream trip to Paris had just turned into a high-stakes action movie; and I wasn't sure if I was the heroine or just collateral damage.
Walter swerved the Porsche into a narrow alley, slammed the brakes, and jumped out.
"MOVE!" he barked.
I didn't even have time to think. I threw the door open and bolted after him. My heels clacked wildly against the cobbled pavement—clearly not made for spy-movie drama—but I wasn't about to die fashionable. I yanked them off mid-sprint and ran barefoot.
The Paris air was cool and fragrant—baked bread from distant boulangeries, faint roses, the metallic tang of adrenaline. We dashed past ancient stone walls, artists sketching on the sidewalks, confused tourists, and wide-eyed street musicians who stopped mid-note.
And then—chaos.
Behind us, tires screeched. Shouts erupted. The men were out of their cars and gaining fast.
"Walter!" I panted. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO PISS OFF A MOB?!"
"I was charming," he growled, grabbing my hand and yanking me into a narrow corridor between two buildings, hidden behind an ivy-covered gate. Our shoulders scraped the walls, our breaths hot and ragged.
"Are they armed?" I whispered.
"They're not here to invite us for coffee, sweetheart."
We burst out into a sunlit plaza, tourists scattering as we tore past the steps of Sacré-Cœur. Parisians gasped. A group of schoolgirls squealed. People whipped out their phones to film.
"We're trending already," I wheezed, "hope you like being viral."
Walter pulled me into a spin as a bullet pinged off the fountain next to us.
"Keep running and try not to die," he muttered.
After escaping through winding alleyways and blending into the city crowd, we found ourselves stepping into a grand mall tucked between the heartbeats of Paris. It was like walking into a dream—marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers, and glass elevators floated through open air like something out of a futuristic palace. Every corner whispered opulence. Paris truly wore its title of the fashion capital like a crown.
Walter led me straight into a luxury clothing store—its interior wrapped in golden lights and soft classical music, shelves lined with silk, cashmere, and elegance stitched into every hem.
"No time to admire the gowns, little bird," he said, voice low but urgent. "You need to blend in. Hoodies, baggy, unremarkable. Think invisible, not irresistible."
I nodded, though part of me still caught glimpses of the shimmering dresses on mannequins. They looked like they belonged in fairytales.
I grabbed a few casual outfits and slipped into the changing room.
To my absolute delight, the fitting rooms looked like miniature princess chambers—blush pink walls, velvet curtains, and gold-framed mirrors that flattered every angle. The bench was tufted, the lighting warm and flattering. I could've lived there forever.
I quickly wriggled out of my old clothes, trying to move fast but efficiently. I had just pulled on the pants when—
"Girl, are you done?" Walter's voice echoed from outside.
"Two more minutes!" I called out, trying not to sound breathless.
No response.
Two minutes later, he banged on the door again, harder this time. "We don't have two minutes. We need to go."
I didn't reply—too busy trying to untangle the hoodie when—
The door suddenly burst open.
My heart dropped.
He stepped inside, eyes wild with urgency—until they landed on me.
I stood frozen. I hadn't locked the door. Stupid. So stupid.
I was topless—no bra, no shirt—just the low-waisted pants clinging to my hips. My boobs were clearly visible. They were without any support still they were on place. Which he seemed so much suprised to look at. My hands flew up to cover myself, but it was too late.
He froze. Completely. His mouth parted slightly, and he gasped—actually gasped—like the air had been knocked out of him.
His eyes, sharp and always guarded, flickered with something else now—shock, hunger, and restraint all at once. He immediately turned his back.
"I—damn it—I thought you were—" He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough. "You didn't lock the damn door, little bird."
I scrambled to throw the hoodie on, cheeks burning hotter than the Paris sun.
"Maybe try knocking next time," I snapped, half-mortified, half-thrilled by the way he couldn't look me in the eye now.
"I did knock. You just didn't answer fast enough."
An awkward, heavy silence settled between us for a beat. The air was charged—thick with what had just happened and what it meant.
I had a question, I know this isn't the right time to- "but are they plastic? Like have you done any boob surgery?" He asked shyly.
"What no! I meant i have nothing against people who do it all but I haven't. Im just 18. Besides this isnt the time for this. Let's get of here." I said