The rain in Paris didn't feel romantic; it felt like a cold reminder of where Maxine Harrington stood in the world. As she stood in the back of the auditorium at the Palais des Congrès, holding a stack of files for a presentation she had written but wouldn't be delivering, the bitterness tasted like cheap coffee.
"Maxine, dear, make sure the lighting is perfect for Chloe's entrance," her father's voice crackled through her earpiece. "This is a big moment for the Harrington brand. We need her to shine."
Chloe. It was always Chloe. Her elder sister was the face, the heart, and the golden child. Maxine was the spine—hidden, overworked, and easily ignored.
By 9:00 PM, the conference gala was in full swing. Maxine watched from the sidelines as Chloe giggled, draped in Chanel, clinging to the arm of a man Maxine hadn't met yet—the mysterious fiancé from the London office, James. From this distance, he was just a broad-shouldered silhouette in a charcoal suit, the crown jewel of Chloe's perfect life.
"I'm done," Maxine whispered to the empty champagne flute in her hand.
"Pardon?" a waiter asked.
"I'm done being the backup singer," Maxine said, her voice trembling with a decade of suppressed rage.
She didn't go back to her hotel. She didn't call it a night. Instead, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of L'Éclipse, the most exclusive, dimly lit lounge in the 8th arrondissement. She didn't want to be Maxine Harrington, the reliable assistant. She wanted to disappear.
Five shots of tequila later, the world was a blur of neon blue and velvet. Her phone was buzzing in her purse—probably her father asking where the morning itineraries were—but she ignored it.
"I need... more," she mumbled to the bartender, waving a credit card that didn't belong to her.
The club was a maze. She was looking for the restroom, but the golden "VIP" sign on a heavy oak door looked far more inviting. She pushed it open, her vision swimming. The room smelled of expensive cedarwood, vintage bourbon, and him.
A man sat on the leather sofa, his tie loosened, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looked up, his eyes dark and piercing, radiating a type of power that made Maxine's breath hitch.
"You're not supposed to be in here," he said, his voice a low, melodic growl.
Maxine stumbled, her heel catching on the carpet. She fell, not onto the floor, but into his lap. The heat of him was intoxicating. For once in her life, she didn't want to be polite. She didn't want to be the "Plan B."
"Make me leave then," she challenged, her fingers twisting into his silk shirt.
She didn't know his name. She didn't know he was the man who had been promised to her sister only hours ago. She only knew that for the first time, someone was looking at her like she was the only woman in the world.
James's POV
The gala had been a suffocating display of vanity. Chloe Harrington was a doll—pretty, plastic, and utterly boring. He had stepped away to L'Éclipse to find a moment of silence before his life was officially tethered to a corporate merger disguised as a marriage.
Then the door opened.
She didn't look like a Harrington. She looked like a storm. Her hair was a mess of dark curls, her eyes were defiant and glazed with wine, and she looked at him with a raw hunger that mirrored his own frustration.
When she crashed into him, he should have pushed her away. He should have been the professional CEO the world expected him to be. But when she told him to make her leave, the restraint he'd practiced for thirty years snapped.
He didn't know who she was. He just knew he wasn't letting her go tonight.