ONLY FOR TONIGHT

--- Paris, France — Midnight Ava Sinclair didn’t do recklessly. She calculated, planned, and prepared. So what the hell was she doing in a velvet dress, alone at a rooftop bar overlooking the Paris skyline, making eye contact with a stranger like she was looking for trouble? Because maybe—for once—she was. “Is this seat taken?” the stranger asked, smooth as the whiskey in his glass. Ava gave him a once-over without moving. Clean-shaven. Rough around the edges. Expensive shoes. A jacket carelessly draped over the chair beside him. Confident, but not flashy. Eyes like midnight secrets. “I haven’t decided yet,” she replied. He smiled. “Fair enough.” She didn’t want charming. She wanted to forget. But he wasn’t forgettable. And when he offered her a drink—nothing pushy, just whiskey with a splash of something—she accepted before she could think too hard. --- Twenty Minutes Later “You’re American,” she said, sipping slowly. “New York?” He arched a brow. “You profiling me?” “Just accurate.” “Then let me guess—marketing executive. On a solo vacation. Running from something.” Ava’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He’d hit closer than he knew. “Not running,” she said. “Just...releasing steam.” “I know something about pressure,” he murmured. “And steam.” His gaze locked on hers, slow and deliberate, like he was daring her to call his bluff. Ava knew she should stand up. Walk away. She didn’t mix business trips with personal mistakes. But it had been months since anyone looked at her like that—like she was a risk worth taking. And tonight? She wanted to feel again. “Only for tonight,” she said. His fingers brushed hers. “Only for tonight.” --- Three Hours Later — Hotel Suite, La Rêverie Clothes hit the floor in a trail of silken sin. His touch was firm but unhurried, like he had all night to explore every inch of her body. And Ava let him. Let him unravel her la-like thread. Let him kiss away the layers she wore larmourrmor. Let herself believe, just for one night, that she wasn’t a woman with deadlines, deals, and demons—she was just his. She didn’t ask his name. She didn’t offer hers. When she came apart beneath him, it was with a gasp that sounded dangerously close to freedom. --- 6:04 AM — Still Dark Outside He was asleep, one arm lazily thrown over her bare waist. Ava sat up slowly, her heart pounding. This wasn’t her. She didn’t do mornings after. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. Her dress was wrinkled, her heels still near the minibar. She wrote a note, thought better of it, and tore it in half. She turned back once. He looked peaceful. Human. Vulnerable. No. Don’t look back. By the time the sun rose over Paris, Ava was gone. Just as planned. --- Two Weeks Later — New York City “Sinclair,” her boss called from the corner office. Wolfe Global just closed the deal. You’re handling their campaign personally.” Ava froze. “Wolfe Global?” “They’re launching a global philanthropic initiative. The CEO insisted on top-tier talent—and he requested you by name. Good work on the Paris pitch.” Her stomach dropped. Wait— was he there? During the pitch? Heart racing, Ava gathered her things, wiped her palms on her skirt, and walked into the conference room. And there he was. Damien Wolfe. The man from the bar. The man from the bed. In a tailored suit, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but his eyes… Oh, his eyes remembered everything. --- > Ava’s knees nearly buckled. She’d built her life on control, but this man—this client—knew her without even knowing her name. “Miss Sinclair,” Damien said, standing slowly. His voice was smoother now, more formal. But underneath it… tension. “I believe we’ve met.” He remembers. And worse—he’s her client. —