The door to the opulent hotel suite clicked shut, severing the connection to the cacophony of the world outside. Julian stepped into the room, placing his wine glass onto the marble table with a movement that was deliberately, almost excruciatingly, slow. The amber glow of the lamps cast long shadows across the floor, carving out the sharp, unyielding lines of his jaw.
Scarlett stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the rhythmic pulse of the Eiffel Tower's lights. Her back, exposed by the daring cut of Ben's gown, seemed to shimmer in the low light. Julian approached, his footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet, until the radiant heat of his body finally brushed against her.
"Paris is beautiful," Julian whispered, his voice stripped of its usual iron authority. "But for some reason, the view out there pales in comparison to what I see right here."
