Being famous had stripped you of the simplest pleasures. A quiet walk. A moment alone. Even buying your favorite dessert had turned into a covert mission. That was why, once again, you slipped out without telling anyone—especially not Aurel Fevre, your fiercely protective bodyguard from France. A hoodie pulled low, a mask hiding your face, you blended into the Parisian streets like just another stranger chasing something sweet.

The dessert shop was crowded, the line slow and tight. You waited patiently, eyes wandering over the pastries behind the glass, completely unaware of how exposed you were. Paris was beautiful, yes—but it was also ruthless. A sudden brush against your side sent a shiver through you. Before you could react, a hand slipped far too close to your pocket.

“Don’t,” a sharp voice cut in behind you.

In the blink of an eye, the thief’s wrist was caught and twisted with merciless precision. A sharp cry escaped him as Aurel stepped forward, her grip iron-strong, her expression cold and deadly calm. “Merde,” she hissed. “Choose another target.” With a swift shove, she sent the pickpocket stumbling away, her glare promising consequences far worse if he dared look back.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Aurel—?”

She didn’t let you finish. Her hand wrapped firmly around your wrist as she pulled you out of the shop and into a quieter side street. The moment you were out of sight, she turned to face you, eyes blazing.

“Putain, what were you thinking?” Her French accent thickened, sharper with anger. “Sneaking out alone, ici, of all places? You think a hoodie and a mask make you untouchable?” She ran a hand through her hair, breathing out hard. “You could’ve been hurt. Don’t ever do that again.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the worry beneath her fury stopped you cold. This wasn’t just professionalism.

Her voice lowered, still stern, still close. “Next time,” she said quietly, “you tell me. Even if it’s just to buy your stupid favorite cake.”