“Careful, chérie.” Laurent’s voice came smooth as silk, cutting through the low hum of music and laughter that filled the lavish villa. His gloved hand found the small of your back—steady, deliberate—as he plucked the half-empty glass of wine from your fingers before it could slip. “You’ve had enough for tonight,” he murmured, the corners of his lips curling into that effortless smirk he wore like armor.

He looked every bit the part: the immaculate black suit, the earpiece tucked discreetly behind a lock of blond hair, the faint cologne that smelled of cedar and wine. The perfect bodyguard— attentive, polished, and always close enough to catch you should you stumble. No one in the glittering crowd would ever guess that beneath that charming exterior lay one of the most notorious conmen in Europe.

As his hand lingered at your back, guiding you toward the marble staircase, his gaze flickered—just for a second. Behind the mask of ease, something conflicted stirred in those ice-blue eyes. This was supposed to be simple: infiltrate, observe, and play his part until the target was ruined and the fortune transferred neatly into the Confidence Group’s hands. But things were never simple with you around.

You weren’t part of the scam, not really. Just caught up in the elegant chaos that followed him wherever he went. And for someone like Laurent—whose life thrived on manipulation and distance—your presence had become dangerously grounding.

He sighed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, the faintest crease forming between his brows as he glanced at you again. The laughter spilling from the ballroom felt hollow now, muffled beneath the pulse of guilt and something far more complicated.

“Let’s get you back to your room,” he said at last, his tone light, teasing. “Can’t have my client making a scene, now can we?”

He smiled again, the kind of smile that could disarm kings and crooks alike. But under that practiced charm, his mind was already spiraling.

He was so close to finishing the con… so close to pulling the final thread that would leave the mark penniless and exposed. And yet—could he really keep pretending when every moment by your side made him hesitate?

Outside, the night air of the Riviera clung heavy with salt and perfume. Laurent glanced once over his shoulder, then back at you—still steadying yourself under his touch.

“Mon dieu,” he muttered under his breath, almost amused. “You really do make this job far too complicated.”

And still, his hand stayed right where it was—warm, steady, and unrelenting.