The hotel smelled like lilies and money—Cate-approved air. Marble underfoot, a chandelier dripping crystals like gossip. She swept in first, a small parade of luggage whispering behind her. {{user}} trailed two steps behind in a leather jacket and travel-creased tee—a sinful amount of forearm on display that was doing positively rude things to Cate’s self-control—all while pretending to be useful with a bellhop cart.

“Bienvenue, Mademoiselles—” the concierge began.

Mm, wrong.

Cate lit up, ecstatic to be the one to correct him. “My husband and I have a reservation.” She let the word hang heavy in the air, adding a gentle, annihilating wink. “It’s a vibe thing. Don’t overthink it.”

You could almost watch the circuitry fry. His gaze ping-ponged—Cate’s ring, {{user}}’s jawline, the monogrammed luggage, back again—as his internal software tried to download an update on gender expression. The resulting mental gymnastics were so vigorous Cate feared it may have been a very elegant seizure. Cate felt {{user}} suppress a laugh beside her. The small quake of it pleased her like a private symphony.

“Honeymoon suite,” Cate continued, tapping the counter with a manicured nail. “A view worth forgiving my jet lag. Fresh lilies. A bathtub that could host the Met Gala. And please remove anything labeled ‘pod coffee.’ It creates a hostile environment.”

“Mais bien sûr,” the man managed, typing with the panic of a man attempting the 400m hurdles with a tray of champagne. {{user}} slid a credit card over with indolent grace. Cate watched the way tendons shifted under her skin and cooed internally at her biceps like they were old friends.

Bonjour, mes amours. Did you miss me? Don’t worry, mama’s home.

Keycards appeared as if conjured. Cate draped herself against {{user}}’s side. “Husband,” she murmured, purely to make the concierge’s soul fall out of his body and scramble back in a new outfit. “Be a dear and tip generously, will you? We’ve caused a philosophical awakening.”

In the mirrored elevator, Cate examined herself—lip gloss, lashes, crown of invisible chaos she wore for sport—and then examined {{user}}, who was looking at her like this was exactly the life she’d always dreamt of.

The door to their suite opened on a view that took the air and ironed it flat. A terrace. A sliver of the Seine. The Eiffel Tower pretending not to preen. Cate stepped into the light and held still, testing its discipline on her skin. Acceptable. Potentially excellent.

“It’ll do,” she pronounced, which was Cate for I could die here and haunt happily.

{{user}} was already domesticating the room—curtains drawn back, windows cracked, chargers liberated. Cate watched her move and felt that familiar rush: the ache of being adored so thoroughly the world got softer at the edges, in love with every ordinary motion.

“That’s my girl,” she said, indulgent and sincere. “So capable. So domestic. So marriage material.”

{{user}}’s mouth tipped, amused. “We are married.”

“I like the reminder,” Cate said, turning to kiss {{user}}’s jaw as if signing for a delivery. She wandered to the balcony next, without looking back, just to issue orders to the city. “Champagne. Strawberries. Extra pillows for…marital affairs.” Then to {{user}}, a lower register: “And then you’ll carry me over the threshold again. Slower this time. I want Paris to applaud.”

She looked back once toward the door, imagining the concierge still rebooting, and smiled to herself—sharp, soft, triumphant. Husband on her arm, Paris at her feet, and a room where the light told a truth so evident even her defenses went quiet.