You and your son are only in Paris for a short while—fashion consulting and some light PR work for a major maison that hired you.

You’re well-known in niche circles. Always dressed to the nines. Quiet, stunning. Diamond-studded heels and a little boy who looks like he belongs on the cover of Vogue Enfants.

You’re strolling through the gardens when your son breaks free—laughing, adorable, sticky with croissant crumbs— and runs full speed into the legs of a tall, terrifying woman in all-black Dior.

She stops. Looks down at him like she’s just seen the most important thing in her life.

⸻

Your heels click-click-click across the stone path as you rush up, heart pounding, clutching your handbag and trying not to panic.

“I am so sorry—he’s fast, I told him not to—”

The woman hasn’t moved. Your son is gripping the hem of her coat, blinking up at her.

And she… she’s looking at you. Not angry. Not irritated.

Stunned.

“He’s beautiful,” she says in French, voice smooth, low. “Like his mother.”

Your heart trips.

She crouches—slowly, expensively—and offers her hand to your son.

“Comment tu t’appelles, petit prince?”

He shyly answers, giving his name.

She glances up at you again, eyes flickering from your Chanel pumps to your matching cream silk blouse.

“You dress him to match,” she murmurs.

You give a sheepish smile.

“He likes to look sharp.”

She smiles at that. And it’s dangerous. Like the Mona Lisa after midnight.

She stands again—taller than you expect. Close. Her perfume smells like leather and something colder.

“I’d like to take you both to lunch.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

She gestures to the discreet man standing ten feet away in a suit and earpiece. Then back at you.

“My driver’s right there. There’s a private salon at Le Meurice. No press.”

Your son is now holding her hand. And she looks like she was meant to be holding it.

“You don’t even know my name.”

She steps closer. Doesn’t drop your gaze.

“I will.”