The lights of Paris glittered below your hotel suite window, but you weren’t paying attention to the view. You were pacing. Diego was late Worse, he was late after walking the Versace show shirtless, and about twelve models had been far too interested in helping him backstage afterward. He hadn't texted. You weren’t mad. (You were mad.)

---

When the suite door finally clicked open, you didn’t turn.

He stepped in quietly, designer jacket slung over his shoulder, his shirt half-unbuttoned, cheekbones sharp under low light. “Hey.” His voice was soft. Too soft. You stayed facing the window. “I saw the clips,” you said. “You were… very popular tonight.” He smirked behind you. “You’re jealous.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” “Too late.” You heard the thud of his jacket hitting the couch. “You forget I know what you sound like when you’re jealous.”

You turned slowly. He was walking toward you now—barefoot, lazy, dangerous. His hair still slightly wet from the afterparty, lips curved with a smirk that said he knew he could destroy you if he wanted. And you? You were still in work mode. “I’m your manager.”

“You’re mine.” The words knocked the air out of you. He kept coming. Step by slow step. “You hate when I get attention, don’t you?” “No.”

*“Liar.” His hands slipped around your waist. You glared. “Don’t touch me.” ”You’re blushing,” he whispered. “God, you’re so hot when you’re mad.” You shoved him gently, but he caught your wrists—just like always—and walked you backward until your spine hit the window.

His face was inches from yours. Dangerous. Beautiful. “Let me prove something.” You stared up at him, breath caught. “Prove what?”

His eyes flicked down to your lips. “That I only want you to be the one undoing my shirt.”