Then he opens the outer door, leading me to an inner door that he knocks on three times. When he opens the door, he stands aside. “Madame Corbin will see you now.”

  Jacqueline sits in a throne-like leather wingback chair behind a huge gilded white desk that looks like it came from Versailles. Knowing her, it probably did. “Madame Corbin, bonjour.”

  “Good evening, Mademoiselle Fisher,” Jacqueline responds coldly. She’s wearing red today, and while I can’t see below her waist due to the huge desk she’s perched behind, I get a very distinct Queen of Hearts impression. Hopefully, my head is safe.

  I feel decidedly underdressed to be in her presence too. My slim black pants and loose linen top are not nearly chic enough, and I’ve been working all day, up and down from the floor, lying over my table, and sweating as I feed materials through the sewing machine. I run my hands over my thighs, hoping I’m wiping away lint but also drying the nervous sweat from my palms.

  “I advised that there would be critiques after the shows if I felt it warranted,” Jacqueline says. She places her hand on a manilla folder on her desk, and I can see that my photo is clipped to the outside.

  “Yes,” I sigh in relief.

  Jacqueline’s eyes lock onto me. “Your designs were intriguing.”

  That’s it? Intriguing? Is that good? Bad? Help an anxiety-riddled designer out!

  I wait for her to say more, not that I expect her to wax poetic on my work, but a simple ‘I liked the dress’ would go a long way toward reassuring me and allaying some insecurities. She stays completely silent. “Uhm, thank you,” I respond a beat too late.

  Her smile feels like a knife twisting in my back. “But that is not why I called you here.”

  I swallow, the gulp audible. “It’s not?” I say tightly.

  “You have been seeing my nephew, Mademoiselle Fisher.” She lets that bomb hang in the air, and when it detonates, there’s shrapnel throughout my mind and my heart. My jaw drops open, my eyes wide. It’s not exactly forbidden in the competition, but it goes against the spirit of things and I know it.

  I gambled, and now I’m losing.

  “Ma’am—”

  She holds her hand up, stopping whatever defensive excuses I can offer.

  “He thinks he can keep secrets from me, but I have known him his entire life. There is nothing I don’t know or that isn’t shared with me by someone in Paris.” She looks down her nose, ensuring that I understand that she has eyes all over the city, not that we’ve been particularly sneaky. “At first, I admired your resourcefulness. If you can’t work your way into the House, sleeping your way in is a reasonable use of your talents.”

  “Excuse me?” I snap. “Are you accusing me of fucking my way to the top?” Her French accent doesn’t make her able to say whatever she wants. I’m offended and angry, not giving two shits about professionalism when I’m being accused of something so crass.

  “Actually, as I said . . . at first, I considered that. But seeing your designs, it seemed a bit like putting ganache on top of icing. A bit unnecessary.”

  “Huh?” Not my brightest comeback, but that almost sounded like . . . a compliment in a twisted way. I shift on my feet, wringing my hands, not sure what to expect.

  “On second thought, I considered that he wooed you. He’s quite the charmer, hard to resist, I imagine.” She tilts her head, her lips lifting in something resembling a wry smile. “Well, I suppose I don’t have to imagine. He’s quite the ladies’ man, after all.”

  Jacqueline leans forward, laying her hands on top of one another on her desk. Her look seems pitying and full of concern . . . for me.

  Is she kicking me out of the competition? No! I’ve worked so hard.

  “I feel like I should warn you that Simon, while he’s like a son to me, is not known for being . . . a long-term partner. Do you understand what I’m saying?” she asks.

  “You think he’ll break my heart when he throws me away and moves on to the next woman,” I surmise. Admittedly, I’ve worried about the same thing. Simon and I aren’t exactly a perfectly logical match.

  “That, and that your place in the competition will be compromised. He surely can’t judge you and the others objectively. I can filter out his feedback. It’s my ultimate decision as it is. But consider if you won.” She pauses, seeming to think that possibility is absurd. “If that happened, and then it came out that you and Simon were involved, the reputation of House Corbin would be scandalized, the competition seen as a mere farce. If you don’t win, you’ll return to America and Simon will stay here. There’s simply no positive outcome with this.”

  “What if the positive outcome is that I do my best work, inspired by the beauty of Paris, and fall in love with a wonderful man?” I suggest, aware that I sound like the most ridiculous silver-lining finder in existence.

  Any warmth or sense of warning evaporates as she becomes the cold, shrewd businesswoman she’s known to be. “Let me be clear, Mademoiselle Fisher. You will stop seeing Simon. When he tries to see you, you will decline. Focus on your work. Find fulfillment there, and there alone. You are talented, so perhaps you will still have a chance to work with House Corbin in the future. Maybe even as the result of the competition.”

  It’s an order if ever I’ve heard one. And a warning . . . don’t do as I’m told, and I will never get to work with the House.

  Without waiting for my reply, Albert steps forward from behind me. I didn’t even hear him come in.

  “Autumn?” he says.

  I’m clearly being dismissed, and I turn slowly to follow Albert. But I look back over my shoulder to Jacqueline. She’s placing the folder with my photo into a tray on her desk as though I’m completely disposable.

  Pressure tightens around my chest, complications piling up on my shoulders. Well, the complications were already there, but having a light shone on them makes them seem that much more real.

  I’m going to have to choose. Do I care more about making my dreams come true? Do I care about winning this competition and becoming a successful fashion designer?

  Or do I care more about Simon Corbin?

  And can I even choose at this point?

  CHAPTER 18

  SIMON

  I bang on Autumn’s door, calling out, “Autumn! Open the door! Let me in!”

  A door behind me opens and a head pops out. I look back and point at Autumn’s door, demanding, “Have you seen her?”

  The neighbor points down the hall where another door opens and Autumn appears.

  Did I have the wrong door? But no . . . the numbers are correct. Is she coming out of someone else’s apartment? The thought leaves me frozen in angry shock for a moment. It’s then that I realize she’s simply coming out of the shared washroom because she’s wearing flowy pants and a camisole and carrying a towel and shower caddy.

  “Simon? What are you doing here?” she asks, rushing down the hall to me. “Is everything okay?”

  I snort out a derisive laugh. “Non, non, things are not okay. We need to talk.” Tobias and Albert are friendly, and as soon as Tobias heard what Jacqueline did, he hunted me down to inform me, thankfully with zero judgment. He’s a good friend, and one who can keep his mouth shut when the situation calls for it, or let the right person know what they need to know in other situations.

  Like this.

  She opens her door, and I push my way inside, slamming the door behind me. “Shh, my neighbors!” Autumn hisses.

  I don’t care about them. Don’t give a fuck about disturbing them when Autumn and I need to talk about what I heard at the office tonight.

  The apartment isn’t small, it’s miniscule. There’s barely room for the bed and a desk, but Autumn has made the most of it. There are countless drawings tacked up to the wall, along with fabric swatches and scribbled words creating an inspiration board of sorts.

  “What did Jacqueline say to you?” I snarl. I’m furious—not at Autumn, but at my aunt.

  “The long and the short of it? We can’t see each other,” she answers, plopping down onto the bed. She crisscrosses her legs, her hands in her lap.

  I drop to my knees in front of her, my feet nearly flush against the wall in the tight space, and cover her hands with my own. “It’s too late for that, Princesse. You said you didn’t want casual, and I agreed. We’re in this now, no turning back.”

  “I need to focus on the competition, Simon. This is a big opportunity for me,” she pleads, her face filled with pain. “She can end me.”

  I don’t care. Nothing has changed between us. Only Jacqueline’s interference.

  “You and I have nothing to do with the competition, and you know it. Others might have a hard time believing that, but we know the truth. You are a talented designer who earned her way here, and then the fates intervened, bringing us together.” I speak slowly and softly, wanting my words to wash over her and take away whatever damage has been done.

  I grip her hips to pull her to the edge of the bed, and she unfolds her legs, placing one on either side of me. I wonder if she realizes that she’s squeezing me as if she doesn’t want to let me go?

  Cupping her cheek, I whisper mindlessly in French into the small space between us, our lips brushing with the words as I tell her how much I care for her, am glad to have met her, and how much she’s quickly come to mean to me.

  She is wavering. I can taste her surrender, but there’s something holding her back. Something other than the competition.

  “What is it? Tell me so I can fix it.”

  Her sigh is heavy with weight and doubt. “She told me you’d throw me away and move on to the next woman, breaking my heart.”

  Furious, I growl before reassuring her, “Mon amour, ton coeur est à moi. Your heart is mine, Princesse. And no one can take it away. Not my aunt, not even you. I will take the utmost care of you, of your heart.”

  She lays her arms over my shoulders, fingering the hair at the nape of my neck. “It was . . . I felt like I’d disappointed her. And that makes me worry about disappointing myself if things go sideways. I don’t want to look back on this and feel like I got played. By you, or by my own stupidity.”

  I pull her off the bed and into my lap as I sit back on my heels. Her core is aligned with my dick, her heat through the thin pajama pants a welcoming haven as she holds on tighter. “You won’t.”

  I don’t know if she hears me, though, because the promise is made as I kiss along the tendon at her neck, licking up to nibble her earlobe. She tilts her head, giving me more access, and I suck at the tender skin there. Mon Dieu, I want to mark her so everyone knows she is mine.

  No, I want to mark her so she knows she is mine. So that every time these doubts creep up, she need only look in the mirror and know.

  When I move to lift her camisole, planning to lick her breasts until she is liquid for me, she moans unhappily. “The walls, they’re too thin. The neighbors will hear.”

  “I don’t care if the whole world hears you calling out my name.”

  She laughs as if I’m joking, which I’m definitely not. “Seriously, if we’re doing this, we need to be discreet. I don’t want to piss off Jacqueline any more than I already have, and she made it sound like she has spies all over the city. I wouldn’t doubt that my neighbor is one.”

  A dirty thought occurs to me.

  “You do not wish to be seen? You want to go about our business without being discovered?” I ask, heat woven through the inquiry.

  “Whatcha got in mind? Because it definitely sounds like something,” Autumn answers with a conspiratorial grin.

  I pick her up, guiding her back to the bed, and then rise myself. I find the small wardrobe where her clothes are and open it, helping myself. I hand her a plain black dress with spaghetti straps, a woman’s most versatile LBD, and explain. “You wish to fully experience Paris—the beauty, the ugliness, but how about the naughty? Would you like that, Princesse?”

  Holding the dress, she appraises me with narrowed eyes. “We won’t be seen?”

  “Simon and Autumn will not be seen, of that you can be sure.”

  Wearing the dress I selected and a pair of heels, Autumn looks out the window at the lights glowing over the city as we drive through the night. She looks contemplative, thinking about us or what Jacqueline, said I’m not sure. But she’s with me. That has to count for something.

  I make a turn, and suddenly, her face lights up. “That’s the Moulin Rouge!”

  “The very same,” I reply, smiling. “Let me guess . . . you know the movie?”

  “For a long time, the only French I knew was voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir,” Autumn admits, laughing. “Then I found out what it means. I can’t believe I was going around singing that when I was just a kid.”

  I laugh, even as my body thrills at the words coming from her mouth. “Welcome to Paris’s Red Light District. War couldn’t stop it, religious revivals couldn’t stop it, pandemics couldn’t stop it.”

  “It’s like Vegas meets Soho,” Autumn notes, looking around. “The glitz and glam have that edge to it, but there’s way too many innocent looking tourists to really make this place dangerous and lewd.”

  I pull around to the back of a nondescript building and find a parking space in the private lot. Shutting off the car, I turn to Autumn. “Are you ready for a Paris adventure?”

  She points at the building in front of us, which is bland by any standard but particularly in Paris, considering there is no architecture beyond bricks and a door. The windows are frosted over, not allowing anyone to peek inside. “That’s an adventure?”

  I pin her gaze with my own, wanting to see every nuance of her reaction to my next words. “It’s an adult playground.”

  My tone is clear, and I watch closely as several expressions cross her face. Shock, concern, and surprise all vie for dominance before something else breaks through . . . excitement.

  “Yes,” she says. No questions about whether she can trust me, no questions about what this adult playground might be. Just a simple . . . yes.

  Inside, I feel something important grow.

  Together, we approach the door. It’s unremarkable, black steel that looks like a service entrance, if anything. The only sign that this could be anything else is the small symbol carved on the bricks above the doorway and the buzzer beside it.

  I buzz, and a moment later the door unlocks. The security system is so good that I don’t know quite where the cameras are.

  Inside is a single word, embossed on a golden plaque. Dungeon.

  The inner door opens, and a guard in all black gives us a look. “Card.”

  I reach into my wallet and withdraw the plain black card, handing it over to the guard who scans it before handing it back. Autumn gives me a look. “You’ve been here before?” she asks. “With other girls?”

  She doesn’t sound insecure. No, she sounds jealous, and part of me likes that. She doesn’t want me with anyone else because she wants me for herself. But we both have pasts we cannot change. That doesn’t mean I want to discuss them now, though, so I answer honestly and simply, “Once. The membership is a . . .” I stumble, not sure of the English word, and try, “benefit of celebrity?”

  “A perk?” she answers.

  I nod. Autumn looks to the guard as though confirming my story, but his face is blankly stoic. I have the sense that he could describe us precisely but also has not looked at us directly. I trust that he is well-versed in secrecy and will not speak of our appearance together, especially given the promise I made.

  “I feel like with the stress of today, you need a release. Also, some inspiration. There’s a lot of fashion here, believe it or not.” But she doesn’t need to be talked into this. Autumn is raring to go in, so excited she’s nearly buzzing.

  We go down the hallway, and I can see Autumn’s eyes roving, gathering in the Gothic aesthetic of the club. At the next door, I turn left with her, leading her into the dressing rooms.

  “The dress code is . . . well, you will see when you go inside,” I tell her, letting go of her hand. “There is only one hard rule. Everyone wears a mask.”

  Autumn looks over her shoulder at the door to the women’s dressing room and then back at me. “If you have on a mask, how will I know it’s you?”

  “Exactly,” I remind her. “You will know, but no one else will.” I step toward the door. “See you on the other side, Princesse.”

  She searches my face, looking for any sign of deception in my intentions. She will find none. I want to please her, experience Paris with her, and respect that she wishes to not be seen with me—which in itself is an unusuality that I quite like.

  With a decisive but tiny smile, she disappears into the women’s room.

  Inside the men’s room, it’s essentially a store meets locker room. There are racks of outfits, with fine clothing ranging from casual wear to tuxedos in every size. In another area, there are racks of kink clothing, leather and latex for both the dominant and the submissive. And last but not least is the specialty clothing area for those who wish to explore a side of themselves that perhaps society and their daily lives don’t allow them to. There, one can find costumes of every style.

  I strip off my clothing, locking them in the lockers that are available before looking at my nude form in the mirror. I’m in top condition. I have to be for photo shoots, but right now, all I can think of is what Autumn sees when she looks at me. I’ve sculpted myself, removing all the hair from my neck down, and as I look at my long, thick cock, it looks even longer without the tufts of pubic hair to hide some of its length.

  I hope that I’m everything Autumn could ever want.

  Considering what would make this the perfect French adventure for her, I go over to the more traditional evening clothes, selecting a slim-cut tuxedo with tails, foregoing underwear and making sure every button is perfect, every crease sharp before picking out my mask. The three-quarters white mask is classically Parisian, Le Fantôme, covering both of my eyes and one cheek while leaving my lips and the right side of my face uncovered.