10. Crossing Lines
Crossing Lines
CONNOR
The back terrace is empty.
Just empty tables and champagne flutes catching moonlight. No mysterious texter. No trap. No one waiting to explain why they've been orchestrating our nightmare.
Rachel's hand tightens in mine. "They were never here."
"No." I scan the terrace one more time. Protocol, not hope. "They were watching to see if we'd come."
"Then they know we're not backing down."
"Good." I turn to face her. "Because we're not."
She meets my eyes. Hazel with green flecks, backlit by Paris at night. Defiant. Unbroken.
The trap wasn't here.
It's wherever we go next.
"So we go to them," Rachel says.
We're back in the limo, headed toward the hotel. Eddie's eyes are locked on the road. The privacy screen is down, which means this conversation is tactical. Not personal.
Not yet.
"Isabelle's hosting a private showcase at the Beaumont gallery tomorrow night," Rachel continues. "Fashion elite. Press. Investors. Everyone who matters."
"You want to walk into Beaumont's territory."
"I want to confront Fawn where she can't hide." Rachel's voice is steady. Certain. "In front of two hundred witnesses."
I should say no. Should tell her it's too dangerous, too public, too many variables I can't control.
But I look at her face in the passing streetlights, and I see something that stops the refusal before it forms.
She's not asking permission.
She's informing me of the plan.
"Then we'll need evidence," I say instead. "Something that ties her to Helix Communications. Something undeniable."
"Working on it." Rachel pulls out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. "Linh has a contact at Le Monde. If we can connect Fawn to that fabricated interview..."
"We can prove conspiracy."
"Exactly."
The limo slides through Paris traffic. I should be strategizing. Planning contingencies. Mapping exits.
Instead, I'm watching Rachel work.
The way her brow furrows when she's concentrating. The determined set of her jaw. The confidence radiating from every gesture.
This woman walked into a Paris scandal three weeks ago with her career on fire and her reputation in ruins.
Now she's hunting the person who tried to destroy her.
And I'm falling so hard I can't remember why I thought I could stop it.
The Beaumont gallery glitters like a jewelry box designed to make you feel poor.
Three-story ceilings. Gold leaf molding. Champagne towers that cost more than most people's mortgages.
And every single person in this room is going to watch Rachel walk in like she belongs here.
Because she does.
"Ready?" I ask.
Rachel adjusts her dress. Midnight blue, hand-stitched, the one she made in her Paris workroom while I was hunting Fawn's financial trail.
The fabric catches light like water, flowing over her curves with the kind of precision that only comes from someone who understands bodies and beauty and the space between them.
She's wearing her work like armor.
"I'm going to burn her to the ground," she says. Calm. Certain.
I believe her.
We walk in together. My hand at the small of her back. Not possessive. Protective.
The room shifts.
Conversations pause. Heads turn. I catch fragments of whispers. That's her. The scandal. How dare she.
Rachel doesn't flinch.
She walks through the crowd like she owns the air itself, and I watch dozens of expressions shift from scandalized to curious to grudgingly impressed.
That's my girl.
The thought hits before I can stop it.
Not my client. Not my problem to solve.
Mine.
Fawn sees us before we see her.
I know because the room changes. Conversations pause. Heads turn. Someone drops a champagne flute.
She's standing near the Rothko, flanked by two women I don't recognize. Designer dress. Perfect hair. Smile like a knife.
She starts walking toward us.
Rachel doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't reach for my hand.
She just stands there. Waiting.
This was always going to end here.
"Rachel." Fawn's voice is silk over steel. "How brave of you to show your face."
"Funny." Rachel's smile could cut glass. "I was about to say the same thing."
The women flanking Fawn exchange glances. One of them steps back. Smart.
"I don't know what you think you're doing here," Fawn begins.
"I'm here to watch you lie," Rachel interrupts. "Same thing you've been doing since Parsons."
Fawn's expression flickers. Just for a second. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"My thesis gown. The one you plagiarized." Rachel's voice is steady, but I can feel the rage underneath. Years of it. "The one you presented as your own work after I trusted you with my sketches."
"That's a serious accusation." Fawn's smile sharpens. "One you can't prove."
"Actually." Rachel pulls her phone from her clutch. Screen facing outward. "I can."
I see the photos before Fawn does. Side-by-side images. Rachel's original sketches, dated and archived from Parsons. Fawn's showcase piece. Identical.
"You were nobody at Parsons," Fawn says, voice dropping low enough that only the three of us can hear. "A scholarship girl with safety pins holding your hems together. And now..."
Her voice cracks. Just once.
"Now everyone acts like you invented fashion."
It's not jealousy.
It's something worse.
It's the rage of someone who's never been chosen first.
"So you tried to destroy me," Rachel says quietly. "Helix Communications. Senator Moreau. The fabricated photos. All of it."
"I tried to show people the truth." Fawn's composure is fracturing, piece by piece. "That you're nothing special. That you don't deserve..."
"Deserve what?" Rachel's voice cuts clean. "The career I built? The talent I earned? Or just the attention you think belongs to you?"
The silence stretches.
Then Fawn smiles.
And I know, with cold certainty, that we're about to get what we came for.
"You want the truth?" Fawn leans in close.
"Fine. I orchestrated everything. The photos.
The scandal. The Moreau connection. I fed Julian every piece of information he needed to tank your investor confidence.
I paid Helix Communications to destroy you in every outlet that mattered. " Rachel's phone is still in her hand.
Screen facing Fawn.
Recording.
I see it the moment Fawn does. Her eyes flick down, then back up.
Too late.
"You just confessed to conspiracy, fraud, and criminal harassment," Rachel says. Voice steady as a blade. "In front of two hundred witnesses. And on video."
Fawn lunges.
I step between them before she makes contact, one hand catching Fawn's wrist, the other braced against her shoulder.
"Don't," I say quietly.
Security appears. Two men in dark suits, moving fast.
"Escort Ms. Moreau out," I tell them. "And contact her attorney. She's going to need one."
Fawn wrenches free, eyes blazing. "This isn't over."
"Yes," Rachel says from behind me. "It is."
We watch security walk Fawn toward the exit. The crowd parts. Cameras flash.
And Rachel stands there, phone in hand, evidence recorded, breathing hard.
Victory.
We're three blocks from the Beaumont when Rachel starts laughing.
Not nervous laughter. Not relief.
Victory.
"We did it," she says. "We actually did it."
"You did it." I look at her. Phone in her hand, evidence recorded, Fawn's confession captured in four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. "I just stood there."
"You stepped between us when she lunged."
"Instinct."
"Exactly." She turns to face me in the dark. "You protect me even when I don't need it. Even when I'm handling it myself."
The adrenaline is still coursing through both of us. I can see it in the way she's breathing. The flush on her cheeks. The way her eyes are locked on mine.
"Connor."
"Yeah."
"I'm going to kiss you now."
"Rachel..."
She kisses me anyway.
And this time, I don't stop her.
Her lips are champagne and victory and three weeks of wanting compressed into one reckless moment.
I should pull back. Should remind her we're in the back of a limo, that Eddie's twenty-four inches and a privacy screen away, that we just declared war on some very dangerous people and this is the wrong time to...
Her hands slide into my hair.
Fuck it.
I kiss her back.
Not gentle. Not testing. I pull her into my lap with both hands at her waist, and she comes willingly, that midnight blue dress riding up as her thighs bracket mine.
The privacy screen is already up.
Eddie. Good man.
Rachel breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this." My voice doesn't sound like mine. "I've wanted this since the moment you threw a Louboutin at my head."
She laughs against my mouth. "Liar. You wanted to strangle me."
"That too."
I kiss her again, harder this time, and she makes a sound low in her throat that unravels something I've been keeping locked.
Three weeks of forced proximity. Of watching her fight and strategize and refuse to break. Of wanting her and denying it and lying to myself about professional boundaries that stopped mattering somewhere around the second time she smiled at me.
"Connor." She pulls back just enough to look at me. "Are you going to stop this time?"
I should.
Every rule I've ever followed says I should.
But I look at her. Hair wild, lips swollen, eyes dark with want. And I can't find a single reason that matters more than this.
"No," I say. "I'm not."
Something shifts in her expression. Relief. Heat. Permission.
She kisses me again, and this time there's nothing careful about it.
My hands find the zipper at her back. One smooth pull, and the dress loosens. Her skin is warm under my palms, soft and real and right here.
"You're sure?" I ask against her throat.
"I've been sure since Milan." Her fingers work my belt. Urgent. Certain. "Stop asking me questions and touch me."
So I do.
I slide one hand up her spine, feeling her shiver. The other finds the curve of her hip, and I grip hard enough to leave marks I'll regret and crave in equal measure.
She gasps when I find the edge of her underwear.
"Still sure?" My voice is rough.
"Connor Grey, if you stop now, I will actually kill you."
I laugh. Can't help it. "Noted."