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These questions spun through my head like a carousel, keeping sleep at bay.
When my alarm went off, I dragged myself up with eyes swollen like walnuts, exhausted to my core.
Walking into the living room, I found Marcelo already sitting at the dining table with two pristine breakfast plates laid out.
"Morning." He looked up, his gaze lingering on my face for a beat. "Sleep well?"
"Fine." I ducked his eyes, guilty, and sank into the chair across from him.
The air felt strange.
I kept my head down, cutting into my croissant, stealing glances at him from the corner of my eye. He looked the same as always—silver-gray hair combed back flawlessly, black shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing his solid forearms.
Did he remember last night? Did he know I'd covered him with a blanket?
"Two shows today." Marcelo's voice broke the silence. "Dior haute couture preview this morning, small indie designer showcase this afternoon. Eat up. It'll be exhausting."
"Got it." I nodded, forcing myself to act normal.
He didn't say anything else, just focused on his plate. But somehow, the silence made me even more tense.
Enough, Ruby. Focus on your work. Stop thinking about anything else!
I exhaled hard and pulled out my phone to start researching.
The next two days were packed wall-to-wall.
Marcelo revealed himself as the ruthless-eyed helmsman of luxury he truly was. In showrooms crammed with European elites and seasoned buyers, he stood beside me, murmuring insights you'd never learn from textbooks.
My black sketchbook filled up fast—dense with technical terms, annotated sketches, warp-and-weft tension analyses. I was a sponge, soaking up every drop of knowledge under his guidance.
As we spent more time together, something between us shifted.
By day at the shows, he was the imposing, intimidating Mr. Moretti. But back in the suite after midnight, stripped of his tie and watch, he became unexpectedly funny and patient. We'd sit cross-legged on the living room carpet, sketches scattered everywhere. He'd pour two glasses of red wine and listen as I rambled on about transplanting menswear structure into plus-size womenswear, occasionally throwing in a joke that made me collapse laughing against the sofa.
Mary's warning on the phone felt further and further away. I was letting my guard down around him, and I couldn't stop it.
But on the morning of the fourth day, our rhythm shattered.
I'd just finished organizing my notes and walked out of the bedroom when I saw Marcelo snap his laptop shut, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand.
"Today's schedule is canceled." He looked up at me.
I froze. "Canceled? But isn't today Pierre Durand's haute couture finale? We barely got those VIP invitations."
"Durand had an emergency gallbladder attack. They rushed him to the American Hospital half an hour ago. The whole show's pushed to next month." He stood, tossed his phone casually on the table, and something light flickered in his deep eyes—something almost relaxed. "In other words, Ms. Caldwell, we suddenly have an entire free day. Where do you want to go?"
I looked at him, hesitant. "Don't you have... emergency international conference calls? Or Puglia Textile Mill documents..."
"Work never ends." Marcelo let out a soft laugh, one eyebrow lifting. "We came all the way to Paris. If all I showed you were boring fabric samples, you'd probably curse me as a heartless capitalist when you got home."
He moved toward me with long strides, his tall frame blocking most of the light, then slowly extended his right hand.
That hand—long, knuckled, calloused palms, the ouroboros ring on his fourth finger gleaming cold silver.
"Come on, Ruby." His voice dropped low, gray-green eyes locked on mine. "Let me show you the real Paris."
Looking at that hand suspended in midair, my heart skipped hard. Logic warned me not to get swept away, but I thought of how he'd shielded me from crowds at the shows, his broad back a wall; how he'd focused so intently while correcting my sketches late at night... My hesitation lasted two seconds. I put my hand in his.
