- Max -
"Presidential Suite, L'Étoile Hotel," Lani announced, handing Max the ornate key card with a perfectly neutral expression that didn't quite hide the glint in her eyes. "There was a booking... situation. Again."
Max accepted the key with a raised eyebrow. "A situation."
"Terrible mix-up. System error. One suite instead of two."
"How unfortunate," Max replied dryly.
"I could try to fix it," Lani offered, already backing away toward the elevator. "But it's Fashion Week. Everything's booked solid."
"Of course it is."
"I'm sure you and Ms. Kaiser can work something out." Lani's professional mask slipped just enough to reveal a hint of smugness. "Like professionals."
Max maintained her stern expression until the elevator doors closed on her assistant's retreating form. Only then did she allow herself a small smile.
These booking "errors" had become so predictable they were almost comical. First Geneva. Then the Plaza. Now Paris. At this point, she half-suspected Lani and Aurelia's assistant had a dedicated group chat for coordinating their "mistakes."
The truth was, after weeks of clandestine nights and careful public distance, Max no longer minded these arrangements. Not that she'd ever admit it to Lani.
She made her way down the corridor, heels sinking into plush carpet, body aching from twelve hours of camera flashes and pitch meetings. Fashion Week was its own kind of battlefield—one Max had always navigated with clinical precision and strategic distance. But this season was different. This season she was here with Aurelia, their collaboration the talk of the industry, their every public interaction scrutinized for signs of the rivalry turned partnership that had captivated the business press.
And now, another night together. Another suite. Another opportunity to explore whatever was growing between them behind closed doors while maintaining perfect professional composure in public.
The door opened before she could use her key.
Aurelia leaned against the frame, barefoot already, copper hair loose around her shoulders, champagne flute in hand. "Let me guess. Booking situation?"
"Lani's becoming predictable," Max said, stepping inside as Aurelia moved back to let her pass.
"I think she's becoming desperate," Aurelia replied, closing the door behind them. "Poor thing believes she's being subtle."
The suite was spectacular—all cream and gold, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Eiffel Tower glittering against the night sky. A king bed dominated one end of the main room, already turned down for the evening. A champagne bottle chilled in a silver bucket near the window.
"If she tried any harder, she'd just book us a honeymoon suite and be done with it," Max said, toeing off her stilettos with a sigh of relief.
Aurelia laughed, the sound warm and genuine in a way few people ever heard from her. "Don't give her ideas." She moved to the champagne bucket, pouring a second glass and offering it to Max. "I requested the good stuff. Figured if we're going to endure Fashion Week together, we might as well be properly fortified."
Their fingers brushed during the exchange—a brief touch that sent familiar warmth through Max's body despite her exhaustion. After all their nights together, the effect Aurelia had on her should have diminished. Instead, it seemed to grow stronger with each encounter.
"To booking situations," Aurelia said, raising her glass.
Max clinked her flute against Aurelia's. "And assistants who think they're matchmakers."
They both sipped, eyes meeting over crystal rims, the shared humor of the moment creating an intimacy that went beyond their physical connection. This was new—this easy companionship, this shared understanding, this quiet acknowledgment of what existed between them without needing to define it.
Max moved to the window, taking in the Parisian skyline. The City of Light lived up to its name, especially from this vantage point. She felt Aurelia come up beside her, not touching but close enough that the scent of her perfume—jasmine and something uniquely her—wrapped around Max like an embrace.
"Tired?" Aurelia asked, voice softer than her public persona ever allowed.
"Exhausted," Max admitted, permitting herself a vulnerability she showed to almost no one else.
"Too tired for..." Aurelia's question trailed off suggestively.
Max turned to her, taking in the slight smudge of eyeliner at the corner of her eye, the copper hair slightly mussed from running her hands through it, the faint wrinkle in the silk blouse that had been pristine that morning. Imperfections that made her more real, more present, more attractive than any polished public image.
"Never too tired for that," Max said, voice dropping to a register that made Aurelia's eyes darken in response.
But this time, when they moved toward each other, it wasn't with their usual urgency. There was no need to rush, no fear of discovery, no pretense this was just a momentary lapse in judgment.
Just the quiet acknowledgment that this—whatever it was—had become something they both wanted. Something they both chose, night after night, despite every reason they had to stop.
Their fingers touched briefly around the stem of the champagne flute.
It was a mistake. Max knew it was.
But she didn't pull away.
"I hate how much I want you," Aurelia said suddenly, voice quiet.
Max turned to her.
Aurelia didn't look at her.
She was staring at the tower, as if saying it to the skyline would make it less dangerous.
"I hate how much I think about you when you're not there," she added. "It's not useful."
Max swallowed. Hard.
The confession hung between them, more naked than either had been with each other despite their previous physical intimacy. This wasn't about bodies anymore. This wasn't about release or rivalry or temporary insanity.
This was honest. Vulnerable. Real.
"This was supposed to burn out," Max murmured. "You're chaos. I don't do chaos."
"Then why are you still here?"
Max didn't have an answer.
So she kissed her.
This time, slowly.
No urgency. No heat meant to erase thought.
Just lips meeting like a secret. Like truth.
---
-Aurelia-
When Max kissed her like that—steady, unafraid, present—Aurelia forgot how to breathe.
She knew how Max moved when she wanted to dominate. She knew the push, the hunger, the restraint that broke like glass. But this?
This was careful.
Hands in her hair like it mattered. Fingers tracing her spine like she was fragile. Like she wasn't just a body, just a conquest, just a momentary escape from corporate pressure.
Max pulled her closer. Their bodies touched, and this time, it wasn't frantic. It was a slow undoing. A silk ribbon slipping from its knot.
Aurelia let Max guide her toward the bed. She let her settle between her thighs. Let her shirt fall open.
She didn't laugh. Didn't tease.
She looked up at Max like she wanted to remember her face for a long time.
Max kissed down her throat, hands learning instead of claiming. Tender in places she'd been commanding before. Present in a way that made Aurelia's chest ache with something she wasn't ready to name.
And when Aurelia gasped, soft and aching, it wasn't about being conquered.
It was about being seen.
Their bodies moved together with the synchronicity of those who had memorized each other's responses, but with a new attentiveness, a new care. No rush toward completion. No battle for control. Just the slow, deliberate exploration of territory that was becoming familiar but somehow still felt new.
Max whispered her name against her skin—not Kaiser, not CEO, just Aurelia—and it felt more intimate than anything they'd done before. More exposing than being naked. More revealing than physical surrender.
When they finally came together, it wasn't with the explosive urgency of their previous encounters. It was with a sustained, building intensity that left them both gasping, clinging to each other not just for pleasure but for grounding, for connection, for something neither had planned to need.
After, they lay chest to chest, breath mingling in the dark, the Eiffel Tower flickering gold through the window.
Aurelia traced the line of Max's jaw.
"Still hate Paris?" she whispered.
Max smiled against her collarbone.
"No," she said. "Just the part where I have to leave."
---
They were still tangled together when her breathing slowed. Her fingers drifted up and down Max's back—idly, absentmindedly, like she wasn't trying to memorize her.
Max's head rested on her shoulder, hair damp from steam and sex and champagne. For once, she didn't move away. Didn't retreat to her side of the bed. Didn't rebuild the careful walls they'd been dismantling piece by piece since that first night in Geneva.
"Remember the summer internship war at Wharton?" Aurelia murmured.
Max made a low sound. "God. You mean the Bain-McKinsey bloodbath?"
Aurelia laughed. "You sabotaged my final round."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did," she said, poking her in the side. "You told the recruiter I was late to our joint project meeting."
"You were late."
"I was ten minutes late because I was helping that first-year who fainted in the library."
Max lifted her head, brows raised. "I didn't know that."
"You didn't ask."
Max went quiet.
Then, softly: "I assumed you were playing the game."
Aurelia tilted her head. "And you weren't?"
Max looked down at the sheets. "I was always playing it. I didn't know how not to."
The admission carried weight beyond the anecdote—a glimpse into the Sterling upbringing, the expectations that had shaped Max into the controlled, calculating CEO she'd become. The legacy she both protected and sometimes seemed trapped by.
Aurelia traced a lazy circle over her hipbone. "You were so cold back then. So... buttoned up. I hated how precise you were."
"And I hated how you could walk into a room and make everyone look without trying."
"Jealous?"
Max smirked. "Terrified."
Aurelia went still for a beat. "You know... I always thought you saw me as a threat."
"I did."
"But I wanted you to see me."
Max looked at her. Really looked. The soft lighting caught the edge of her cheekbone, the curve of her mouth. Her bare shoulder. The flicker of something unguarded in her eyes.
"I did," Max whispered. "I just didn't know how to look at you without losing control."
The words hung between them—honest in a way they'd never been with each other. Not calculated. Not strategic. Just true.
They lay there, unspeaking for a while. The sound of traffic floated up from the Paris streets below.
Then Aurelia, with a sigh: "What are we doing, Max?"
The question encompassed everything—the clandestine nights, the public pretense, the growing complexity of whatever was developing between them. It wasn't just about sex anymore. Wasn't just about release or rivalry or momentary weakness.
It was about the way Max's hand fit against the small of her back. The way Aurelia found herself checking her phone for Max's messages even during meetings. The way they'd started finishing each other's sentences in joint interviews, to the delight of the fashion press and the confusion of their respective teams.
It was about the inescapable fact that what had begun as physical attraction had evolved into something neither had anticipated. Something neither had safeguards against.
Max didn't answer right away.
Her fingers laced with Aurelia's beneath the sheets.
And for once, she didn't pretend she had the answer.