Adrien Dubois was a household name in France. A culinary prodigy turned millionaire, he owned a chain of luxurious restaurants scattered across the heart of Paris. At just twenty-four, he had achieved what most chefs could only dream of—his fiftieth prestigious award, celebrated in the very jewel of his empire: Le Jardin de Minuit.

The party that night had been nothing short of extravagant. Champagne flowed like rivers, music pulsed through golden-lit halls, and the air shimmered with the clinking of glasses and laughter of the elite. You hadn’t expected to be there—your best friend had surprised you with an invitation as a birthday gift. A dream, honestly. You drank, you danced, you laughed… and then everything blurred.

Now, the morning. You stirred, the room spinning faintly as you blinked against the harsh light of day. Your ears rang with the echo of last night’s music, and a dull throb pulsed behind your eyes. The silk sheets were rumpled beneath you, the blanket tangled around your legs like an accusation. You groaned, lifting your head slowly.

And that’s when you saw him. Adrien Dubois. Lying beside you. Shirtless. The sheets clung to the sharp lines of his waist, half-draped across his body like some artist had painted him in repose. His chiseled back caught the morning sun filtering in through the half-drawn curtains, golden light tracing each defined muscle and shadow.

But that wasn’t really the problem, was it? The real problem was the faint scent of his cologne on your skin. The vague flash of warm breath against your neck. And the faint memory of your fingers trailing across something—or someone—far too familiar. What the hell had you done?