She did. Immediately. Shoulders tightening, breath caught mid-rise. Catherine Torres did not stop easily. The fact that she did told me everything.

I pocketed my hands, turned slightly, and walked a few steps away from the railing. The terrace stretched out, quiet now, like it was giving us space on purpose.

"Walk with me."

She followed. Heels clicking softly on stone. The sound felt intimate, like punctuation.

I led her to the far corner of the terrace where the view opened widest—the entire city spreading out like a circuit board, millions of lights creating patterns that looked almost intentional. As if someone somewhere believed this chaos was manageable.

"It doesn't matter what I signed up for," I said quietly. "Escort, model, whatever label you want to put on it. The only thing I signed up for—the only thing that actually matters—is you."

I turned, took her hand, and pulled her into my embrace from behind, her back against my chest, both of us facing the city.

My arms wrapped around her waist, and I felt her exhale—slow, shaky, like a weight she'd been holding suddenly released, ass pressing back, heat grinding.

She melted into me, head tilting back to rest against my chest. I was taller, broad enough that she fit perfectly in the circle of my arms, cock hardening against her spine.

"Tell me something," I said, voice low near her ear, breath hot. "What are you? Who are you?"

"Catherine Reynolds," she said softly.

"And?"

"Your woman."

"Exactly." I held her tighter, hands sliding up her stomach, thumbs brushing underbreasts. "That's what I signed up for. To be your man. Your safety. Your sanctuary. Your everything. So yes, Catherine—I'll do anything for you. Not because you're paying me. Not because of some contract. But because you're mine, and I take care of what's mine."

I felt her body relax further, the tension bleeding out degree by degree, wetness soaking through fabric.

"Now," I continued, lips grazing her neck. "Tell me what you actually need. No compromises. No contingencies. No 'If you help me on this, I'll do anything' blank checks. Just the truth."

She was quiet for a moment, then spoke.

"I need you to walk the runway in Paris. I need you to represent Meridian Elite at the most important professional moment of my career. I need—" Her voice caught slightly. "I need to not fail. Not now. Not when I'm this close."

"You won't fail."

"You don't know that."

"I do. Because I'll be there." I

turned her gently to face me, hands on her shoulders, looking down at her face, cock pressing her belly. "But Catherine—listen to me carefully. You are my woman. That means you don't grovel to anyone. Ever. You don't offer blank checks like 'I'll do anything' EVER to anyone. You don't beg or plead or debase yourself, not even to me."

Her eyes widened slightly.

"Did you understand why?" I asked.

"Because... it's beneath me as your woman?"

"Because you're valuable. Because your worth isn't contingent on what you can do for others. Because the moment you start offering 'anything,' you're telling the world you don't believe your request alone is worth honoring."

I held her gaze. "You are Madison's aunt. You run one of the most successful agencies in California. You built an empire from nothing. You are brilliant, beautiful, strong, and more than capable of asking for what you need without groveling."

"I just—I didn't want you to think I was demanding—"

"I would never think that. But even if you were demanding? So what? You're my woman. You're allowed to demand things from me. That's what this is. Your Man and My Woman. You give, I give, and neither of us keeps score because we both know the other will show up when it matters."

She nodded slowly, and I saw something shift in her expression—pride replacing desperation, strength replacing uncertainty, thighs clenching, scent thick.

"So let me be clear," I said, voice firm, hands gripping her waist. "I will walk in Paris Fashion Week. I will represent Meridian Elite. I will do everything in my power to make sure you succeed. Not because you asked nicely. Not because you offered compensation. But because you need it, and I'm yours and YOU'RE MINE."

Her eyes brightened—relief and joy and something deeper, pupils blown, lips parting.

"But," I continued, thumb tracing her jaw. "you're going to stop apologizing for asking. You're going to stop offering 'anything' like you need to bargain for my loyalty. And you're going to remember that you're Catherine fucking Reynolds, and you don't beg for anything. Understood?"

"Understood," she whispered, breath hitching, thighs clenching.

"Good."

She surged forward, arms wrapping around my neck, lips finding mine in a kiss that was grateful and hungry and deep, tongue sliding, teeth nipping, moans vibrating.

Her body pressed against me, warmth and champagne and expensive perfume, breasts crushing, hips grinding, wetness soaking through fabric, and I held her, kissed her back, let her express what words couldn't, cock throbbing against her belly.

When we broke apart, her face was buried in my chest, arms still around me, breathing slightly uneven, scent thick.

"I'm sorry for bringing this up on your birthday," she murmured against my shirt, voice muffled.

"Don't be." I stroked her hair—long, soft, perfectly maintained, fingers tangling. "This is what birthdays are for. The people you love asking for what they need."

"Thank you, Peter."

"Always."

We stood there for a moment, the city glowing below us, the party continuing somewhere behind glass doors.

My mind was already working.

Paris Fashion Week evaluation. Three months in Paris. November through January. Fifty agencies competing for ten preferred spots.

The structure was clear: Catherine owned Meridian Elite. Her models were contracted to her agency. When fashion houses like Chanel or Dior needed models, they didn't hire individuals directly.

They called agencies on the preferred vendor list.

Catherine would dispatch her contracted models, negotiate rates, handle logistics. The fashion house paid Meridian Elite, Catherine paid her models, taking her percentage for managing the business.

Get on that preferred fashion giants list? And the calls never stopped. Priority booking for every major show across Paris, Milan, New York, London. Miss the cut, and you were fighting for scraps with forty other agencies who didn't make it.

Timeline: November and December in Paris for ongoing evaluation. Committee observing portfolios, runway sessions, test fittings, how models worked with designers. Not a single presentation but continuous assessment.

End of December, ten agencies selected.

January, those ten agencies' models stay for intensive preparation—rehearsals with each house that booked them, fittings, training. Then January 21-29, the actual shows. Nine days of runways, cameras, critics, the entire fashion world watching.

Three months total. Three months away from LA, from the harem, from the empire. But necessary.

The evaluation criteria: portfolio quality, runway presence, versatility, professionalism. Models judged on walk, proportions, adaptability, how well they embodied each designer's vision.

Catherine had her female models secured. Had Damien and Laurent—two of the three required males. Needed me as the third to meet minimum requirements and to bring something her other models didn't have: that innate presence that made cameras love you.

And beneath all the logistics—the real stakes: This was Catherine's proof.

Not just business success. Not just validation. Proof that she could compete with agencies backed by generational wealth and century-old reputations. Proof that starting from nothing—blacklisted, broke, divorced from a man who tried to destroy her—she could still reach the pinnacle of her industry.

Proof that ethics and excellence weren't mutually exclusive.

Proof that she'd won.

I understood that need. Intimately.

"We should get back," Catherine said, pulling away slightly but keeping one hand in mine, fingers laced. "Before Madison sends a search party."

"Probably already has," I said, smiling, thumb stroking her knuckles.

We walked back toward the glass doors, her hand warm in mine, both of us carrying something lighter than we'd had moments ago.

As we reached the entrance, Catherine stopped, looked up at me.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For understanding. For saying yes. For—" She paused, eyes glassy. "For being who you are."

"Thank you for asking."

She squeezed my hand once, then released it, and we stepped back into the warmth and light and celebration.

Madison caught my eye immediately, raised an eyebrow in question.

I nodded slightly.

She smiled, satisfied, and turned back to her conversation with Sofia.

The night continued—music, laughter, champagne, the celebration of seventeen years and everything that came with it.

But in the back of my mind, I was already in Paris.

Already on the runway.

Already building the next piece of the empire.

Because that's what I did.

I saw what my people needed, and I delivered.

Catherine needed Paris.

So, I'd give her Paris.

And when I walked that runway in January—when I stood in front of buyers and critics and legends—they'd remember Meridian Elite.

And they'd remember that Catherine Reynolds built something worth remembering.

That's what empires do.

They take what's theirs and make it legendary.

And I was just getting started.

ABOVE ALL THREE MONTHS OF CONQUERING EACH BEAUTY IN PARIS!

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