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Tristan

T he noise was suffocating.

The vast hall of Basel’s ChronoLuxe Expo hummed with chatter, laughter, and the subtle clink of champagne glasses. Men in tailored suits and women in elegant dresses weaved through the crowd with effortless grace.

All Tristan wanted to do was run away.

The only thing anchoring him was Lena’s hand in his.

Lena, whose touch wasn’t as sure as it’d been a few minutes earlier, when they’d first walked inside. But she stood close to him—so close that he could feel the warmth of her body against his side, the soft brush of her arm every time he shifted slightly. Every once in a while, her fingers squeezed his, her touch subtle, grounding.

"You okay?" he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.

"I’m fine," she replied.

Their gazes met. Something in her hazel eyes softened. And just like that, the chaos around him faded—just for a second.

Before she could press further, an elegant voice cut through the crowd.

"Ah! Tristan!"

His gut tightened.

His father.

Amaury Devallé.

Tristan turned just in time to see him approaching, effortlessly commanding the room. Even at sixty, Amaury was an imposing figure, all sharp features, salt-and-pepper hair, dark eyes that seemed to see everything, and an air of absolute authority. He wore a perfectly tailored jacket with a cashmere turtleneck underneath. A man at the top of his game, perfectly at ease in this world.

“Good to see you, son,” his father said, clasping a firm hand on Tristan’s shoulder before his gaze flicked to Lena.

“And you must be Lena,” his father continued, the sharp edge in his expression softening slightly. “It’s a pleasure.”

Lena offered a small, shaky smile as she extended her hand. “Likewise, Monsieur Devallé.”

Her father took her hand, giving a brief but respectful shake before releasing it. “Please, call me Amaury.”

Tristan almost smirked. Of course, his father would like her. Amaury was a connoisseur of rare, special things. And Lena? One would have to be a fool not to see she was one of a kind.

He forced himself to relax. He knew his father was genuinely glad to see him. But he was also, in true Amaury style, happy to have others see Tristan here, at his birthday celebration. The great Amaury, with his family behind him. The chance to show a man could have it all. Yeah, right.

At that instant, another voice joined them.

"There you are!"

His mother swept into view, moving with the grace of someone who had spent her entire life knowing exactly how to command attention without demanding it.

She kissed both of Tristan’s cheeks, then turned to Lena, her smile widening. “Lena,” she said warmly. “Finally. I really wanted to meet you.”

“I’m glad to meet you, too.”

“Tristan never brings anyone to these events. He rarely even attends.”

Tristan resisted the urge to run a hand down his face.

Lena’s fingers flexed slightly against his. He wasn’t sure if it was a silent reassurance or if she was holding back a smirk. Probably both.

Amaury, meanwhile, was already being pulled into a conversation by a group of men, all waiting for a moment of his time. Probably hoping to get in line before he even unveiled his new watch.

Tristan wasn’t surprised. This was how it always was. His father was the kind of man people gravitated toward. A name that carried weight in this world.

More people came. More introductions. More polite smiles and firm handshakes. Everyone wanted a word with Amaury.

Tristan stood there, nodding when appropriate, speaking when necessary, but the entire time, his pulse hammered, his skin itching with the need to get the hell out.

Then—Lena shifted closer.

Her free hand came to rest lightly on his back, warm, steadying.

Tristan exhaled.

The tension in his shoulders loosened—just slightly.

She leaned in, voice just for him. "I’ve got you."

Just three simple words.

But fuck—they were everything.

For the first time since stepping into this room, he felt like he could breathe again.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said, leading her towards the bar. As far away from his parents as he could get.

There was no wait time. Moments later, the drinks were in his hand. She’d said she liked champagne, but she made no move to drink any. “Jesus,” she said, staring across the room at the crowd surrounding Tristan’s parents. “I thought your parents were normal people.”

Yes. No. “That’s them. In their element.” Tristan took a sip of his own glass. “Wait till he begins talking. People will take notes like he’s got the secret to immortality.”

“You know, you don’t look much like your dad,” she finally said. Tristan had expected her to notice. Both his parents had the darkest eyes imaginable.

“I wouldn’t. He’s not my biological father. My mother was engaged—and pregnant with me—when he died during a climbing accident.”

Lena blanched. “A climbing accident?”

“He worked with the PGHM,” Tristan said. This wasn’t something he wanted to hide from Lena. “Then she met Amaury. He’s the only father I’ve ever known. He adopted me when I was two years old.”

Lena nodded. “Has he been a good father?”

Tristan shrugged. “He’s always tried his best. We’re just too different.”

“Is that why you joined the PGHM, to honor your biological father?”

He was tempted to say yes, because the truth was a lot more sordid, but he didn’t want to lie to Lena. “Everything I did between the ages of sixteen and twenty-four, I did with one objective only: to piss my parents off. I became a pilot because my father considers flying an unnecessary risk. And then, after I told him I wouldn’t be joining his company, I joined the PGHM because … because I knew that would remind my mom of my biological father.” He winced. He’d been such an asshole.

Lena’s mouth opened in surprise.

“It was not my finest moment. I never expected to be there longer than a few months.” He sighed. “It turns out it’s something I’m good at. I enjoy my job.”

“And you help people.”

“Sure,” he agreed. “I help people. It’s a happy side-benefit.”

Lena finally closed her mouth. Her eyes on him, she finally—took a sip of champagne. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to scare me off, Tristan,” she said lightly.

Around them, people began gathering as the great Amaury Devallé stood up on the stage and prepared to start his speech. The huge screen behind him lit up in a series of tight, professional shots that took them from the initial concept through to the building of his new piece. Watching the presentation, Tristan learned that Amaury’s atelier would limit production to ten units a year, and that they would be built in a secret location, overseen by the great Amaury himself. Each watch would be delivered, at no additional cost, by two uniformed guards at whichever location the buyer happened to live in.

“Is this for real?” Lena whispered, while the audience clapped. “How much is one of these watches worth?”

“One million Swiss francs, give or take a few thousand.”

Horror filled Lena’s expression. “One million—“ She paused, composing herself. “How can a watch be worth that much?”

Tristan shrugged. “That’s a good question not to ask my father … or maybe you should. See what he says.”

Lena closed her mouth, looking furtively around her. She relaxed when she saw nobody was paying any attention to them.

“My father happens to be very good at what he does,” Tristan said lightly.

“I’m sure he is. I just … I can’t understand this, Tristan.” For the first time, she looked uncertain. “I’ll never be able to understand this world.”

“We don’t need to understand it, Lena. I love my parents, but this is their world. Not mine.” In her simple little black dress and ballet slippers, she looked more enticing to him than any of the other women in their fancy evening gowns and jewelry. “Come,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I told my parents we’d join them for dinner, but we have a bit of time until then.”

Lena

Nobody ever mentioned what Cinderella’s first days in the castle were like, once she moved in with the prince.

Did the prince personally show her around the entire castle? Or did he leave her in the capable hands of a trusted attendant to do the honors? If so, Lena imagined the attendant might have looked a lot like the uniformed bellhop who escorted them to their room—efficient, polished, and utterly unfazed by the opulence surrounding them.

The man opened the door with a flourish, stepping back to let them inside. Then, as if someone had pressed fast-forward on a training video, he proceeded to rattle off details in quick succession. The powder room, as he called it, which was basically a separate tiny bathroom at the entrance to the suite. A small touch screen by the wall that controlled lights, temperature, and electronic shades all over the suite. Because, of course, nobody would ever think of doing any of those things manually. A cavernous walk-in closet. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Rhine, its waters glistening in the afternoon light.

He listed each feature with military precision, then snapped to attention as if awaiting questions. None came, from either her or Tristan.

“Your bags will be up shortly,” he finished, with a serious, polite nod.

Tristan escorted him to the door. A small, folded bill changed hands effortlessly, and Lena breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn’t needed to be the one handling that. She’d have no idea how much to tip in a place like this. She barely even knew how to act in a place like this.

By the time Tristan turned back toward her, he’d already kicked off his shoes, looking utterly at home in the unimaginably luxurious suite.

He stretched his arms overhead, rolling his powerful shoulders. “Phew. I thought he was never going to leave.”

Lena barely heard him. She was still standing in the middle of the suite, eyes sweeping over the sprawling space, the rich hardwood floors, the impossibly high ceilings, the velvet-upholstered seats strewn all over the place.

“Are you sure we’re in the right room?” she asked.

Tristan blinked at her. “What?”

“This room …” She gestured vaguely at the opulence, wondering if she was the only one who could see it.

He looked at her strangely for a moment, then his eyes cleared.

"Lena," he said, stepping closer, his voice dipping into something lower, steadier. "It’s just a hotel room. My parents … they can be a bit over the top. I imagine they booked most of the suites on this floor. For them, for their assistants, for special clients … And one for us. It’s just a room.”

Lena swallowed. She didn’t want to make Tristan uncomfortable. But this was as far from just a hotel room as she was from a professional marathon runner.

Lena wanted Tristan’s parents to like her. The previous weekend, she’d gone out with a friend and bought a dress—the small black number she was wearing now. She’d thought she looked great in it but, now that she’d seen what the other women had been wearing—she wasn’t as sure anymore. She wasn’t sure of anything. Tristan’s parents had looked so at home, at the epicenter of all that luxury.

“You look beautiful.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to go back downstairs feeling like the ugly duckling.”

“You should be feeling like a swan. You were by far the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Something tightened in her chest. As ridiculous as his words were, he sounded like he believed them.

Lena had always been good at borrowing worries. Stop worrying about things you can’t control. Maybe what she needed was a way to relieve stress.

“How long do we have?” she asked, looking up into Tristan’s very blue eyes.

“I imagine the speeches will be done in twenty minutes or so.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Is that enough time for what you have in mind?”

“How do you know I have something in mind?” Her hand grazed his white shirt, feeling the strong muscle underneath.

“Take off that dress before I rip it off you,” he replied. “Unless you have something else to wear for dinner.”

Lena inhaled sharply. She and Tristan had had sex many times in the last weeks. But it’d always been sweet and gentle. Neither of them had ever lost sight of the fact that he was recovering. The way he was crowding her now, forcing her to look up at him, the glint in his blue eyes as he looked at her, made her think he had something different in mind tonight.

“You know,” he said, crowding her, forcing her to look up. “I love having sex with you on top of me. I want to do that again soon. But right now … I want you against this wall.” He hooked an arm under her knee and lifted her easily, pressing her back against the wall. “Is this okay?”

Hell, no . She needed a lot more than this. Her hips shifted, seeking more friction.

“Take off my tights,” she whispered. “Carefully. They’re my only pair.”

Tristan laughed, putting her down. “You have two seconds, sweetheart.”

She pulled off her tights and her thong in one quick move, not wanting to risk losing either of those. Then she pulled her dress back down. There was something unexpected and somehow … dirty … about knowing she was still dressed, but naked underneath.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Tristan said, once again lifting her. Her shoulder blades pressed against the wall. In his arms, she felt small and protected, and at the same time so very exposed.

“Are you sure this is okay?” she gasped. “You’re still recovering.”

“This is more than okay ,” he said. His hips shifted, and she realized he’d taken the time to open his trousers and sheath himself. God. He was going to take her against the wall, both of them still dressed. “You ready for me, sweetheart?” He asked, rubbing the head of his cock against her clit.

Lena nodded. She didn’t want more foreplay. She wanted him inside her. As deep as he would go. “I want you now,” she said, shifting her hips forward.

He wasted no time penetrating her fully. When she gasped, he kissed the sound into his lungs. “So tight. Just for me.”

Tristan held on to her butt tight as he pounded into her. And that’s when Lena learned what it felt like to be fucked. Properly fucked. He was so deep inside her, and every time he bottomed in, he put the most delicious pressure on her clit. She was weightless—she was air—her whole world a build-up to the biggest orgasm ever.

“I’m coming,” she whispered, the words barely out of her mouth before she heard his answering groan, his hips flexing against her as he emptied himself inside her.

He pressed her forehead tenderly against his. She could still feel him, pulsing inside her, drawing out her pleasure until she was a boneless heap in his arms. Eventually, he lifted her gently, disengaging, but still kept her in his arms.

“I’m never moving again,” she said, nuzzling him.

“I wish that were an option, but we really should go down to dinner.”

Shit . The dinner. His parents. She pushed against him, searching the floor beneath her feet. She picked up her underclothes and ran to the bathroom. “My face! My hair! Get out of my way! I need to get ready.”

Tristan laughed. “You’re going to be the loveliest woman in attendance, regardless of what you do with your hair.”