Page 66 of Tangled Hearts

Paris moved like a current around them. Cameras flashed, hands reached, names were called from every direction but Cash kept one hand on Noir’s lower back.

Always anchoring her as they slid from cars to carpets to backstage hallways.

He tucked her into every conversation, introduced her to everybody like she belonged.

“Black Excellence, two minutes,” his publicist waved.

Cash nodded, fingers never leaving Noir’s waist. “You good?” he checked, leaning in close.

“I’m great,” she grinned, phone already rolling for her vlog. “Paris Fashion Week. Don’t play with me.”

He laughed, his mouth brushing her temple before an interviewer caught them. Questions flew like bullets. Album timing, tour stops, the capsule collab he teased last week. Cash answered everything like he had been practicing all his life. He pulled Noir a half-step forward.

“This is Noir,” he added, palm resting at her hip. “Y’all gon’ see her everywhere soon.” Cameras swung her way. She didn’t flinch, only smiled.

“What’s your favorite look tonight?” the reporter pushed the mic toward her.

“The tailored ones,” Noir answered, steady. “Strong shoulders, clean lines, low back. It’s giving power and pretty.”

Cash smirked like he knew she was gonna kill it. “You see why I keep her with me?”

They moved again—another publication, another step-and-repeat, a quick bite snuck in a corner as stylists rushed past with garment bags.

Noir soaked it all up. The hum of it. The rush.

The way people looked at Cash with respect and still felt comfortable joking with him.

He tipped the coat check kid extra, dapped the lighting tech like an old friend, and never let her drift more than an arm’s length away.

“This big for you?” he asked as they slid into a back row at the next venue.

“It feels like the start,” she admitted. She caught her reflection in a mirrored column. She looked happy. It scared her for a second. “It’s a lot.”

“I know.” He squeezed her thigh. “But you was made for the cameras, pretty girl.”

Noir shimmied her shoulders then the show started.

Noir watched the models, jaw set in that focused way Cash loved. He knew that look from home—back when they were kids and she’d argue him down on any topic and still ask if he needed a ride. He thought about Christian, then pushed it away. Tonight was about her.

After the finale, they slipped backstage to congratulate the designer. The room was moving in a frenzy. A man in all black paced, headset crooked, panic all over his face.

“Model down—car accident on the way—she’s okay but not coming,” he ranted to the designer in a low rush. “We need another closer with that pink column dress or we lose the look.”

The designer clocked Noir, eyes lighting. “You. Walk for me.” His English was broken but she understood him.

Noir jabbed her finger into her chest. “Me?”

“You”

“Right now?” She blinked.

“Right now,” the designer urged. “You’re the right shape, the posture, the face—perfect. Please.”

Noir glanced at Cash. Her stomach flipped. This wasn’t the plan. She only came to watch. He stepped in front of her, hands on both shoulders, looking her in the eyes.

“You got this shit,” he hyped her. “You been doing this in your head your whole life. Show the fuck out, pretty girl.”

“What if I trip?”

“Then you get up and keep walking,” he countered, lips twitching. “But you not gon’ trip.”

She inhaled once and nodded. “Okay.”

The next few minutes were a blur.

Assistants tugged a silk dress over her, pinned the hem, brushed powder across her T-zone, slid her feet into heels. Someone whispered cues in French. The designer adjusted the dress strap with careful fingers.

Cash stood just beyond the curtain, arms folded, watching like a proud problem-solver. When she looked for him, he lifted his chin— go.

The music hit and Noir took the runway.

It was Cash’s song, which made the reason they were in the back from the jump make sense.

She wanted to jump up and down but Noir was a professional. She kept her best resting bitch face on full display.

She strutted down the runway like she was a veteran.

She looked past the cameras, keeping her eyes straight.

When she reached the end, she posed for the flashing cameras and turned around.

On the walk back, she caught Cash in the wings, mouth parted like he wanted to cheer out loud but kept it cool for her.

The rush swarmed her chest. She wanted to laugh.

Backstage exploded. The designer hugged her, the crew tapped her shoulder like she’d saved their night.

Cash pulled her aside, hands cradling the back of her head, foreheads pressed together. “Proud of you, pretty girl.” he breathed. “The finest one here.”

“Just here?” Noir purred, pushing her chest into him.

Cash looked around. “I can show you how you’re the prettiest girl in the world .” He swiped his tongue against her lip.

They had a late dinner across the river. They dined on oysters and steak frites, while bubbles popped. It was a celebration and Cash was pulling out all the stops. They got celebrity treatment everywhere they went.

Cash ordered for them in practiced French. That made her grin.

“You showing off,” she teased, swinging a fry.

“For you,” he shrugged, unbothered, “always.”

Noir leaned back, watching him sign a napkin for a busboy and slip him a bill.

A warmth spread through her that wasn’t just the wine.

She thought of Christian—his pull, his chaos, the way she once believed she could fix him.

It hurt to admit she had loved him with everything she knew back then.

It also hurt to realize she could love Cash now with everything she was learning to be. Two truths. One heart.

Guilt tugged, then let go when Cash touched her knee under the table and looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth watching.

“Where yo’ head at?” he checked. “You good?”

“Yea.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “I’m… happy.”

“Good.” His smile softened. “Let it be that.”

They spent a few more hours curling into each other over dinner. Noir loved Paris. It truly seemed like a place for lovers.

They reached the hotel after midnight. They were staying at a suite high enough to touch clouds. Floor-to-ceiling windows threw the city’s lights across their skin. Cash tipped the bellman again and locked the door behind him.

His movement wasn’t rushed.

He hung up her coat.

He placed her heels by the wall.

Then he poured her some water and handed it to her.

“You walked a runway tonight,” he murmured, thumbs circling her waist. “In Paris. Remember this for the days you doubt yourself.”

“I won’t forget.”

Pulling her into him he kissed her slowly, tasting the night on her lips.

Noir melted into him, her hands slid up his chest, fingers hooked in his chain.

He lifted her onto the edge of the bed, mouth trailing along her jawline, down her neck, across her collarbone.

She tugged his shirt up. He stripped it off and tossed it aside.

His hands mapped her curves like he was making a promise with his palms.

“You feel safe?” he checked, eyes on hers.

“I feel seen,” she answered.

He eased her dress off, careful with the fabric, careful with her, always.

The city glowed behind them. Her breath deepened.

He took his time, tasting the hollow of her throat, the top of her breasts…

lower and lower, until her fingers tightened in his hair and her thighs trembled around his shoulders.

“Cash,” she whispered, voice breaking into a plea that wasn’t about permission anymore, just want.

He rose and kissed her again, slow then fast, lining them up, sliding into her with a steady push that dragged a gasp from her throat. He held her there, nose brushing hers, one hand cupping her jaw.

“Look at me,” he urged.

She did.

Their rhythm found them. No rush. No show. Just them. He shifted her leg higher, deeper, her nails marking his back while he drove into her with a focused kind of care, every stroke landing like he knew what she needed before she asked.

Her pussy clenched, the throb matching their rhythm.

She choked on her spit; it went down the wrong pipe when she tried to cry out.

“I got you,” he promised against her mouth, slow rolling his dick in her. “Breathe.”

Her body shook around him. Warmth flooding her limbs as she came, muffling a cry against his shoulder. He followed, grip tightening at her hip, jaw clenched, breath hot at her ear.

He didn’t collapse. He held her through it, kept them connected until her breathing evened out and her hand smoothed across his neck in slow strokes.

They laid back, still tangled in the sheets. He pulled the duvet over her and reached for the room service menu.

“You hungry again?” she smiled, voice lazy.

“Always.” She squeezed the cover around herself tighter. “For food,” she laughed, swatting his chest when he climbed on top of her.

“Both.” He kissed her forehead. “Pasta or burger?”

“Pasta. Extra parmesan.”

“Say less, pretty girl.”

He got out the bed to order and she made her way over to him by the window. She planted her cheek on his shoulder, watching as the city stretched below like a promise she didn’t have to force.

“I don’t know how to hold both,” she admitted, intrusive thoughts spilling out like word vomit. “What I felt for him, what I feel for you.”

“You don’t gotta solve it tonight,” he said. “Just be honest with me and be honest with yourself. I’ll handle the rest.”

“You sure?”

“I’m a forever type,” he replied, thumb stroking her cheekbone. “I can handle the middle… for a little while.”

The food showed up at the door. Cash slipped on sweatpants, grabbed the tray, and of course he tipped heavily.

He fed her the food in bed, watched her laugh when the parmesan fell on the sheets, then wiped it with a napkin like he actually cared about the mess. When she finished, he set the tray aside and pulled her back on top of him.