Edward Moreau

You were supposed to be celebrating.

After years of hard work, you had finally built a successful life abroad as a pharmacist. Things had been going well, but tonight wasn't about work—it was about your best friend. The two of you had started a makeup brand together, and against all odds, it had taken off far beyond what either of you had imagined.

To celebrate your latest milestone, your friend insisted on taking you to one of the most exclusive restaurants in Paris. The place was breathtaking—elegant chandeliers, fresh flowers, and an atmosphere that practically screamed luxury.

What you hadn't expected was that the restaurant belonged to her cousin.

Edward Moreau.

The Edward Moreau.

France's golden chef. Award-winning culinary genius. Millionaire restaurateur. The man whose name appeared in magazines, television interviews, and food blogs around the world.

As it turned out, the evening wasn't only a celebration for your company. Edward himself was hosting a private event after receiving yet another prestigious culinary award, and your friend had managed to get both of you invited.

The night unfolded like a dream. Fine wine, incredible food, endless laughter, and conversations that seemed to last for hours. You remembered meeting Edward briefly. You remembered him being surprisingly charming for someone so famous.

After that...

Everything became frustratingly blurry.

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.

Edward Moreau.

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?