Chapter 4

It was already late afternoon, and I was seeing my second client of the day. I don’t usually accommodate everyone who books at my clinic, only those who truly matter to me. I’m selective with my clientele, not out of arrogance, but because my time is divided among far more than these walls. I attend critical meetings, oversee organizations aligned with my profession, and manage responsibilities that extend into the hospitals where I hold shares. Everything is interconnected; every decision echoes somewhere else.

Now, I was in session with Angelica Jenine. One of Paris’s most understated yet striking models. When she first reached out, asking me to take care of her skin, I agreed without hesitation. Not just because of her impeccable reputation in the industry, but because she reminded me so vividly of who I used to be. There was something unmistakably sincere about her—an unfiltered kind of authenticity that couldn’t be manufactured.

“Doc, I have a runway show this Thursday. Please come?” she asked softly, her voice lilting as I carefully worked on the fillers along the side of her neck.

A smile tugged at my lips. “Of course. Anything for the princess.”

She let out a light, melodic giggle. “Well, not gonna lie—you made me a princess. So that makes you the queen.”

I almost laughed. If only she knew. “Maybe,” I said, my tone quiet but certain. “But I’d say I’m more of a witch.”

It wasn’t a lie. It didn’t need to be. Angelica understood, both what was said and what wasn’t.

“Then maybe you’re both,” she mused. “A good witch and a bad one. It wouldn’t make sense otherwise. Life isn’t all sunshine and flowers, you know. We don’t bloom without storms.” She paused, laughing lightly at herself. “I don’t even know what I’m saying. But you have something, Doc. I’m not just saying this because we’re close—you really are… incredible. I wouldn’t talk to you like this if I thought you were unapproachable.”

Oh, Angelica. I didn’t know how to respond to that. No one had ever offered me words so generous, so unguarded—no one but her.

I exhaled, shaking my head with a faint smile. “I already said yes to your runway show. Now it sounds like you want me to make today’s session free too.”

She laughed, unashamed. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to that, Doc.” Her laughter lingered before she leaned in slightly, her excitement bubbling over. “But really—you’ll love it. We’re debuting new designs from a new designer, and they’re absolutely stunning. He’s so underrated, I don’t understand why. He’s been in the industry for a while, though—works independently, from what I know. And…” she added, her voice dipping into something almost shy, “he’s adorable, too.”

“That’s good to hear,” I replied, finishing the final touches along her neck. “There should always be space carved out for emerging artists. They deserve recognition just as much.”

She nodded slowly, watching me work. “Do you want to know his name? You might recognize him.”

“Sure,” I said. “Who is he?”

She reached for the phone resting against her stomach and tapped the screen. “Wait—I’ll show you his picture too. It’s—Severino David Haynes—oh my gosh, Doc, are you okay?”

Merde.

A sharp clatter broke the calm. Instruments slipped from my hands, scattering across the floor. I bent down quickly, retrieving them one by one, only then noticing Ann beside me, already helping.

God. When will that man finally leave me alone?

“I’m sorry,” I said, steadying my voice. “It slipped.”

“It’s okay, Doc,” Angelica reassured gently. “That’s on me—I shouldn’t have mentioned a random name like that. They say it brings bad luck.”

For a moment, I stilled.

Perhaps, this time, I was willing to believe it.

--

After that unbelievably embarrassing session with Angelica, I retreated to Le Marais for a cold espresso. I had to cut the appointment short—not only had my professionalism cracked under pressure, but a few pieces of equipment had ended up shattered on the floor. Thankfully, Angelica agreed to reschedule. Even without her saying it, I knew the next session would have to be free. The fault was entirely mine, and I owed her that much.

“Patricia, you’re zoning out again,” Evelyn said, catching me as I stared blankly at a child struggling to untangle a rainbow kite nearby.

“It’s just the espresso kicking in,” I replied. But even my usual comfort drink couldn’t steady me, couldn’t pull me away from the storm in my head. I’ve spent years mastering my craft, navigating challenges without breaking stride—and yet here I was, unraveling over a man. A man. The thought felt absurd. Did I really have to go as far as that procedure Clementine underwent in the movie Charity and I had watched earlier that morning?

“Oof, I can see it all over your face,” Evelyn said bluntly. She sliced into her strawberry-filled croissant on her small plate, lifting a piece with her fork. “Come on, just say it. Is it a man?”

I said nothing.

She lowered her cup onto its saucer, disbelief flickering across her features before giving way to unmistakable amusement. “It is a man,” Evelyn declared, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.

“Mike?” she called, her voice lingering in the space between us.

“Can we leave now?”

I was about to respond when her phone rang, sharp and insistent. She glanced at the screen, already turning away. “Wait—I need to take this.” Without another word, she stepped aside, putting distance between us as she answered the call.

Left alone, I slipped my phone out and logged into my private account on a platform I’d only been using for six months. I was still new, still learning the rhythms of it—but somehow, the numbers kept climbing. Triple what most versatile creators were earning. Not that I’d started for the money. It began as a dare to myself, a quiet rebellion, something reckless and freeing.

For the longest time, I believed my body was something to hide. Jason made sure of that—his words cutting deep, convincing me I was anything but desirable. But the messages told a different story. Strangers filled my inbox with praise, their words warm, almost reverent. Beautiful, they called me. Stunning. Irresistible. And really, who turns away from compliments? Even when they came laced with hunger, I let them settle into my skin.

A new notification blinked on the screen. I tapped it open.

Aquarius.

A familiar name. Loyal, consistent. Generous. He tipped more than most, sometimes more than I thought anyone would spend—and he’d asked, more than once, for a private video call. I always refused. No matter how high the offer climbed, my answer never changed.

Because if this was about money, I already had enough.

And if it was about something else, something physical—I wasn’t interested. Not now.

What I wanted couldn’t be bought in tips or negotiated in messages. I wanted something real. Something close. Something that didn’t disappear the moment the screen went dark.

Lately, though, men had made that feel impossible.

From: Aquarius

hey.

thank you for last night.

i can't wait to see you someday and hear you breathless. gasping my name while you're arched over me and taking every inch of my length

Attached was a self-portrait, framed from the waist up. He stood shirtless, skin glowing with the marble-like definition of a Hellenistic sculpture. His chest was broad, punctuated by flushed, rosy-hued peaks, tapering down to a lean torso. A crisp white towel hung dangerously low on his hips, revealing the sharp, lethal curve of his Adonis belt. Tracing downward, a dark, silken trail of hair disappeared beneath the cotton, hinting at the heat waiting just out of frame.

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening before I even realized it. Merde.

“Trish, are you okay?” Evelyn called, snapping my attention back to the room.

I quickly lowered my phone and pushed myself to my feet, forcing my composure into place.

“Let’s go.”