The Ice King of Paris

The glass walls of Moreau International’s headquarters stretched high above the Paris skyline, reflecting the pale morning light that rolled across the city. From Bella Carter’s desk on the twentieth floor, she had the perfect view of the Seine weaving like a silver ribbon below, the Eiffel Tower glinting in the distance. She should have felt inspired. Instead, she felt the weight of the day pressing down on her like the stack of color-coded folders balanced precariously on her lap.Alexander Moreau’s schedule was full again. The man never slowed down. Meetings, calls, site visits, investor luncheons. It was as if he were determined to conquer the entire city by sheer force of will. Bella sometimes wondered if he even slept. Or if the whispers in the office were true that he was part machine.She straightened the folders, smoothed her navy skirt, and checked the clock. 8:29. Exactly one minute before he walked through those glass doors, as he did every day, without fail.And right on

The office at night was a different world.By day, Moreau International buzzed with energy, phones ringing, heels clicking, conversations bouncing from French to English across glass-walled conference rooms. But once the sun sank beyond the Paris skyline, silence descended. The city lights glittered below, the Seine shimmered in the distance, and the building became a fortress of shadows and reflections.Bella Carter was still at her desk at 9:47 p.m., her eyes gritty from staring at spreadsheets. A stack of investor reports loomed beside her, each one needing to be cross-checked before the morning. She stifled a yawn and pushed her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose.She wasn’t usually the last to leave. But tonight, the workload was brutal, and her boss’s expectations ....well, they weren’t exactly forgiving.She typed one last figure into the spreadsheet and saved the file. That was when she noticed the light.Alexander Moreau’s office glowed faintly across the floor, a solit

The morning after the gala, Bella lingered in front of her mirror longer than usual. Her hair, still faintly scented with the delicate roses of the evening, fell softly around her shoulders. She traced the curve of her cheek, remembered the shimmer of the chandeliers, the murmurs of the onlookers, and above all, the sharp, unreadable gleam in Alexander Moreau’s eyes.She shook herself, straightening her posture. It doesn’t matter. I am his assistant. Nothing more. The mantra repeated in her mind, yet the words rang hollow. Even as she sipped her coffee, the memory of Isabelle’s poised elegance and the subtle tension in Alexander’s movements gnawed at her.The streets of Paris below glittered with winter light, but the city’s beauty did nothing to calm her. Every step toward the office felt heavier than usual, each passing cab and pedestrian a reminder that life outside their carefully constructed walls went on, oblivious to the storm swirling quietly within the Moreau office.Inside,

Morning light brushed Paris with gold when Bella arrived at Charles de Gaulle, her overnight bag on one shoulder, laptop tucked neatly into its case. The life still felt unreal, jetting across France for high-profile projects, navigating hotel lobbies instead of her tiny studio apartment, and working beside a man whose presence bent rooms to his will.Alexander Moreau waited near the private terminal entrance, tall and composed in a charcoal suit that somehow remained flawless. His expression was unreadable precise, aristocratic, and famously cold, but Bella noticed cracks forming over months: a flash of warmth at the gala, a touch on her shoulder in the office, the jacket draped over her without a word.“Miss Hart,” he greeted, nodding. His voice was measured but softer than boardroom formalities demanded.“Mr. Moreau,” she replied, smoothing her blazer. “Ready to charm Lyon?”He glanced at her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Lyon doesn’t need charm. It needs precision.”The sl

The rain had begun before dusk, a relentless sheet that blurred Paris into streaks of silver. From the window of her small apartment, Bella watched the city, each drop painting the streets like tears. She had stayed at the office far later than usual, double-checking project files, each keystroke a distraction from the truth she had been avoiding.She was leaving.Not with a dramatic announcement, not immediately. But the resignation letter sat in her drafts folder, blinking at her with quiet insistence. One more sideways glance from a colleague, one more whispered rumor about her proximity to Alexander Moreau, and she would hit send. She could no longer endure the murmurings that implied her career was bought rather than earned.Her heart twisted at the thought of him, Alexander. The man who had moments of startling tenderness, yet remained a fortress behind his cold, precise exterior. He offered her fragments of himself: fleeting warmth, unspoken concern, rare gestures of care. But