When Did You Get Hot

Venice Laurent did not believe in fate.

  She believed in control. In composure. In walking into a room like she owned it even when she didn’t.

  Which was exactly why she agreed to attend the bachelor’s party.

  It was hosted at Château Moreau an estate just outside the city that whispered wealth from every stone carved into its ivory walls. The invitation had arrived three days ago, sealed in thick cream paper with gold lettering. Exclusive. Elite. Untouchable.

  And the guest list?

  Filled with names from her past.

  Venice adjusted the silk strap of her black dress as the car rolled through towering iron gates. The estate loomed ahead, lights glowing warmly against the evening sky. Laughter and music floated through the open French windows.

  She inhaled slowly.

  He’ll be here.

  She already knew.

  Back in university, there had been a boy.

  Quiet. Withdrawn. Wore simple clothes that never quite fit right. Sat at the back of the lecture hall and avoided eye contact.

  Lucien Moreau.

  The scholarship student.

  The easy target.

  Venice had been younger then. Colder. Surrounded by friends who thrived on dominance and laughter at someone else’s expense. She had never touched him physically, never done anything drastic but her words?

  Sharp.

  Calculated.

  Humiliating.

  She could still remember the day she spilled her iced coffee near his stack of books and smiled sweetly while saying, “Oh, I didn’t see you there.”

  Her friends had laughed.

  Lucien hadn’t.

  He’d simply stared at her.

  Not angry. Not hurt.

  Just… memorizing.

  The car door opened.

  Venice stepped out, heels clicking against marble steps. The air smelled like roses and expensive champagne. She squared her shoulders, sliding on her practiced smile.

  It had been years.

  People change.

  She doubted he even remembered.

  Inside, crystal chandeliers illuminated a sea of tailored suits and shimmering gowns. The laughter was louder now. Champagne glasses clinked together in celebration.

  “Venice!” a familiar voice called.

  She turned to see Camille rushing toward her in a glittering dress. They air-kissed dramatically.

  “I’m so glad you came,” Camille grinned. “You have to meet the host.”

  “The groom?” Venice asked lightly.

  Camille hesitated for half a second. “Not exactly" she took a sip on her champagne and said “Venice, don't you know, Lucien?”

  Venice’s brow lifted.

 “I know that name, but I'm not sure, Camille” she gripped my hand tightly and stared at a corner full of refined people. Expensive. Composed. Powerful. “He's so hot, Venice!”

  Camille grabbed her wrist gently. “Come on.”

  They moved through the crowd. Conversations lowered slightly as Venice passed not because she was famous, but because she carried herself like someone who belonged among the elite.

  Then Camille stopped.

  At the center of the room stood a man surrounded by investors, politicians, and socialites.

  Tall.

  Broad-shouldered.

  Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that probably cost more than Venice’s monthly rent.

  His hair was dark, styled effortlessly. His jaw sharp. His expression unreadable.

  But it was his eyes that froze her.

  Cold gray.

  Controlled.

  Familiar.

  “Lucien,” Camille said brightly, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  The man turned slowly.

  And the world tilted.

  Because she knew that face.

  Not the refined version standing before her not the billionaire aura that radiated quiet authority.

  But the eyes.

  The same eyes that once sat at the back of a lecture hall.

  The same eyes that watched while she laughed.

  “Venice Laurent,” Camille continued cheerfully, unaware of the storm forming between them. “This is Lucien Moreau. The owner of the château. And the man who practically funded this entire event.”

  Venice’s throat went dry as thoughts flooding her head. When?! How?!

  Lucien Moreau.

  Billionaire.

  Owner.

  Powerful.

 Most of all, Sexy and refined.

  The scholarship boy she once mocked.

  His gaze locked onto hers.

  Recognition flickered there.

  Then something darker.

  “Of course,” Lucien said smoothly, his French accent refined and deliberate. “I remember Venice Laurent.”

  Her heart pounded.

  He remembers.

  His lips curved slightly but, not quite a smile.

  “You look… exactly the same.”

  It wasn’t a compliment.

  It was an observation.

  Venice forced herself to breathe. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes,” he agreed softly. “It has.”

  The crowd slowly resumed their conversations, unaware of the tension slicing the air.

  Camille excused herself, leaving them standing face-to-face.

  Up close, Lucien was overwhelming. Not loud. Not aggressive.

  Just powerful.

  “What a surprise,” Venice managed. “I didn’t realize you were—”

  “A billionaire?” he finished calmly.

  Her cheeks warmed.

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Life is unpredictable, isn’t it?”

  There was no anger in his tone.

  That made it worse.

  “I had no idea you were hosting,” she said carefully.

  “Of course you didn’t,” he replied.

  Silence stretched.

  His gaze traveled over her slow, assessing. Not inappropriate. Just deliberate. Like he was measuring her worth.

  Venice had faced arrogant men before. She had dated powerful men before.

  But none of them looked at her like this.

  Like she was a chapter he had unfinished business with.

  “You must be proud,” she said, trying to regain control. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

  Lucien’s eyes darkened.

  “I learned early,” he said quietly, “that humiliation is an excellent motivator.”

  Her breath hitched.

  So he did remember.

  Every word.

  Every laugh.

  He leaned slightly closer, enough for only her to hear.

  “Tell me, Venice,” he murmured, “do you still find it amusing when people underestimate others?”

  Her stomach twisted.

  “I was young back then,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “So was I.”

  The music swelled in the background, but the space between them felt suffocatingly still.

  Lucien straightened, composure snapping back into place.

  “You’re currently working in corporate marketing, correct?” he asked suddenly.

  She blinked. “How do you—”

  “I make it a point to know things.”

  Of course he did.

  “Yes,” she answered cautiously. “Why?”

  His expression turned thoughtful. Calculating.

  “My executive assistant recently resigned.”

  Her pulse quickened. “I’m not looking for a new job.”

  “I wasn’t asking, Venice” he said gently.

  Her spine stiffened.

  Lucien reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a sleek black card. He extended it toward her.

  The gold lettering gleamed under chandelier light.

  “I acquired the company you work for last month.”

  The words hit like ice water.

  “You—what?”

  “It was underperforming,” he said calmly. “Now it belongs to me.”

  Venice stared at him, disbelief flooding her veins.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Is it?”

  Her heart raced. Not with excitement. But with caution and nervousness. The sudden management shifts. The rumors of a buyout. The unexplained executive meeting scheduled for Monday.

  “You can’t just—”

  “I can,” Lucien interrupted softly. Moving closer towards her ears and whispered “And I did.”

  His eyes locked onto hers.

  “I’ve decided you’ll be working directly under me. Personal assistant. Effective immediately.”

  Her chest tightened.

  “You don’t get to control my career. Lucien"

  His head tilted slightly. “You’re free to resign.”

  There it was. The trap. I was impressed he really worked hard on himself. I can tell by the veins on his hands. He became powerful and sexy, Unfortunately his dangerous and untouchable.

  “If I resign?” she challenged.

  “Your contract contains a non-compete clause,” he replied smoothly. “three years.”

  Her stomach dropped.

  That clause had seemed harmless when she signed it.

  Now it felt like chains.

  “You planned this,” she breathed.

  Lucien didn’t deny it.

  “Consider it… balance,” he said quietly. Lips curled slightly. The room felt too warm.

  “You’re doing this because of university?” she asked, disbelief laced in her voice. “Because I teased you?”

  His expression hardened, just slightly.

  “You didn’t tease me, Venice.”

  The air between them crackled.

  “You dismissed me,” he continued. “You treated me like I was invisible unless you needed entertainment.”

  Her throat tightened.

  He stepped closer again. Close enough that she could feel the controlled heat radiating from him.

  “I built an empire,” he murmured, “so no one would ever look down on me again.”

  Her heart hammered violently against her ribs.

  “And now?” she whispered.

  Lucien’s eyes softened for half a second, but not with kindness.

  With something far more dangerous.

  “Now,” he said quietly, piercing his eyes through her silk black dress “you work for me.” smoothly rubbing the texture of the dress. “This... is pretty imitated, I could buy millions of this, Venice”

  The words weren’t shouted.

  They weren’t cruel.

  They were certain.

  Final.

  The music swelled as someone announced a toast across the room. Applause erupted.

  But Venice barely heard it.

  Because in that moment, she realized something terrifying.

  The quiet boy she once humiliated hadn’t disappeared.

  He had transformed.

  Into a man powerful enough to rewrite her future with a single signature.

  Lucien stepped back, restoring distance.

  “Monday. Eight a.m.,” he said calmly. “Don’t be late.”

  And just like that, he turned away slipping effortlessly back into the crowd of elites who respected him, feared him, admired him.

  Venice stood frozen beneath the chandelier.

  The hunter had become the king.

  And she had just walked straight into his kingdom.

  For the first time in years, Venice Laurent felt something she wasn’t prepared for.

  Not guilt.

  Not regret.

  But anticipation.

  Because the look in Lucien Moreau’s eyes hadn’t been pure revenge.

  It had been something far more complicated.

  And far more dangerous.