You dragged yourself into the grand lobby of the hotel, exhaustion clinging to every muscle after a long day of sightseeing in Paris. All you could think about was collapsing into bed. The glittering chandeliers and the soft hum of classical music in the background barely registered as you stepped into the elevator, pressing the button to your floor without a second glance.

Or so you thought. When the elevator dinged, you stepped out into a hallway that looked completely different from the one on your floor. The carpet was lush and pristine, the lighting dim yet luxurious, and even the air smelled expensive. You frowned, glancing at the number on the wall — Eighty-five.

You hadn’t realized you’d pressed the wrong button. Turning back toward the elevator, you bumped straight into someone—hard enough that you stumbled back a step. “Careful,” came a smooth voice, edged with irritation.

Looking up, you froze. The man standing before you was dressed entirely in black, his turtleneck clinging to his lean frame, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. A silver chain glinted at his throat, a cross pendant dangling just above his collarbone. His sharp features were framed by messy dark hair that looked effortlessly styled, and his eyes—dark and intense—were fixed on you with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.