I’d had my heart broken before—when my parents died. The shock of it, the emptiness, the chaos—it was devastating. I’d had to regroup fast, adjust to a new way of life, and survive.

There had been other challenges in my life. There had been ups and downs, highs and lows. This was the lowest I’d been since my parents passed. For ten months, I lived in a cloud, in a dream, where the man I was in love with loved me back.

Now, that was taken away from me.

Gage hadn’t been ambiguous.

He’d been clear both with his actions and his words.

Once again, I remembered him kissing that woman, and shards of ss scraped over my skin.

I couldn’t stand it.

Absolutely couldn’t stand the idea of him being with another woman—and yet, he would be—and I’d have to find a way to stand it.

New Orleans was a small town, and we hadmon friends, so it was very likely we’d bump into each other.

How would I keep myself together if he had a woman with him? If he held her hand as he’d held mine, if he made love to her, the way he….

Aurelie had asked me if I wanted to meet after work, but I told her I was busy.

Not a lie.

With Mardi Gras on our heels, I had to change the window disy at Aire Noire. I wanted it to be bold and loud, so I could somehow get out of this funk that made me want to hide under the covers and lick my wounds.

I’d recentlye across a photograph of a Parisian lingerie boutique on Pinterest—a tiny shop tucked into a cobbled corner of Le Marais. The window was artful, a little theatrical—like the lingerie had attitude. Not just to be worn but to be wielded.

Inspired by that image, I decided to take some of my power back.

I looked through the new inventory and picked up a robe in pale peach silk, bias-cut with hand-embroidered orchids that fell like secrets down the spine. I matched it with a soft bralette top and short-set in storm grayce—feminine but edgy.

I positioned the mannequin so she was seated on an antique chair, her legs spread just a little, almost in invitation. I put her hand on her thigh as if she were going to pleasure herself. I draped her wrist in a long strand of pearls so it fell between her thighs. I tucked a pair of satin heels at her feet like she’d just stepped out of them.

I ced a single coupe ss with a dark lipstick stain at the rim and scattered handwritten love notes—inked in French, torn at the edges—which I’d made on Canva, on an antique pedestal next to her.

On the window with a gold acrylic pen, I wrote in French: C’est Mardi Gras, chérie—sois audacieuse, and added in a smaller-sized font in English: It’s Mardi Gras, darling—be bold.

Let the tourists gawk, I thought rebelliously.

Let the women pause and smirk to themselves. Let them feel like the window was a reflection—not of who they were supposed to be, but of everything they still could be.

This was mine.

My body.

My power.

My heart.

The shop was closed for the evening, so I switched the music from soft jazz to something slower, darker, sexy.

French.

Gainsbourg’s Je t’aime…moi non plus drifted through the speakers first, all breathy tension and forbidden heat. After that, it was Fran?oise Hardy’s Comment te dire adieu, édith Piaf’s smoky La Vie en Rose, and a slow, aching cover of Ne Me Quitte Pas by Jacques Brel.

This was music that didn’t just fill the space—it wrapped itself around the silks and satins like a sigh.

Feeling restive, I went into the back of the store, where next to the twin fitting rooms, I’d created a boudoir. A nook with a purposefully decadent vibe.

The walls were papered in vintage floral print, pale gold, and faded rose.

A curved daybed, velvet in a dusky plum, sat beneath a cluster of antique mirrors.

There was a sitting area, too—two low slipper chairs and a carved side table stacked with old perfume bottles, art books, and a silver tray where I kept a chilled half-bottle of champagne in a bucket. For clients, usually. Or, on days like this, just for me.

I pulled out a split of Ruinart from the small fridge I kept behind a curtain. I popped the cork with a quiet twist and poured a ss. I set the bottle into the bucket that had more cold water than ice.

The fizz of the bubbly softened the silence for a moment. I lowered myself onto the daybed, legs curled under me, the ss cool in my hand, and let the ache settle into my chest.

Not long ago, I would sit here and marvel at everything I’d built—this gorgeous store, this life I was somehow making work.

But now…memory had a way of staining even the brightest things.

I leaned back, eyes drifting to the tall mirror across the room—the one with the gilded frame and the delicate crack along the bottom corner.

Gage had more than once stood behind me as he watched me in the mirror.

His dark blue eyes intent.

I remembered the time when I had just received a new shipment—silk andce, meticulously hand-dyed in shades of ga and onyx, pieces chosen with him in mind.

He arrived after closing, which he did most days. When he saw the lingerie, his eyes darkened, and he asked me to model it for him.

He lounged back in one of the delicate chairs, arms draped wide, his gaze burning through me, like he was settling in to savor the slowest, most tantalizing striptease imaginable.

The contrast of his rough, unshakable masculinity against the soft, feminine lines of the chair had its own kind of eroticism.

“Go on, baby,” he growled, his voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey. “Let me see.”

I slid into a changing room and, with excitement thrumming through me, put on the sheer bodysuit that clung to my curves like a second skin. Thece so delicate, it barely concealed the swell of my tits or the curve of my ass. The red silk threads running through it looked like streaks of fire against my skin as I stepped back into the shop.

His gaze locked onto me with an intensity that could melt steel. Then, his eyes trailed down my body, lingering on every inch of exposed flesh, and I could see the bulge in his pants swelling with every second.

I moved closer, stepping between his knees.

His eyes went predatory, like he was already imagining how he’d tear me apart, piece by sinful piece.

The air between us crackled with desire, and I felt heat radiating off his body, even before I straddled him. I kissed him with the knowledge that he would unravel mepletely.

His hands traveled up my thighs.

‘You wear this for other people?’ His voice was thick with a possessiveness that I found thrilling.

His hands slid higher, teasing the edge of thece where it met the curve of my ass.

‘No,’ I breathed, my hips moved against him. ‘Only you.’

His hands gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks as he pulled me down against him, grinding his cock into my wetness through the thin fabric of the bodysuit.

I could feel every inch of him, his hardness pressing against my clit.

I moaned, low and desperate, as he leaned in to kiss me.

His lips were hot, demanding. His tongue slipped next to mine with a hunger that made my head spin.

His hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat as his other hand ripped the crotch of the bodysuit open, the sound of tearing fabric making me tremble.

His fingers were on my pussy, sliding through my wetness with a sound of approval.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” His voice was rough with need as he pushed two fingers inside me.

I gasped, arching into him as he worked his fingers in and out of me, his thumb circling my clit with just the right amount of pressure.

My hands wed at his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto as pleasure washed over me in waves.

“Gage,” I moaned, my voice breaking as he added a third finger, stretching me wide, fucking me with his hand in a way that made my toes curl.

He pulled his fingers out of me with a wet sound that made me blush even as it turned me on more.

He smeared my juices on my lips and yanked me down for a kiss. My head was spinning.

He lifted me up and tossed me onto the daybed like I weighed nothing.

The silk andce clung to my skin as Inded, spread out for him like a feast, and he was on me in an instant, tearing the rest of the bodysuit off with impatience.

I didn’t care that it was a one-of-a-kind bodysuit—and that it cost me well over two hundred dors. The way it made me feel, made him want me, was worth it.

He undressed, and I watched as he stroked his cock, thick and hard, glistening with precum.

He covered me, his erection insistent against my slit.

He didn’t tease and mmed into me in one brutal thrust, filling me sopletely that I cried out, my nails digging into his back as he started to move.

He fucked me hard and fast, his hips mming into mine with a rhythm thatpletely ensnared me.

The sound of skin pping against skin filled the room, mingling with my moans and his groans of pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re tight.” His hands held my hips as he pounded into me, the angle hitting just right to make me see stars. “You feel so fucking good, baby.”

I couldn’t form words anymore—all I could do was cling to him, my body writhing as he fucked me into the velvet.

The pleasure built inside me with every thrust, coiling tighter and tighter until I was on the edge, teetering dangerously close to the brink.

“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice rough andmanding. I obeyed without hesitation.

My orgasm hit me like a freight train, shattering me into a million pieces as pleasure erupted through every nerve in my body.

Gage didn’t stop—he kept moving through it, his thrusts growing more erratic as he chased his release.

Finally, with a hoarse cry, he came inside me, as his body shuddered against mine.

We copsed together, a tangled mess of sweat and silk and raw, unbridled lust. His breath was heavy against my neck as he pressed a kiss to my skin, his arms wrapping around me possessively.

I stroked my hand over the coverlet of the daybed, remembering how our bodies entwined on it, silk wrapping around us like a ribbon I never wanted to untie.

I recalled the ss tray’s soft tter on the table, the way his voice cracked when he reached his peak, whispering my name as if it were an intimate confession.

God, I miss that version of him.

I missed the man who looked at me like I was the only woman in the world—the one who made me feel like every inch of my skin was worth worshipping.

Now, the boudoir felt hollow.

I looked around and sighed. The mirrors reflected nothing but the empty space beside me.

The lingerie was still here, still beautiful.

But the woman who wore it for him? Well, she felt very far away.

I took another sip of champagne and closed my eyes. I needed to keep my mind off him and get back to work. That’s what I needed to do.

Burlesque Noir wasing. There was prep to do. Mannequins to dress, feathers to steam, sparkle to polish.

But for now, I let myself sit in the ache.

Just for a moment.