CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Penelope's POV

I took a steadying breath, my gaze sweeping over the conference room. Every eye in the room was on me, waiting. The weight of expectation hung thick in the air, but I didn't let it shake me. This was my vision—my work. If anyone was going to sell it, it would be me.

"Lauriot," I began, my voice even and confident, "is more than just a clothing line. It's a statement. It embodies the essence of street style—bold, effortless, and entirely wearable. It's for the risk-takers, the ones who turn sidewalks into runways, the ones who mix high fashion with casual wear and make it their own."

I scanned the faces before me, noting the intrigued expressions. Good.

"The fashion industry has long been dominated by exclusivity—brands that cater to an elite few, designs that feel untouchable. Lauriot changes that. We bring luxury to the streets. We blend high fashion with urban aesthetics in a way that speaks to the modern generation."

One of the investors, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, leaned forward. "How do you plan to ensure exclusivity while maintaining accessibility?"

"By keeping our designs limited yet versatile," I answered smoothly. "Each collection will have limited drops—exclusive pieces that people will want to get their hands on before they sell out. But unlike traditional luxury brands, our price point will be approachable, making high fashion attainable without compromising on quality."

Another investor, a sharp-eyed woman dressed in a tailored navy suit, nodded approvingly. "Interesting. And how do you intend to market this?"

"We capitalize on culture," I replied. "Influencers, musicians, athletes—people who live the Lauriot lifestyle. Social media will be a driving force, leveraging organic engagement over traditional marketing. The goal is to make Lauriot the brand people talk about, not just another clothing label on the market."

A murmur of approval swept through the room. Julien sat back in his chair, his fingers pressed together as he watched me intently, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

"Impressive," the first investor said, exchanging looks with the others.

A moment later, a slow round of applause broke out. I blinked, caught slightly off guard, but quickly schooled my features.

"This," one of them said, his grin widening, "is exactly the kind of vision we're looking for. Count us in."

Julien stood, shaking hands with each of them. "It's a pleasure to have you on board."

As the investors stood, one of them turned to me, extending a hand. "Madison, you've got quite the mind for business. And," he added with a chuckle, "Julien is one lucky man to have such a brilliant—and beautiful—wife."

The others laughed, and Julien's smirk only deepened. "Trust me," he said, his voice smooth, "I know."

I forced a smile, shaking the investor's hand as they bid their final goodbyes.

-

I sat in Julien's office, my hands loosely clasped together as I gazed around.

The space was dark-toned yet undeniably elegant. The layout was symmetrical, every inch of the room meticulously arranged. A large, dark-coloured desk stood centrally, complemented by an equally imposing leather armchair. Shelving units lined the walls, filled with files and artifacts that hinted at Julien's empire. But it was the floor-to-ceiling windows that caught my attention the most. Through them, the city stretched out before me, a sprawling skyline glittering under the night sky.

I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware of the time. It was getting late.

Where was Julien?

Just as unease began creeping in, the door finally swung open.

Julien stepped inside, his suit jacket already discarded. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, the first few buttons undone, revealing a sliver of tanned skin. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose the edges of a tattoo I hadn't noticed before.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

His voice was smooth, almost teasing. I swallowed.

He stepped past his desk and pressed a discreet button on the wall. A hidden compartment slid open, revealing an impressive selection of liquor. From it, he pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses, shutting the compartment back with ease.

"You deserve a drink after that," he said, pouring the wine into the glasses. He grabbed one and walked toward me, extending it.

I hesitated before taking it, my fingers brushing against his for a fleeting moment. I swallowed hard and took a small sip, the taste rich and warm against my tongue.

Julien leaned back against his desk, watching me intently. "You outdid yourself in there."

A slow smirk curved at the corner of his lips as he lifted his own glass. "I'm proud of you."

Something about the way he said it made my stomach flip.

I set my glass down on the side table, forcing my expression to remain neutral.

Julien, however, wasn't done. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze darkening with something unreadable. "Your outfit choice lately is really on a mission to drive me insane."

The air between us thickened.

I exhaled slowly. "I didn't realize I needed your approval on what I wear."

He chuckled, setting his glass aside. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "You don't. But that doesn't mean I won't have my thoughts about it."

I barely had time to process that before he gestured with his fingers. "Come here."

My heart pounded against my ribs.

I hesitated, but the way he was looking at me—like he already knew I would comply—had me rising to my feet before I even realized what I was doing.

I took slow, cautious steps toward him, stopping just a breath away.

Julien's eyes never left mine. "Sit."

I glanced around. There was no chair.

And then it clicked.

His legs were slightly parted, a silent invitation.

I stiffened slightly, but his gaze held me in place. Slowly, I lowered myself between his legs, the heat of his body nearly swallowing me whole.

The moment I settled, Julien reached for me.

One hand slipped around my waist, the other curling around the nape of my neck as he pulled me in, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin and his hardness beneath his suit pant. I swallowed hard.

Then, he closed his eyes and inhaled—deeply, as if committing my scent to memory.

A slow, satisfied hum rumbled from his chest.

"You smell blissful."

I forced out a smile, taking in his own masculine lemon scent as well.

A brief silence stretched between, but my breathing hitched when I felt his hand dip into the shirt I had on, sliding up slowly to cup my breast. Then, he starts moulding slowly, the silence fueling the pleasure. I leaned into his touch before I knew it, biting my lips as his hand moved slowly on my breast.

As his moving pace increases, I find myself grinding into him shamelessly, matching the rhythm of his hand moulding my breast. 

His bulge hardened with each grind, and a soft moan that fanned my ear escaped his lips. 

This was shameless. I am shameless. He was my sister's husband. And, I was deceiving him. He thinks I'm Madison, and I shouldn't be playing into his belief. But, it's almost like I'm giving into my tag as a shameless person if I had to do this. I would gladly embrace that tag if it meant giving into the lust I had felt for Julien Laurent since our high school days.

I am shameless, and I'd pay for my sins later. For now, I would willingly embrace whatever the moment offered. 

I got onto my feet, swirled around, and stripped out of the shirt while Julien's lustful gaze danced around me. I reached for the mini skirt, stripping out of it as well until I'm left with only the matching black lacy bra and panties.

In soft whispers, I say, "Fuck me, Julien."