Chapter 49 - The Ultimate

The Champs-Élysées was a vibrant artery of Paris, pulsating with the luxurious energy of a morning that promised glamour and indulgence. Well-heeled Parisians glided past with an air of effortless sophistication, their designer outfits catching the sunlight like polished gems. Tourists, wide-eyed and eager, snapped photos of the iconic avenue, framed by elegant chestnut trees and adorned with grandiose storefronts that seemed to whisper promises of opulence. The scent of freshly baked croissants mingled with the faint aroma of espresso, creating an intoxicating blend that hung in the crisp morning air.

As Steve and his entourage strolled down the boulevard, they passed by an array of high-end boutiques that lined the iconic street. Louis Vuitton’s gleaming flagship store stood as a monument to modern luxury, its glass facade reflecting the bustling crowd like a mirror of desire. Nearby, Dior’s window displays showcased immaculate gowns that seemed to belong on a red carpet rather than behind glass. Further down, Cartier’s golden lights gleamed over meticulously arranged jewelry, each piece a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The hum of conversation and the occasional laughter of passersby blended seamlessly with the rhythmic clatter of heels on the pavement.

The moment they stepped into Chanel’s hallowed halls, the world outside seemed to fade into a distant murmur. The air inside was thick with the heady scent of No. 5, a fragrance that enveloped them like a sultry embrace. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the polished marble floors, while racks of impeccably tailored garments stood like sentinels of style. Steve’s women moved through the space with the grace of models at a runway show, their excitement palpable as they explored the treasures within. By the time they emerged, arms laden with Chanel’s iconic black-and-white bags. Steve knew it would be a whole day event and that by the end, his back would be suffering.

Next was the sprawling Lafayette department store, a temple of consumerism that swallowed them whole. Steve felt the familiar, sinking dread as the women’s eyes glazed over with acquisitive fire. He saw his moment when they began gravitating toward the Yves Saint-Laurent section, a monolithic display of minimalist elegance.

“Hey,” he said, catching Heather’s elbow. “I’m gonna pop over to the Levi’s store. I need a few pair of jeans.”

Heather’s gaze was sharp, appraising, but she simply nodded. “Don’t get lost, my love. We’ll be right here.” She turned back to a rack of silk blouses, her attention already captured.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he slipped away, not toward denim, but across the bustling street. The iconic blue boxes of Tiffany & Co. gleamed under the soft gallery lighting. A discreet manager, pre-warned of his arrival, greeted him and presented him with a small, weighty bag. Steve’s fingers trembled slightly as he checked the contents. Twelve velvet boxes, each one a promise. A small, neat label on each identified the recipient: Heather, Susan, Mia... He clutched the bag, a giddy thrill mixing with his anxiety.

He hurried back, the guilt of his brief deceit making him move faster. He pushed through the glass doors of Lafayette, his eyes scanning the YSL section. His women were there, but they weren’t shopping. They were clustered together, a defensive, angry knot surrounded by a few onlookers. Two men, their postures aggressive and leering, had them cornered.

One of them, a tall man with slicked-back hair, reached out and grabbed Zoé’s wrist. “Allez, sois sympa, beauté, ” he sneered, his grip tightening as she tried to pull away.

“Get your fucking hands off her!” Mia snapped, stepping forward, her 36DD chest heaving with fury, drawing the man’s leerous gaze immediately.

“Allez mes mignonnes!” barked the taller and more muscular of the two men, his voice dripping with contempt and lechery. “Vous devez être intéressées par les bites françaises! On va vous montrer à quel point on peut vous faire jouir!” His grin was predatory, his eyes raking over Mia’s curvaceous figure with shameless hunger.

Mia’s face twisted in disgust, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest as she stepped back. “Leave us alone! We’re not interested,” she snapped, her voice firm despite the unease creeping up her spine. She didn’t understand a word they were saying, but the way they leered—eyes glinting with malice—said enough.

Steve saw it all unfold from across the store, his heart pounding in his chest. He moved swiftly, his footsteps quickening as he closed the distance. The two men seemed to sense his approach, their heads snapping around as he came up behind them.

“Hey les cons!” Steve growled, his French broken but laced with venom. “Eux sont ma famille, partez!”

The Frenchmen exchanged a look, their initial surprise melting into cruel amusement. They burst into laughter, the sound sharp and mocking. “Merde du con,” the smaller one sneered, stepping forward with a swagger. “Laisse ta famille à des vrais hommes! Un Américain ne saurait pas comment satisfaire une femme.”

The man reached out to shove Steve, but Steve was ready. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the man’s wrist as it extended toward him, yanking it hard. Steve pivoted on his heel, twisting the man’s arm painfully as he wrapped his other arm around his neck in a vise-like grip. The man’s balance faltered, his body twisting awkwardly as Steve continued the motion.

With a final, sharp jerk, Steve released him. The man stumbled forward, momentum carrying him headfirst into the wall with a sickening thud. He crumpled to the floor in a heap, groaning weakly.

The taller man froze, his cocky grin slipping as he stared at his fallen friend. Steve straightened, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on the remaining threat. “Ça suffit,” he said coldly, his tone cutting through the tension. “Partez ou je me fâche vraiment.”