The Anatomy of Wanting Him

It was late afternoon, and I was on my second client. I don't take just anyone; my time is split between these clinic walls, hospital boardrooms, and investment meetings. My life is a series of interconnected moves, and I don't waste breath on the unimportant.

But Angelica Jenine was different. She was one of Paris's most understated models-authentic, unfiltered, and strikingly sincere. She reminded me of who I used to be before I learned to stay cold.

"Doc, I have a runway show this Thursday. Please come?" she asked, her voice light as I worked a needle along the side of her neck.

"Of course," I said, a small smile appearing. "Anything for the princess."

She giggled. "You made me a princess. That makes you the queen."

"Maybe," I murmured. "But I'm more of a witch."

Angelica didn't blink. "Then you're both. A good witch and a bad one. Life isn't all sunshine, right? We don't bloom without storms." She laughed at herself, then looked at me earnestly. "You're incredible, Doc. I wouldn't be this open if you weren't."

I wasn't used to such generous words. I shook my head, hiding a smile. "I already said yes to the show, Angelica. Now it sounds like you're trying to get today's session for free."

She laughed, unashamed. "I wouldn't say no! But really, you'll love the show. We're debuting a new designer. He's underrated, independent, and..." she lowered her voice, "he's adorable."

"Good," I replied, finishing the final touches on her neck. "Emerging artists deserve the space."

"Do you want to see him? You might recognize the name." She grabbed her phone from her lap and tapped the screen. "Here, let me show you. It's-Severino David Haynes-oh my god, Doc, are you okay?"

*Merde.*

A sharp clatter echoed through the room. My instruments slipped from my hands, scattering across the floor. I bent down fast to retrieve them, my heart hammering against my ribs. My assistant, Ann, was already there helping, her eyes curious.

When will that man finally leave my head?

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice tight. "It slipped."

"It's okay," Angelica said gently. "That's on me. I shouldn't have brought up a random name. They say it brings bad luck."

For a moment, I stood perfectly still. This time, I was inclined to believe her.

***

After that disaster, I retreated to Le Marais for a cold espresso. I'd had to cut the session short-my professionalism had cracked, and I owed Angelica a free appointment to make up for the embarrassment.

"Trish, you're zoning out again," Evelyn said, watching me stare blankly at a child with a rainbow kite in the distance.

"It's just the caffeine," I lied. But even the espresso couldn't steady my hands. I've spent years mastering my craft, yet here I was, unraveling over a man. It was absurd.

"It's all over your face," Evelyn said, slicing into a strawberry croissant. "Just say it. Is it a man?"

I stayed silent.

She set her cup down, a smirk spreading across her face. "It *is* a man. Mike?"

"Can we go?" I snapped.

Before she could answer, her phone rang. She checked the screen and stepped away to take the call, giving me a moment of unwanted solitude.

I pulled out my phone and logged into my private account. It was a six-month-old secret-a quiet rebellion that had turned into a lucrative obsession. The numbers were triple what most creators made. It wasn't about the money; it was about the power.

For years, Jason made me believe my body was something to hide. His words had been a scalpel, cutting away my confidence. But my inbox told a different story. Strangers called me beautiful. Irresistible. Even when the compliments were laced with hunger, I let them soak in.

A notification blinked.

*Aquarius.*

He was loyal, consistent, and tipped more than anyone else. He'd asked for a private call several times, and I'd always refused. My body wasn't for sale, even if the view was.

I tapped the message.

**From: Aquarius**

*Hey. Thank you for last night. I can't wait to see you in person and hear you breathless. To hear you gasping my name while you're taking every inch of me.*

Attached was a photo. A man, shirtless, his skin looking like polished marble. His chest was broad, his torso lean and lethal. A white towel hung dangerously low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his Adonis belt. A dark trail of hair disappeared beneath the cotton, hinting at everything else.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. *Merde.*

"Trish? You okay?" Evelyn's voice cut through the fog.

I shoved the phone into my bag and stood up, forcing my face into a mask of cold composure.

"Let's go."