Sarah's Jealous Bachelor Revelry

I couldn't believe I was crashing Victor Lang's private penthouse bash under the guise of 'bachelor party planning.' The elevator doors slid open to reveal the sprawling rooftop suite overlooking the glittering Paris skyline at dusk. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over sleek leather couches, a fully stocked bar shimmering with bottles of top-shelf whiskey and champagne, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Eiffel Tower like a distant lover. The air hummed with faint jazz from hidden speakers, but the real tension crackled between Sarah David and Victor. Sarah stood there, my Sarah, the 25-year-old French beauty with her long straight black hair cascading like midnight silk down her slender 5'6" frame. Her green eyes sparkled with that confident warmth I knew so well, but tonight they flickered with unease. Fair skin glowed under the ambient light, her oval face set in determination despite the oval curve of her medium-busted, slender body hugged by a tight black cocktail dress that teased her narrow waist and long legs. Victor, that smug bastard with his sharp jaw and tailored suit, loomed too close, his hand possessively on her lower back as they pored over event binders on the marble coffee table. I'd followed them here after overhearing Victor's blackmail threat earlier that day—something about compromising photos from a wild photoshoot he'd twisted into leverage. Sarah, ever the professional model, had been roped into planning his best friend's bachelor party, but I knew it was more. My blood boiled seeing his fingers brush her arm. She caught my eye through the glass door, a subtle widening of her eyes, a mix of relief and warning. I straightened my jacket, heart pounding. This wasn't just rivalry; it was war. And Sarah, confident and warm as she was, was the prize. The penthouse felt like...