NORA POV
The first text is from Ella:
OH. MY. GOD.
The second is from my sister:
Are you secretly dating Adrien Moreau???
The third is from a student's mom:
Saw you on the Daily Mail site đź‘€ đź‘€ đź‘€.
By the time my phone buzzes with the forty-seventh notification, I'm ready to throw it out the window.
Except if I did, I'd probably hit a tourist canal boat, and then I'd be trending for attempted murder and public indecency. So. Not ideal.
I bury my head under my pillow instead, praying this is all a nightmare.
Spoiler: it's not.
When I finally drag myself to the kitchen, bleary-eyed and still in pajama shorts, the newsfeed is waiting for me like a glittering guillotine.
"Adrien Moreau's Mystery Woman," the headline screams from every site, every screenshot. An unidentified beauty was spotted in an intimate moment at the gala. Who is she?
Unidentified beauty.
They make me sound like a Bond girl instead of a very hungover social worker with mismatched socks.
I groan, slumping into the nearest chair. My cat, Shakespeare (irony intended), hops onto the table and blinks at me like he, too, is judging my life choices.
"You're right," I mutter, scratching his chin. "This is insane. I've somehow gone from anonymous to… clickbait."
The worst part? The photo.
I click it open again—because apparently I'm a masochist—and there it is: Adrien Moreau's hand wrapped around my wrist, his face tilted toward mine, my expression frozen mid-gasp.
It does look… intimate.
Too intimate.
Like the opening scene of a scandalous romance film.
I smack my forehead against the table.
"Nope. Absolutely not. Not my life."
My phone rings again. Ella, this time, because of course she can't resist.
"Don't say it," I answer.
"I HAVE to say it," she screeches. "Nora. Do you even realize what's happening? You're viral. You broke the internet. That's, like, a once-in-a-lifetime thing!"
"I don't want a lifetime thing," I snap. "I want my life back."
She snorts. "Please. If you think Adrien Moreau is just going to let this die quietly, you're delusional."
My stomach twists. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Babe, his family doesn't do scandals. They do cover-ups and control. Trust me—he'll find you."
The words send a shiver down my spine.
Not because I believe her.
But because, deep down, I know she's right.
By mid-morning, it's impossible to pretend anymore.
The school where I work is already buzzing. Teachers cluster in the staffroom, not-so-subtly sneaking glances at me as I refill my coffee. A few brave ones approach with oh-so-casual comments.
"So… late night, Nora?"
"You didn't tell us you were friends with Adrien Moreau."
I nearly choke on my coffee. "I'm not."
"Sure," one of them smirks. "Well, tell him we accept donations in cash or check."
By lunchtime, parents are lingering longer at pickup, pretending to scroll their phones while eyeing me like I might reveal my secret to anyone who asks.
And that's when it hits me: this isn't going to fade overnight.
I'm not just a blurry face in the background.
I'm the headline.
The thought is suffocating.
That evening, I collapse onto my couch with Shakespeare curled on my lap, praying the storm will blow over. My phone buzzes again with Ella's running commentary, but I ignore it, flipping through mindless TV instead.
Until there's a knock at the door.
I freeze.
Nobody knocks at this hour.
I set Shakespeare aside, tiptoe across the room, and peek through the peephole.
My breath catches.
Because standing on the other side of my very unglamorous apartment door is none other than Adrien Moreau himself.