ADRIEN POV
It takes three knocks before I hear movement inside.
The hallway of her building smells faintly of coffee grounds and old wood polish—a far cry from the marble-and-glass sterility I'm accustomed to. I ignore it, adjusting the cuff of my suit. Patience has never been my strongest virtue, but appearances matter—even here.
Finally, the door opens.
She stands barefoot, in shorts and a faded T-shirt, her hair pulled up haphazardly. No makeup. No diamonds. No artifice.
And she is—unfortunately—more striking like this than she was under the chandeliers.
Her eyes widen when she sees me.
"Oh, hell no."
Then she tries to shut the door in my face.
I catch it with one hand. "Miss Quinn."
Her jaw drops. "You know my name?"
"Of course I know your name." My voice stays even, precise. "I make it a point to identify the people responsible for international scandals with my face attached."
She blinks. Then crosses her arms. "Well, congratulations. You found me. Now go away."
I step forward, forcing the door wider with the subtle weight of my presence.
"We need to talk."
She glares. "About what? The fact that you nearly drowned me in champagne, or the fact that your paparazzi hyenas decided I'm your new plaything?"
Despite myself, I almost smile. Almost. The sharpness in her tone is… refreshing.
"About controlling the narrative," I say.
Her laugh is incredulous. "You sound like a press release."
"Because this is a press release, Miss Quinn. Whether you like it or not."
She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. I catch only fragments: arrogant and ridiculous.
"Look," she says finally, louder now, "I don't care about your narrative. I have a job, bills, a cat. I'm not about to play fake girlfriend for Europe's coldest heir."
Her words are meant to sting. They don't.
I've been called colder things.
But the way she says it—the lack of hesitation, the sheer disregard for who I am—lands differently.
No one talks to me like this.
Not board members. Not rivals. Not even family.
Her.
I let a beat of silence hang between us. Long enough that she fidgets under my gaze.
"Miss Quinn," I say finally, tone dropping into steel, "the situation is no longer yours to walk away from. The world already believes you matter. Which means you do."
Her eyes flash. "Not to me, I don't."
The words hit sharper than expected.
For a moment, I simply study her—the faint defiance in her stance, the way her hands tighten at her sides as though bracing for a fight.
And against my better judgment, I feel something stir.
Not annoyance. Not obligation.
Interest.
She leans against the doorframe, deliberately blocking the way in.
"So what's your plan, Adrien Moreau? Drag me in front of a press conference? Bribe me with a yacht?"
Her sarcasm is sharp enough to cut glass.
I take a slow step closer. She doesn't back away.
"My plan," I say carefully, "is to protect both our reputations. Which means we will appear together. Once. Publicly. Enough to satisfy the press. After that, this will fade."
Her laugh is short, disbelieving. "You really think it's that simple?"
"It usually is."
She narrows her eyes at me, searching my face as though looking for cracks in marble.
For a heartbeat too long, the air between us thickens.
Then she shakes her head, exasperated. "God, you actually believe you can manage people like headlines. No wonder you're miserable."
The words catch me off guard.
No one ever calls me miserable. Not aloud. Not even Daniel.
Her gaze softens—just slightly—as if she hadn't meant to reveal that insight. But then she steels herself again.
"Sorry. Not interested in playing dress-up in your fairytale scandal. Goodnight."
She pushes the door shut—this time faster than I expect.
It closes with a decisive click.
And for the first time in a very long while, I'm the one left standing on the outside.