NORA POV
The door clicks shut.
I press my back against it, heart hammering like I just outran a horror movie villain. Except instead of a guy with a chainsaw, it's Adrien Moreau—who is, frankly, scarier. At least the chainsaw guy doesn't show up in Armani.
Shakespeare the cat pads into the hallway, tail twitching. He looks up at me as if to say, Really? You turned away a billionaire at the door?
"Yes," I mutter. "And I'd do it again."
But my voice wavers.
Because the truth is, I don't feel victorious. I feel… unsettled.
I should be celebrating. Normal girls in fairy tales faint when a man like Adrien Moreau comes knocking. I slammed the door in his face. That should be a triumph.
Instead, I can still smell him in the air. Expensive cologne and rain.
I shove off the door, pacing my tiny apartment like a caged animal. "Nope. Not happening. He's not going to bulldoze me into a publicity stunt."
My phone buzzes again. Ella, naturally:
DID HE COME TO YOUR APARTMENT?!?
I freeze. Then groan.
Of course the paparazzi caught him leaving my building.
I click open the link she's sent. Sure enough, there he is, striding into the rain with that inhuman calm of his, the kind that makes you wonder if anything rattles him at all.
The caption is worse:
"Adrien Moreau's Mystery Woman Identified? Secret Late-Night Visit Raises Questions."
"Kill me now," I mutter, dropping my phone face-down on the couch.
Shakespeare hops up beside me, curling into my lap as if to say you're doomed, might as well nap through it.
The next day at school is chaos.
Kids whisper and giggle when I walk into class. Teachers whisper louder in the staffroom. Even the principal pulls me aside with a tight smile, saying something vague about "professional image" while pretending not to be dying of curiosity.
By the time I make it home, I'm exhausted.
I toss my bag on the floor, collapse onto the couch, and stare at the ceiling like it might hold the answers.
I've worked too hard for this—my degree, my kids, my students. I didn't sign up to be a footnote in Adrien Moreau's glossy life.
And yet.
His words echo in my head: The world already believes you matter. Which means you do.
I hate that he's right.
I hate that my life is suddenly on fire because of one stupid collision at a gala.
And most of all, I hate that somewhere, beneath all the irritation and panic, there's a sliver of curiosity.
What happens if I don't slam the door next time?