NORA POV
The reporters show up on Wednesday.
At first it's just one, a guy with a camera loitering across the street. Then two. By afternoon, there are six of them clustered on the sidewalk outside my building, lenses pointed up at my windows like I'm a zoo exhibit.
By the time I try to leave for work the next morning, it's a full-blown mob.
"Nora! Over here!""Miss Quinn, are you dating Adrien Moreau?""Smile for us! just one picture!"
I nearly choke on my coffee as microphones shove toward my face. My cat Shakespeare yowls from the upstairs window like even he knows this is insane.
"Excuse me!" I snap, shouldering through. "Some of us have actual jobs."
They don't move. Of course they don't. The paparazzi are like pigeons loud, aggressive, impossible to get rid of.
I manage to wedge myself into the tram, heart pounding, cheeks burning, every inch of me wishing I could teleport to another continent.
By the time I make it to school, my nerves are shredded.
Ella calls at lunch.
"So," she says sweetly, "ready to admit you're living in a Netflix show yet?"
"This isn't funny," I hiss, ducking into an empty classroom. "There are cameras outside my door. I almost had to body-check a guy with a boom mic this morning."
"Okay, but you looked amazing," she says. "I saw the photos online. That blazer? Very don't-mess-with-me chic."
"I wasn't trying to be chic! I was trying to survive!"
Ella just laughs. "Face it, babe. This is happening. Adrien Moreau's already in the picture literally. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
I sink into a chair, head in my hands. "Pray for an asteroid."
By Friday, it gets worse.
Someone leaves a note slipped under my door: 'Seen with Moreau. Gold-digger.'
I crumple it in my fist, throat tight.
This was supposed to be Ella's night, Ella's gala. If she hadn't gotten sick, if I hadn't worn the stupid dress, if Adrien hadn't—
A sharp knock interrupts my spiral.
I stiffen, staring at the door. Reporters don't knock. They shout. They crowd. This is different.
Slowly, cautiously, I peer through the peephole.
My stomach drops.
Adrien Moreau. Again.
This time, no Armani armor. He's in a dark coat, collar turned up against the rain, expression unreadable. He looks like a storm waiting to happen.
I rest my forehead against the door, muttering, "God, give me strength."
Because part of me already knows: if I open this door, my life is about to tilt further off its axis.
And the stupidest part?
I'm not sure I want to keep it shut.