ADRIEN POV
The rain is relentless, drumming against the awning as I wait.
I shouldn't be here. Marcus would kill me if he knew I'd come without a statement drafted, without cameras staged. My mother would skin me alive.
But patience has never been my virtue.
When Nora opens the door, she doesn't smile. She doesn't swoon. She doesn't even offer me the courtesy of a hello.
She just stares, eyes narrowed, one hand gripping the frame like she's physically restraining herself from slamming it in my face.
"You again," she mutters.
"Yes," I say evenly. "Me again."
Her gaze flicks over me, unimpressed despite the fact I'm standing in the pouring rain. Any other woman I've ever met would have dragged me inside by now, offered a towel, leaned closer.
Not Nora Quinn. She looks ready to mace me.
"What do you want?" she demands.
I study her—hair tousled, an oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder, the faintest trace of fatigue under her eyes. She looks nothing like the manicured socialites I've grown immune to. She looks real.
And real, unfortunately, is dangerous.
"I came," I say, "to offer you a solution."
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Chapter 8 – Adrien
Part 2
Her laugh is sharp, incredulous.
"A solution? What am I, a PR problem to be fixed?"
"Yes," I answer, without apology.
Her jaw drops. "You're unbelievable."
"And yet," I counter, "you haven't closed the door."
She flushes, realizing it. My lips almost curve.
I step closer, lowering my voice. "The press isn't going away, Nora. The more you ignore it, the more they'll invent. My family is already… displeased."
"Boo hoo." She folds her arms. "Forgive me if I don't cry over the Moreau dynasty's feelings."
Her defiance stirs something sharp in my chest—half irritation, half fascination. I've been cursed, worshiped, envied. But no one talks to me like this.
I press on. "If we present a united front—just for a while—it will kill the speculation. A few appearances. A few photographs. The story will die, and you can have your quiet life back."
She stares at me as though I've suggested she sell her soul.
"Let me get this straight," she says slowly. "You want me to fake-date you. To stand next to you, smile for cameras, let the world think I'm your… what, your girlfriend?"
Her tone drips with disbelief.
I don't flinch. "Yes."
Her eyes widen, then narrow. She shakes her head, muttering, "Absolutely not."
And yet—her hand is still on the door. She hasn't shut me out. Not yet.
Which means I still have a chance to make her say yes.