ADRIEN POV
Appearances are everything.
My mother drilled that into me before I could spell my own name. And tonight, appearances are precisely what I intend to weaponize.
The flashbulbs start the moment my car pulls up outside the Ritz ballroom. My jaw settles into its practiced line—controlled, unreadable, immaculate. A thousand lenses will dissect every twitch, so I give them nothing.
Nothing except Nora.
Because the second she steps out of the car, the world tilts.
Not because of the dress, though it fits her in a way that guarantees tomorrow's headlines will call it "iconic." Not because of the light catching her skin like it's been choreographed to. But because she looks… irritated. As though this entire circus is beneath her.
And of course, that only makes her luminous.
Marcus hovers near the entrance, headset crackling. He's already sweating. "Smile, Adrien. Just—just a little. Remember, soften. Let them see—"
I brush past him. "I'm not a politician."
Nora's arm brushes mine as we step onto the carpet, and for a moment the crowd surges forward, shouting questions, microphones thrust like weapons.
"Adrien! Who is she?"
"Miss Quinn! How long have you been together?"
"Are the wedding rumors true?"
Her hand flinches toward mine. Not to hold it. To steady herself. The instinct is so quick she probably doesn't even realize.
But I do.
I take her hand. Not gently. Firm, decisive, enough to send a ripple of gasps through the press line.
Nora snaps her head toward me, eyes flashing: What the hell are you doing?
I lean just enough to make it look intimate. "Controlling the narrative," I murmur.
She hisses through clenched teeth, "You could warn me first."
"Where's the fun in that?"
Her lips press together, mutinous. And the cameras eat it alive.
Inside the ballroom, crystal chandeliers blaze above oceans of sequins and tailored suits. The elite of Europe parade their smiles, each one sharpened to a knife's edge.
Eleanor Moreau waits near the stage, poised as ever in black silk, diamonds at her throat. She doesn't embrace me. She doesn't need to. One arched brow communicates enough: Prove you can manage this mess.
Beside me, Nora mutters, "Is this a gala or a safari? Everyone's staring like I'm prey."
"They're not staring at you," I answer smoothly. "They're staring at us."
Her scoff is soft, but her fingers are still tangled with mine. I can feel the quick pulse at her wrist. She's holding steady for the cameras, but she's rattled. And infuriatingly, I find myself admiring that she hasn't bolted.
Daniel materializes with a champagne flute in each hand. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Europe's hottest couple." He hands Nora a glass and lowers his voice so only we hear. "She's much too good for you, Adrien."
Nora grins for the first time tonight, wicked and sharp. "Finally, someone who speaks sense."
Daniel cackles, already in love with her. My teeth clench.
"Don't encourage him," I warn.
"Why?" Nora tilts her head, pretending innocence. "Afraid of competition?"
The worst part is the heat that flares low in my chest at the spark in her eyes. This was supposed to be a maneuver, a shield against scandal. But with every word, every glance, Nora Quinn makes me forget strategy.
And that is dangerous.
The evening blurs into handshakes and staged photographs, but I keep her close, a hand at her back, guiding, claiming. The press will call it possessive. They'll be right.
Because when Sophia Valmont drifts across the floor—icy, perfect, my mother's ideal choice—I don't let go of Nora.
Sophia's smile is a blade wrapped in velvet. "Adrien. And… company."
Nora returns the smile, bright and unapologetic. "Nora Quinn. I suppose I'm tonight's entertainment."
I nearly choke on my drink. The sheer audacity—no one speaks to Sophia like that. Not here.
But Sophia only blinks, thrown off-balance for perhaps the first time in her life. And beside me, Nora sips champagne as if she hasn't just set the ballroom on fire.
I should be furious. Instead, my lips curve into the first genuine smile I've allowed all evening.
Maybe this arrangement won't be as tedious as I thought.
The photographers are relentless. Even inside the ballroom, flashes burst at the glass doors, desperate to catch another angle of us.
I guide Nora deeper into the crowd, my hand steady at the small of her back. She's tense but refusing to let it show. Another mark in her favor. Most people crumble under this spotlight. She burns brighter.
The orchestra swells—violins curling like smoke through the air—and couples begin to drift toward the dance floor. I know what's expected of me. A performance. A headline. A photo that screams: Adrien Moreau is not a scandal, he is a love story.
So I turn to her. "Dance with me."
She blinks, incredulous. "Excuse me?"
"Unless you'd prefer a scene."
Her eyes narrow, her lips part in protest—but then the cameras click again, and she realizes there's no escape. With a muttered curse, she sets her glass on a passing tray.
Her hand fits into mine reluctantly. Her other rests on my shoulder, hesitant, almost defiant. We begin to move.
And suddenly, the room dissolves.
Her scent—something soft, like vanilla cut with citrus—threads under my skin. Her body resists the rhythm at first, stiff with annoyance, but I adjust, guiding her until she falls into step.
"You're enjoying this far too much," she murmurs.
"Of course," I reply smoothly. "I always enjoy winning."
Her laugh is low, disbelieving, but it curls in my chest like smoke. "You're insufferable."
I lean closer, close enough that to the cameras it will look intimate. "And yet you agreed to this."
Her retort is sharp. "Don't mistake survival for surrender."
For the first time in years, I almost miss a step.
Around us, whispers ripple like static. I hear my name threaded with hers, speculation blooming already. Eleanor watches from her post near the stage, an unreadable mask. Sophia lingers too, her smile frozen, gaze flicking to our entwined hands as if calculating the threat.
Nora notices. She tilts her chin up, smile sweet but edged with steel. "Your friend Sophia looks like she swallowed a lemon."
"She's not my friend," I say.
"Oh?" Nora arches a brow. "Should I be worried about the claws that will come out later?"
I suppress a laugh. No one speaks like this in these rooms. They scheme, they flatter, they poison in whispers. But Nora? She fires shots openly.
"You should be worried," I say softly, tightening my hold just enough for her breath to catch. "But not about Sophia."
Her gaze locks with mine, defiant, unflinching. It's infuriating. It's intoxicating.
The song slows, the last notes dissolving into applause. I release her hand with precision, aware of every lens aimed at us. To the room, we are untouchable. A perfectly orchestrated romance.
But as Nora steps back, her voice is a razor at my throat. "Careful, Adrien. You might start believing your own performance."
And for a moment—just one—I wonder if she's right.