ADRIEN POV
The night refuses to end.
Every step I take in this ballroom, another camera flashes, another voice whispers. Normally, I'd thrive on this—control the room, control the story. But tonight? The room is not talking about me.
They're talking about her.
Nora Quinn. Mystery woman. Cinderella. Muse. Threat.
I can hear it ripple through the crowd—like static, like wildfire.
Who is she? She's not from our circle. She doesn't act like them. She doesn't even look impressed.
And worst of all, the thought blooming in every gaze, every lens: She might be real.
A flute of champagne slides into my hand. I barely sip before Eleanor appears at my side, draped in navy silk, her diamonds sharp as weapons. My mother doesn't waste time.
"That," she says softly, eyes cutting toward Nora, "was reckless."
My jaw tightens. "It was necessary."
"Necessary?" Her laugh is cold. "You paraded a stranger into our world. You gave the press blood. They'll gorge on her until there's nothing left. Then they'll come for us."
I let her words wash over me, my gaze still fixed on Nora across the room. She's pretending to be fascinated by the canapés, but her smile—tight, defiant—gives her away. She feels the weight. And still, she stands.
"She can handle it," I say before I can stop myself.
Eleanor's brow lifts, sharp and assessing. "Then she's dangerous."
The orchestra swells again. Daniel sidles up, slipping between us like smoke. "Well," he drawls, clapping me on the shoulder, "I leave you alone for one hour and suddenly you're starring in a French fairy tale. Care to explain?"
"Not here," I mutter.
Daniel smirks. "Right. Not in front of Mommy Dearest. Understood."
Eleanor's glare could shatter glass, but she sweeps away, her heels precise as a metronome.
Daniel watches her go, then leans close. "She's stunning, by the way. Absolutely lethal. I like her."
I don't respond. Because the truth is clawing at me, and I don't want to give it shape:
I liked her too.
Not her beauty. Not the scandal. Not the spectacle.
Her defiance.
The orchestra shifts to a final, glittering cadence. The gala is winding down, guests making their ritual goodbyes, but I know the night is only beginning. By morning, Nora Quinn will not be a woman. She will be a headline.
And once the media has her name, her face, her scent—they will never let her go.