NORAPOV
The first thing I hear when I wake up is Ella screaming.
Not just normal screaming. This is "possessed by a demon" screaming. I jolt upright on her couch, still in the borrowed dress, mascara smudged halfway to my ears.
She's standing over me, holding her phone like it's the Dead Sea Scrolls. "YOU. ARE. EVERYWHERE."
I groan, pulling a throw pillow over my head. "No. Not possible. I'm invisible. I don't exist. Delete me."
Ella yanks the pillow away. "Nora Quinn, you are literally the front page of Le Monde. And the Daily Mail. And—oh my god—there's a Buzzfeed quiz: Which Adrien Moreau Gala Moment Are You?"
"Please tell me I'm not the answer."
She scrolls, face horrified-delighted. "You are all the answers."
I collapse back against the cushions. My head is pounding. My feet are blistered. And my life is officially ruined.
Ella perches on the coffee table, scrolling furiously. "Listen to this one: 'Mystery woman captures Moreau heir's gaze in rare display of warmth.' Warmth, Nora. The man is basically a luxury iceberg. Do you understand what you've done? You've humanized him."
"Accidentally," I mumble.
"Doesn't matter. The internet has decided you're his secret soulmate. And honestly? I kind of ship it."
I throw a cushion at her. She ducks, still laughing.
Before I can even sit up properly, my own phone buzzes. Unknown number. Short, precise.
Adrien Moreau: Be at my office. 7 p.m. Sharp.
No greeting. No explanation. Just a command.
I stare at the screen, my pulse spiking.
Ella leans over my shoulder, gasping like she's watching a royal wedding. "Oh my god. He texted you. That's basically a marriage proposal in billionaire language."
I shove the phone away. "It's basically a hostage note."
But deep down, under the panic, under the headache, under the urge to move to a remote island with no Wi-Fi… a treacherous thought flickers.
I remember the way his hand felt at my back. The weight of his gaze. The fact that for three minutes, under chandelier light, I forgot to hate him.
I slam that thought down, hard.
"Nope. Not happening," I mutter, pushing myself off the couch. "I'm not his puppet."
But as Ella hums the wedding march behind me, I glance back at the text one more time.
And my heart beats faster.