NORA POV
I shouldn't be sweating through borrowed silk. Ella insisted I wear the blouse. "It says classy-but-approachable," she'd chirped while forcing it over my head this morning.
The problem is that silk has no mercy. It clings. It broadcasts every ounce of panic like a live-stream. And right now, walking through the cavernous lobby of Moreau International, I feel like I've been tossed into the deep end of an Olympic pool while the entire city watches.
The building itself is terrifying. All glass and steel, gleaming like it owns the sky. Inside, it's marble floors, echoing footsteps, and reception desks so glossy they could double as mirrors. Everyone here moves with purpose, sleek hair and sleek suits, like they were hired not just for competence but for their ability to look like extras in a luxury perfume commercial.
And then there's me. In Ella's blouse. Ella's heels. Even Ella's handbag, which I think costs more than my rent. I half expect security to stop me and ask if I'm lost.
"Keep your chin up," Ella whispered in the cab, practically vibrating with excitement as if she were the one being summoned by Adrien Moreau. "You're not going to his office. You're storming the gates of Mount Olympus. Own it."
Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one tripping on heels borrowed from a friend whose feet are half a size smaller.
The security guard at the elevator bank looks me over, expression politely blank.
"Name?"
"Nora Quinn." My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "I, um, have an appointment."
His earpiece crackles. He nods once and presses something on his console. "Thirty-second floor. They're expecting you."
They're expecting you. Oh God.
I almost ask if I should sign in, but he's already gesturing toward the elevators. The doors are mirrored. Which means I get a full view of myself on the ride up: silk blouse, black trousers that are trying too hard, hair pulled into what Ella swore was a "sleek bun" but looks more like "schoolteacher who gave up." My reflection looks like she's about to faint.
The doors open directly into silence. Not the comforting kind—more the expensive, suffocating kind that makes you hyper-aware of every breath.
A wide reception area stretches out, minimalist furniture and fresh flowers in glass vases. A woman at the desk doesn't smile.
"Miss Quinn?"
I nod.
"Mr. Moreau is waiting."
She leads me down a corridor lined with glass offices, where people glance up from laptops and then glance at me, whispers darting like sparks. I catch fragments—"that's her"—"is it really?"—before the assistant opens a door at the end and ushers me inside.
And there he is. Adrien Moreau, in his element.
He's standing near the windows, jacket off, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow. Even like this—no tie, cuffs undone—he radiates control. The city stretches behind him, skyscrapers reduced to background noise. He doesn't turn immediately, as if the skyline holds his attention more than I do.
When he finally does, it's slow. Deliberate. His eyes sweep over me in one smooth pass, unreadable. I forget how to inhale.
"Nora." His voice is lower than I remember, steady enough to anchor a storm. "You came."
My laugh comes out sharper than intended. "Hard to ignore a summons from Mount Olympus."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.
"Sit."
I lower myself into the chair across from his desk, pretending my knees aren't trembling. The desk itself is a slab of black marble, too perfect to have ever known clutter. No family photos, no stray pens, nothing personal. Just surface and power.
He sits opposite me, and for a moment neither of us speaks. The silence is a living thing.
Finally, I break it. "So… this is the part where you tell me what kind of performance I'm supposed to put on?"
Before he can answer, the door bursts open. Marcus Hale enters in a storm of paperwork, already talking.
"Okay, okay, so first joint appearance—we need something elegant but understated, nothing too romantic but enough to feed the narrative—oh, thank God you're here."
He spots me and nearly drops the stack. "Miss Quinn. You're—wow. You're… real."
"I think so," I mutter.
Adrien doesn't flinch. "Marcus, sit down."
Marcus collapses into a chair, papers spilling everywhere. "Alright. Here's the situation. The world is in love with you two. Headlines, TikToks, memes—God, the memes. They're calling you 'Moreau's Mystery Muse.'" He rifles through his pile. "We need a joint appearance to stabilize the frenzy. Something public. Something undeniable."
Adrien steeples his fingers. "Options."
"Charity auction. Museum gala. Hell, a simple dinner where the paps 'just happen' to find you." Marcus gestures at me with a pen. "We'll style her. Brief her. No interviews, just visuals."
"Excuse me," I cut in. "Do I get a vote in this circus?"
Marcus blinks. "A vote?"
Adrien's gaze flicks to me. Sharp. Assessing.
"Yes, a vote," I snap. "Because I'm not a prop. I didn't sign up to be your—your scandal patch."
Marcus turns pale. "Oh God. She's feisty. Adrien, she's feisty."
Adrien doesn't look away. "No," he says quietly. "She's honest."
The air thickens. His eyes hold mine for a beat too long, something unreadable lurking there. Then he turns back to Marcus, voice clipped. "Arrange the museum gala. We'll attend together."
My stomach drops. "Gala?"
"Yes," Adrien replies. "Unless you'd prefer paparazzi outside your apartment every morning."
I bristle, but the truth stings. The press won't leave me alone now. Maybe never.
Marcus claps his hands. "Excellent. Perfect. Crisis: managed. Well… about to be managed. Okay, Miss Quinn, you'll need fittings, media coaching, probably a new phone number—"
"Media coaching?" I repeat.
Marcus beams at me with the desperation of a man one headline away from a breakdown. "Don't worry. You'll be brilliant."
Adrien rises, and instinctively, so do I. He comes around the desk, close enough that the space between us feels charged. He lowers his voice so Marcus can't hear.
"You're right," he says. "You didn't sign up for this."
Something in his tone makes me look up. His face is composed, but his eyes… his eyes look almost human. Tired. Lonely.
Before I can respond, the moment is broken by Marcus's voice: "Wardrobe fitting at three! Don't be late!"
I glance at Adrien. He's already pulling his jacket back on, mask sliding into place. Untouchable again.
And I realize, with a sinking mix of dread and thrill, that this—this whole nightmare—is real. I'm officially part of the scandal.