Adrien
Control is an armor.I've worn it so long it feels like a second skin.
The ritual helps. The jacket laid out across the arm of a leather chair. The perfect tie knot, the silver cufflinks engraved with the family crest. A splash of cologne at my throat — subtle, calculated, never indulgent. Every detail designed for an audience that pretends not to notice but always does.
Daniel lounges on my sofa while I adjust my jacket in the mirror, tossing a grape in the air and catching it with all the finesse of a man who's never taken anything seriously.
"God, you're intolerable," he drawls. "Polished within an inch of your life. The press must love you. The women too. Shame your soul is a barren wasteland."
I ignore him, sliding the cufflink into place.
He smirks. "Although tonight, maybe it won't be so barren. Your mystery woman is attending, right?"
I pause. Just for a fraction of a second. He catches it, of course.
"Oh, I see," Daniel says, grinning like a cat. "She gets under your skin. Don't bother denying it. Adrien Moreau, cold-hearted heir, undone by a schoolteacher. I'll write the tabloid headline myself."
"She isn't undoing anything," I say evenly.
"Uh-huh." He kicks his feet onto my coffee table, scandalizing the polish. "Then why are you rehearsing your tie like you're about to propose?"
I cut him a look. He laughs, unbothered.
When the car arrives, he finally drags himself off the sofa, patting my shoulder. "Don't glare too much at her, alright? Try smiling. It'll confuse everyone."
The museum is already blazing with light by the time we arrive. The steps glow under the glare of camera flashes, a red carpet rolled out like a dare. Inside, marble gleams under chandeliers, every surface polished to intimidate. The air is perfumed with wealth, laughter too loud, greetings rehearsed.
I step through it all like I was carved for it, shoulders straight, expression unreadable.
And then she arrives.
Nora Quinn.
The name doesn't belong in this place, and yet she steals the room. The dress Marcus insisted on fits her as though it was cut for her alone — midnight silk that catches the light with every movement. She wears it with a kind of reluctant grace, as if she hasn't realized how devastating she looks.
The crowd does. Heads turn. Whispers ripple. Flashbulbs flare.
But it's not the dress that holds me. It's her. The way she stands just a little off-center, chin lifted in defiance even as she scans the room like she'd rather be anywhere else. She doesn't shrink. She doesn't play at belonging. She simply is.
And God help me, it's magnetic.
I move to her side before the sharks circle too closely. "You're late."
Her eyes cut to mine, sharp, amused. "You're early."
I allow the faintest curve of my mouth. "We'll call it punctuality."
"Or control issues," she mutters, though I catch the flicker of nerves behind her bravado.
The photographers are already shouting. "Adrien! This way! Adrien, who's the lady?"
"Closer!"
I slide my hand to her waist. She stiffens, only for a second, before tilting her head toward me with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. It doesn't matter. To the cameras, it's perfection.
The room gasps as if it's watching a performance. Which it is.
Except my pulse reacts as though it isn't.
We glide through the crowd, every step choreographed, though she doesn't realize it. I steer, she resists, and somehow we strike balance. She throws comments under her breath — sharp, irreverent, enough to almost make me laugh. Daniel, trailing behind us, looks like Christmas came early.
At the top of the staircase, the museum director greets us, effusive. "Monsieur Moreau! And—oh—your companion."
"Nora Quinn," she supplies, offering her hand before I can intervene. Her voice is steady, cool. No simpering. No fluster.
The man blinks, taken aback by her composure, before fumbling a compliment. She accepts it with a polite smile, then leans close to me as we move on. "You could've warned me about the handshake Olympics."
I suppress a laugh. "You handled it."
She glances up at me, eyes narrowing. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
The night unfolds like theater. Every camera flash, every whispered speculation feeding the narrative Marcus will salivate over tomorrow. But beneath the polish, beneath the performance, there's a tension building — subtle, insistent.
Every time my hand brushes hers. Every glance that lingers a beat too long. Every inhale that catches when she leans closer, the scent of her something I can't ignore.
And then it happens.
A photographer shouts for us to pause at the top of the gallery steps. We turn, side by side, her hand still resting lightly against my arm. The lights flare, capturing us in perfect symmetry — my control, her defiance, the spark between.
Somehow, it feels less like an act.
And when she leans closer, whispering, "I hope you know I'm billing you for trauma," the corner of my mouth betrays me. It curves.
The cameras catch it.
By morning, it will be everywhere. Adrien Moreau smiling — not with ice, not with calculation, but with something dangerously close to real amusement.
And all because of her.