ADRIEN POV
The city loves a scandal. By morning, Paris is buzzing with it — the champagne from last night barely dry before every headline screams my name. And hers.
Mystery Muse. Mystery Woman. Adrien's Smile.
I sip my coffee and let the words wash over me. They're predictable, shallow. And yet, when my eyes fall on one particular photograph — her laughing at something I'd said, my head bent down as though the rest of the gala didn't exist — I pause. Too long.
The papers call it a smile. It wasn't. Not really. A smirk, maybe. A betrayal of composure. But the press has latched onto it like vultures.
I close the newspaper with deliberate care. Indifference is armor. The more they speculate, the calmer I must appear.
The elevator dings. A sound I've come to dread in my own home. My mother does not knock. She arrives. Always.
"Adrien." Eleanor Moreau glides into the penthouse like she owns the skyline. Tailored navy dress, pearls, an expression sharp enough to cut glass. "We need to talk."
I rise, setting my cup down. "Good morning to you too, Mother."
Her gaze flicks to the discarded paper. "I trust you've seen the coverage."
"Hard to miss."
"This… girl." The word drips disdain. "She's a problem."
"She has a name."
Her eyes narrow, icy blue against the dawn light spilling over the glass walls. "And what is it? I assume you know?"
I don't answer. Which is, of course, an answer.
Eleanor exhales sharply, as though my silence is an inconvenience. "Adrien, we cannot afford this kind of distraction. Your position, the dynasty—every eye is on you. If you must entertain yourself, fine. But do not parade her in public."
The muscle in my jaw tightens. "I wasn't parading anyone. A drink spilled. Cameras flashed. That's all."
"You're too intelligent to believe that excuse yourself," she snaps. "The photograph looked intimate. The press believes it. The investors whisper. Sophia Valmont called me this morning, very concerned."
Sophia. Of course. The family-approved alternative. Elegant, calculated, waiting in the wings.
Eleanor presses on, relentless. "You must control the narrative before it spirals. Distance yourself. Issue a statement, deny any personal involvement. Quietly remove her from the picture."
Remove her. As though Nora Quinn is a wine stain on silk.
"I'll handle it," I say, measured.
Her brow lifts. "See that you do." She adjusts her pearls, satisfied she's delivered her verdict, and sweeps toward the elevator again. "And Adrien? Remember who you are. You don't get to be ordinary."
The doors close behind her, her perfume lingering like smoke.
I stand alone in the silence of my penthouse, staring at the city sprawling endlessly beneath me. Ordinary. The word echoes.
The intercom buzzes before I can retreat into thought. Marcus Hale's frantic voice floods through. "Adrien? Tell me you're awake. Tell me you've seen this—"
"I've seen it."
The doors open again, and Marcus barrels in without waiting for permission. His suit is rumpled, tie askew, a tablet clutched like a lifeline. He looks like he hasn't slept, which means he's been working exactly as intended.
"Good, good. Okay." He paces across the living room, swiping through images on the screen. Every one of them is me and Nora. "This is a goldmine. Do you understand? For years, they've painted you as the untouchable Moreau heir, all ice and no fire. But this? This shows warmth. Humanity. A woman who makes Adrien Moreau smile."
"It wasn't a smile."
"Tell that to Vogue. They're already drafting spreads. Adrien and his Muse. The headline writes itself."
"Marcus—"
He stops, eyes wild. "No, listen. We lean into it. We give them a taste. Lunch date. Stroll by the river. Maybe something philanthropic, tie it to the Moreau Foundation. She doesn't have to speak, she just has to… exist next to you."
I arch a brow. "Exist?"
"Charm, Adrien. That girl oozes it without trying. Do you know how rare that is? Sophia Valmont would kill for it."
At that name, a flicker of irritation stirs in me. Sophia is perfect in the way a diamond is perfect — flawless, cold, lifeless.
Marcus is still talking, his words tumbling out in waves. "We time it right, we bury last quarter's numbers, we shift the narrative, you become the man who has it all — power, wealth, and now, the mysterious woman who tamed you. Do you hear me? This isn't scandal. It's opportunity."
I cut him off with a raised hand. "Enough."
He freezes, mid-breath.
"Leave the tablet. I'll consider your… strategy."
Marcus hesitates, then nods, setting it carefully on the marble counter like an offering. "Just… don't waste this. Trust me. The public is eating out of your hand. All because of her."
When he's gone, silence folds over the room again. But it isn't silence. It's her voice, her laughter, her defiance.
You probably practice that smolder in the mirror.
No one speaks to me like that. Not investors, not politicians, not even Eleanor Moreau. But Nora Quinn does — without fear, without hesitation. And instead of repelling me, it pulls me in like gravity.
I pick up the tablet Marcus left behind. Swipe. Photo after photo of us at the museum. Her dress borrowed, her confidence unpolished but undeniable. My hand at her waist, too steady for performance. Her lips parted in laughter.
Something clenches in my chest, sharp and uninvited.
She shouldn't matter. She shouldn't.
And yet—
My phone vibrates. A text. From Daniel.
Daniel: Morning, lover boy. Nice smile. Didn't know your face could do that.
I roll my eyes, typing back: Delete my number.
Seconds later, his reply: So when do I meet her? Don't say never. I'm already planning the toast at your wedding.
I toss the phone aside, but the corner of my mouth betrays me — a twitch of something dangerously close to amusement.
Dangerous. That's what this is.
I should end it now. Release a statement. Distance myself, as Eleanor demanded. Nora Quinn should return to her ordinary life, and I to mine.
Instead, I find myself reaching for the phone again. Staring at her number.
My thumb hovers.
And then I press call.