ADRIEN POV
Control. It's always been the key. Every move in business, every headline, every photograph — orchestrated. Calculated. Predictable.
Except her.
I'm standing by the window of my penthouse, the city stretching out beneath me in sharp steel and glass. The morning papers litter my desk. Headlines spiral with Nora Quinn's face stitched to mine. "Mystery Muse." "Adrien's Secret Flame." "The Woman Who Said No."
That last one makes me smirk. They don't know how true it is.
Marcus barges in without knocking — a bad habit of his — already clutching his tablet like it's a life raft. "Adrien, we need to finalize strategy before tonight. The internet's gone feral. Do you realize #MuseGate is trending in twelve countries?"
I pour myself another espresso. "Good. Let them talk."
Marcus looks like he might actually combust. "Good? You call this good?!" He thrusts his screen at me. A meme of me grabbing Nora's wrist, flashbulbs exploding around us. Someone's captioned it: Even stone statues crack for a goddess.
I don't laugh, though the corner of my mouth threatens.
"She's not playing ball, Adrien. She's—unpredictable. She doesn't follow script. You can't just shove her into this role like—like a mannequin."
I set my cup down. "Exactly."
Marcus blinks. "Exactly?"
"She's not polished. She's not perfect. That's the point. People believe what they can't stage."
He runs both hands down his face. "I swear, you're going to give me ulcers."
Before I can answer, another voice slices through the air like ice.
"Adrien."
My mother. Eleanor Moreau glides into the room, dressed in immaculate ivory, diamonds at her throat like a warning.
Marcus nearly trips in his hurry to leave. "I'll—circle back. Later. Much later."
Coward.
Eleanor crosses to the window, her gaze slicing the city as if it owes her allegiance. "I warned you about gala appearances. I warned you about indulgence."
"This isn't indulgence."
She turns, eyes sharp as glass. "Then what is it? You think parading some nobody through our world will silence the wolves? It will only feed them."
"Nora isn't a nobody." The words leave before I can stop them.
Eleanor tilts her head, assessing. "Pretty, yes. Defiant, yes. But she has no pedigree, no alliances, no use to this family." Her mouth hardens. "You're being reckless."
I hold her gaze, unblinking. "For once, perhaps that's what I need."
Something flickers in her eyes — surprise, annoyance, maybe both. She presses her lips together, then sweeps out without another word.
The door closes behind her. Silence.
I exhale slowly. My reflection stares back from the glass, all edges and control. But my mind isn't here. It's back in that museum. That flash of her glare. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The way she refuses to bend.
Most people orbit me because of what I am. Power. Wealth. Legacy.
She looks at me and sees a man to be challenged. And God help me — I want more of it.
The intercom buzzes. Daniel's voice crackles through, cheerful as ever. "You're brooding again, aren't you?"
I allow myself the smallest smile. "Come up."
Minutes later, Daniel saunters in, tossing his jacket onto the nearest chair. He scans the papers, then lets out a low whistle. "Nora Quinn. Quite the storm you've picked up. She's gorgeous."
"She's infuriating."
"Same thing." He pours himself a drink like he owns the place. "So what's the plan? Marry her, make her a duchess, or terrify her into disappearing?"
I glare. "Neither."
He grins. "So you like her."
"Daniel." My tone sharpens.
He lifts both hands, mock innocence. "Fine, fine. But you can't deny it. The great Adrien Moreau, rattled by a woman who doesn't care about your empire. It's poetic."
I ignore him, turning back to the window. Below, the city hums, oblivious. Tonight will set the tone. A dinner. A staging ground. A test.
I check my watch. Seven hours.
The car will arrive at her door, and Nora Quinn will have to decide: step into my world, or be swallowed by it.
Either way, I'm not letting go.