NORA POV
The elevator ride down felt like forever, each floor another reminder of how close I'd come to making the biggest mistake of my life.
I pressed my palms flat against my thighs, trying to steady the tremor in my hands. Adrien's penthouse door had closed behind me with a soft click, but the echo still rang in my chest. The way he'd looked at me—like he was going to devour me, like I was the only real thing in his glittering fortress—haunted every step I took.
Outside, the night air hit me sharp and cool. My driver waved me over, already holding the door open. I slid into the backseat and exhaled hard, like I'd been holding my breath the entire time upstairs.
But of course, silence wasn't mercy tonight.
The driver pulled into traffic, and immediately I saw it: the flare of flashbulbs in the rearview mirror. Paparazzi still loitered outside the building, lenses hungry, voices muffled through the glass. My phone buzzed in my bag—once, twice, over and over. I didn't check. I couldn't.
Instead, I pressed my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.
What was I doing?
I wasn't supposed to be here, in his world, in his orbit. I was supposed to be normal. The kind of woman who graded essays and burned microwave dinners, who borrowed library books she didn't finish and cried quietly over documentaries about whales. Not the kind of woman who almost kissed a man like Adrien Moreau in a tower of glass while Paris glowed beneath them.
God. I'd wanted to kiss him. That was the worst part. The way his hand had cupped my jaw, warm, steady, patient like he already knew I'd cave. And I almost had.
The car slowed at a light, and the driver glanced at me in the mirror. "You all right, mademoiselle?"
I forced a smile. "Fine. Just tired."
He didn't push. Thank God.
My phone buzzed again. With a groan, I dug it out. Marcus. Of course. Ten missed calls, and the first of a dozen frantic texts scrolled across the screen.
They saw you. Pictures. Call me NOW.
I shoved the phone back into my bag. Not tonight. Tonight I refused to let Marcus or the entire internet dictate how I felt.
I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the window. The city blurred past, glittering and alive, but I felt split down the middle—half me, half something else entirely. Half the woman I'd always been, and half… whatever Adrien had woken up in me.
When the driver pulled up to my building, I thanked him quietly and slipped inside fast, paranoid about cameras lurking even here. My apartment greeted me with its familiar clutter: books stacked haphazardly, laundry I hadn't folded, the faint smell of leftover curry from last night. Home. Ordinary.
I dropped my bag and kicked off my shoes. But as I crawled into bed, something burned under my skin.
It wasn't just the flashes or the chaos or Marcus's inevitable meltdown.
It was Adrien. His breath on my cheek. His voice when he whispered, Because you're the only one who doesn't want it.
I pulled the blanket over my head like that would help erase him. Stupid. Because the worst truth of all was this:
Even now, alone in the dark, I could still feel the ghost of his hand on my jaw. And I hated how much I wanted to feel it again.