Adrien's POV
The ballroom was polished to gleaming perfection. Rows of journalists filled the seats, their murmurs blending with the sharp clicks of cameras being tested and re-tested. The Moreau crest stood proudly behind the podium, flanked by banners for the company's latest initiative. Another press event, another performance — or so it was meant to be.
I adjusted my cufflinks, the engraved steel catching the light. My reflection in the glass doors looked exactly as it should: precise, composed, the heir apparent. Yet beneath the practiced calm, something inside me had shifted.
I no longer cared for the performance.
Marcus leaned close before I took the stage, his tone brisk. "Keep it controlled. Focus on the announcement. Don't let them bait you. Sofia will be nearby — if her name comes up, pivot back to business."
And Nora? I wanted to ask, though the question already burned uselessly on my tongue. He didn't need to remind me of the unspoken rule: her name did not belong in these rooms.
But today, I wasn't sure I could keep to the rules.
The questions began smoothly enough. Expansion numbers. Partnerships. One reporter even asked about our philanthropic funding — a question designed to flatter. I answered with steady ease, the kind that always won headlines for clarity and confidence.
Then came the voice from the second row. Clear, cutting.
"Mr. Moreau, several images have circulated recently linking you to Nora Hale." The woman didn't pause, didn't soften. "A schoolteacher. Given the Moreau legacy, do you feel that pursuing… companionship with someone of such modest background sends the wrong message to investors and the public? Some suggest it reeks of distraction — even desperation."
The air shifted. Cameras snapped like gunfire. The words schoolteacher and distraction echoed in the hall.
For a heartbeat, the room expected me to do what I had always done: deflect, smooth it over, move on. The voice of my mother rang in my skull, icy and certain — Elegance, Adrien. Distance. Don't dignify mediocrity with acknowledgment.
But when I closed my eyes, I didn't hear her. I saw Nora — her hands ink-stained from marking essays, her smile trembling when she thought she wasn't enough.
The heat rose in my chest before I realized I'd already leaned into the microphone.
"Miss Hale is not a distraction." My voice was sharper than intended, enough to silence the shuffle of papers. "She is an educator. A woman whose work shapes futures in ways most of us in this room will never understand. To reduce her worth to background or headlines is not only disrespectful to her, but to every teacher who gives more of themselves than they ever receive."
The words carried, steady and deliberate.
Reporters exchanged stunned glances. Marcus stiffened at the edge of the room. Luc — I hadn't even noticed him in the back, lounging as though this were theatre — tilted his head with a wolfish little smile.
But I wasn't done.
"You asked if her presence reflects poorly on the Moreau legacy," I continued, lowering my tone so it cut quieter, deeper. "If that's the question — then perhaps it is the legacy that requires reevaluation. Not her."
A hush swept the hall, the kind that comes before a storm.
The reporter blinked, her composure faltering. Another hand shot up to redirect, but I had already stepped back from the podium. "That will be all for today."
Marcus's phone was already buzzing. The PR team surged forward, frantic, whispering about optics. But all I could feel was a strange lightness, the first breath after years underwater.
Because for the first time, I hadn't spoken as Adrien Moreau, heir.
I had spoken as the man who loved Nora.
And there was no taking it back.