NORA POV.
The problem with charity galas is that they aren't about charity. Not really. They're about velvet ropes and diamond necklaces so heavy they could probably fund the school lunch program in my entire district. They're about cameras, champagne that tastes faintly like regret, and people who treat their last names like luxury brands. And me? I'm about as out of place as you can get. The only reason I'm here is because my best friend Ella came down with strep throat and begged me to take her place. "Please, Nora. Just wear the dress, smile, and collect the donation pledges for the kids' program." I would have said no—god, I wanted to, but then she reminded me that the program actually needs the money. And I'm a sucker when kids are involved.
Which is how I ended up standing under a chandelier the size of my entire apartment, tugging at the hem of a borrowed gown. The dress is technically designer. Ella has a cousin who works miracles with sample sales, apparently. It fits, somehow, though the neckline dips lower than anything I've ever dared to wear in public. My heels—also borrowed—pinch like medieval torture devices. My hair's been wrangled into waves that don't belong to me, courtesy of YouTube tutorials and too much hairspray. And still, despite the fact that I look like a kid playing dress-up in someone else's fantasy life, heads keep turning. Not all of them kind. I hear whispers as I pass—Who is she? Do you know her? Definitely not on the guest list. Their diamonds glitter while they stare. I roll my shoulders back and force my chin high, pretending I don't care. But I do. Just a little. I make it through the first hour clinging to my champagne flute like a life raft, skirting the edges of the room, praying no one asks me who I'm wearing or which European villa my family summers at. It's fine. I'll survive this night. Ella owes me, big time. And then because fate has a sick sense of humor it happens. I'm weaving through the crowd, trying not to stab anyone with my heels, when someone collides with me. Hard. My glass tips, the champagne arcs in slow motion, and before I can react. A hand clamps around my wrist. Strong. Steady. The champagne splashes down the front of a perfectly tailored black suit. I gasp. "Oh my god—" My eyes shoot up, ready to apologize, but the words freeze on my tongue. Because it's him. Adrien Moreau. I recognize him instantly everyone would. The heir to the Moreau dynasty. His face has graced more magazine covers than I've graded homework assignments. He's the man women sigh over and men pretend not to envy. Cold. Magnetic. Untouchable. And he's staring at me like I've just broken some sacred law.
His jaw tightens. His grip on my wrist doesn't loosen. I can smell him, sharp, expensive, the kind of cologne that says I own everything you see. "I—sorry," I stammer, which is so unlike me, and immediately hate myself for it. His eyes flick down to where champagne stains the lapel of his suit, then back up to mine. Ice-blue. Calculating. "It's fine," he says finally. His voice is low, smooth, but there's an edge like a warning blade hidden under silk. Except nothing about it feels fine. Not the way he's still holding my wrist, not the way the crowd is beginning to notice. Flash. A camera goes off. I freeze. Paparazzi? Already? Flash. Flash. It's like the room tilts. I try to pull back, but Adrien's grip only tightens slightly as though he knows letting go now would look worse. And that's when I realize: to the cameras, to everyone watching, this doesn't look like a clumsy accident. It looks like something else entirely. His body angled toward mine. His hand around my wrist. My lips parted in shock, our faces too close. Intimate. My stomach drops. Somewhere across the room, I hear the excited hiss of voices rising, the swell of gossip spreading like fire. Adrien Moreau leans closer—not much, just enough that his mouth is at my ear. His words are barely audible, meant only for me. "Don't run." And for some reason, I don't. My heart is thundering so loud I'm sure the microphones hidden in this ballroom could pick it up. I should yank my wrist free, apologize again, and disappear into the nearest potted plant. That's the logical move. But logic seems to have abandoned me the moment Adrien Moreau said those two words: Don't run. "I wasn't planning on running," I whisper back before my brain can stop me. It's a lie. I was absolutely planning on running. The corner of his mouth twitches not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. "Good." Another camera flashes. The sound is like a gunshot in my skull. Around us, the crowd has shifted. The vultures are circling. Whispers buzz at the edges of my hearing: Who is she? Why her? Did you see how he touched her? God. I want to disappear. But Adrien doesn't. He straightens to his full, commanding height, still holding my wrist lightly now, as if the contact is an afterthought rather than a deliberate choice. His entire posture changes the predator at ease in his natural habitat. He could probably have an asteroid land on him and still look unbothered. Meanwhile, I feel like I've been shoved under a microscope. "You're bleeding." I blink. "What?" His eyes flick to my wrist. I hadn't noticed the tiny cut from the glass stem snapping in my hand. A single bead of red wells up, traitorous and dramatic under the camera lights. Of course. Because this night wasn't humiliating enough. "Great," I mutter. "Now they'll think you rescued me from a sword fight." That earns me a look. One dark brow lifts, the faintest sign he didn't expect me to sass him. "Do you always talk like that?" he asks, voice low, silky. "Only when trapped under a spotlight with a man who looks like he eats boardrooms for breakfast." His mouth curves—this time unmistakably. A ghost of amusement. But then someone calls his name. A journalist, maybe.
The moment cracks. Adrien releases my wrist at last, though the phantom pressure lingers like a brand. "Excuse me," he murmurs. And just like that, he turns toward the crowd, his attention shifting, his mask sliding back into place. Polished. Perfect. Untouchable. I take the chance to slip away, retreating into the shadow of a marble pillar before my lungs collapse. My hand trembles as I grab another glass of champagne from a passing tray. This one I don't sip—I drain. What just happened? I came here to smile politely and hand out donation envelopes, not star in the opening act of a society scandal. And yet… I can already feel it. The heat of all those eyes on me. The cameras. The whispers that will follow me out the door. I know, with a sinking certainty, that tonight doesn't end here.
The next morning, I wake to chaos. My phone is vibrating itself off the nightstand. Missed calls. Texts. Notifications stacked like Jenga blocks about to topple. I squint at the screen. And freeze. Because staring back at me is my own face half turned, lips parted, eyes wide. Adrien Moreau is angled toward me, hand firm on my wrist, his expression unreadable but devastating in profile. The headline screams across the screen: "Adrien Moreau's Mystery Woman: Who Is She?" I drop the phone on my sheets, cover my face with my hands, and groan.
What. The. Hell.