ADRIEN'S POV
The first thing I hear in the morning is Marcus panicking.
Not unusual. My PR manager has the emotional stability of a hummingbird. But the pitch of his voice as he storms into my office is higher than normal, which means something catastrophic—or, more accurately, something minor that the press has decided to inflate into a catastrophe.
"Adrien," Marcus gasps as he slaps his phone down on my desk like it's evidence in a trial, "we have a problem."
I don't look up immediately. The contract in front of me is worth half a billion euros and requires more attention than whatever tabloid headline Marcus has set his hair on fire over.
"Define problem."
"This."
I glance at the screen. And there it is. The photograph.
My hand on a woman's wrist. My face angled toward hers. Her lips parted, eyes wide, expression caught somewhere between shock and defiance. A half-second collision transformed, by the press, into intimacy.
Adrien Moreau's Mystery Woman—Who Is She?
My jaw tightens. Of course. I should be used to it by now—the relentless scrutiny, the obsession with every gesture, every glance. I am the heir to the Moreau empire. The world insists on watching. But this—this is irritatingly inconvenient.
"She's no one," I say flatly.
Marcus presses his fingers to his temples. "The problem is she looks like someone. Half the internet is obsessed. The hashtags are already trending. If we don't get ahead of this—"
"Then let them speculate," I interrupt.
He stares at me, aghast, as if I've suggested letting the stock market collapse.
"Adrien, with respect, the narrative matters. Eleanor has already called twice—she wants to know who she is, where she came from, and whether she's going to embarrass the family. Do you understand? They're frothing for answers."
Of course my mother is involved. Eleanor Moreau doesn't tolerate uncertainty; image is her gospel. If she believes this nameless woman threatens the dynasty's immaculate façade, she'll have her destroyed before anyone learns her name.
And that thought—unexpectedly—irritates me.
Because for one fleeting moment last night, I wasn't Adrien Moreau, the heir. I was simply a man colliding with a stranger whose eyes were too direct and whose voice carried more bite than fear.
I remember her words. Only when trapped under a spotlight with a man who looks like he eats boardrooms for breakfast.
The audacity.
I should forget her. It was nothing. A clumsy accident caught in the wrong light. The photograph will fade from the feeds within a week.
But it won't. Not unless I control it.
My phone buzzes again. Another message from Eleanor: Fix this.
I exhale slowly and lean back in my chair. The city sprawls beyond the glass wall of my office, elegant and gray under a wash of morning rain.
"Find her," I say finally.
Marcus blinks. "Find her?"
"Yes. Quietly. Discreetly. I want to know who she is, where she came from, and why she was at that gala. Before my mother does."
He hesitates. "And then?"
"Then," I murmur, eyes narrowing at the photograph still glowing on the screen, "I'll decide what to do with her."
The door opens again before Marcus can launch into another meltdown.
Daniel strolls in without knocking, as always. Casual suit, loose tie, grin firmly in place—the opposite of me in every way, which is perhaps why I tolerate him.
"Well, well." He plucks Marcus's phone off the desk, studies the photograph, and lets out a low whistle. "Didn't know you were moonlighting as a tabloid heartthrob."
"Put that down," I say evenly.
"Relax. I'm impressed. Normally you look like you'd rather be anywhere else, but this—" he tilts the phone toward me—"this actually looks... intimate."
"It was an accident."
Daniel smirks. "Of course it was."
Marcus groans. "Do not encourage him."
But Daniel ignores him, sliding into the chair opposite mine. "So who is she? The Mystery Woman with the good cheekbones and the 'I'd rather die than flirt with you' expression?"
"She's no one," I repeat.
Daniel leans back, folding his arms. "Funny. For 'no one,' she's managed to break the internet. Do you realize how rare it is for you to look human in a photograph? Normally you're all angles and frostbite. But with her—" he squints at the image—"you look almost..."
"Careful," I warn.
"...interested."
I exhale through my nose. "I wasn't."
His grin widens. "And yet you're having Marcus hunt her down."
I don't answer. Silence is better than lying.
Daniel chuckles, stretching out like a cat. "I like her already. Whoever she is, she's managed to do what boardrooms, rivals, and a hundred socialites couldn't—rattle you."
"I'm not rattled."
"Mm." His tone makes it clear he doesn't believe me.
Marcus clears his throat, eager to reclaim the floor. "Regardless, the family wants answers, Adrien. We need to neutralize this story before it evolves into something unmanageable. The longer she remains anonymous, the more dangerous it becomes."
I drum my fingers once against the desk. The sound echoes in the quiet.
"Find her," I repeat.
Marcus nods, gathering his things like a man escaping a war zone. "On it."
When the door shuts, Daniel tilts his head at me. "You know what this means, don't you?"
"What?"
He grins. "It means fate's finally thrown you a curveball. And judging by your face..." He stands, heading for the bar cart in the corner. "...you don't know whether to catch it or run from it."
I don't dignify that with a response.
Instead, I turn my gaze back to the window, to the rain sliding in elegant rivulets down the glass.
Somewhere out there, the woman with the sharp tongue and the steady eyes has no idea she's about to be dragged into the storm.
And I have no idea why that thought unsettles me.