NORA POV
I am going to kill him.
Actually, no—I'm going to strangle him first, then revive him just so I can kill him again.
Because apparently Adrien Moreau's definition of "controlling the narrative" is dragging me into the spotlight of Europe's most glamorous ballroom, twirling me around like some debutante, and whispering things in my ear that make my stomach flip against my will.
Ugh. Absolutely not.
The second we're off the dance floor, I find an excuse to slip away. Bathrooms are universal safe zones. I lock myself into a stall and press my forehead against the cool door.
"Breathe," I mutter. "You're fine. Totally fine. Just surviving a slow dance with the world's most dangerous man. No big deal."
Of course, the universe has a sense of humor. My phone buzzes. I glance down.
Ella (15 texts, 3 missed calls, 27 screaming emojis).
Fantastic.
I open the first message:
ELLA: NORA. YOU'RE ON TWITTER. YOU'RE TRENDING.
ELLA: #MoreauMysteryGirl is literally number one in France.
ELLA: I just saw a gif of him looking at you like you hung the moon. WHAT DID YOU DO???
I bury my face in my hands. This is a nightmare.
Another buzz. New headline notification:
"Adrien Moreau's Midnight Muse? Mystery Woman Steals the Gala Spotlight."
I scroll down. There's a photo of me on the dance floor, Adrien's hand at my back, his mouth tilted toward my ear. Out of context, it looks… intimate. Too intimate. Like we're sharing a secret.
I groan so loudly the woman washing her hands gives me a weird look before fleeing.
This can't be my life. Two days ago, I was grading papers and eating leftover pasta straight from the pot. Now? I'm apparently a muse.
Another buzz. Ella again:
ELLA: GIRL. THE DRESS. THE HAIR. THE ATTITUDE. THEY'RE CALLING YOU THE "REAL CINDERELLA."
I type back furiously:
ME: Shut up. I'm hiding in a bathroom stall.
Almost immediately:
ELLA: EVEN BETTER. Icon behavior.
I toss the phone back into my clutch and take a long breath. This is fine. Everything's fine. It's just one night. A performance. Tomorrow, it'll blow over.
(…Right?)
When I step back into the ballroom, Adrien is waiting near the champagne tower, the picture of icy composure. Cameras flash the second he notices me. He doesn't wave me over. He doesn't need to. Somehow, my feet are already moving.
He leans in, his smile perfectly staged. "You ran."
"I went to pee," I snap under my breath. "Even scandalous mystery women are allowed bladder breaks."
His smirk is infuriating. "Careful, Nora. They'll think that's code for something far more interesting."
And just like that—click, click, click—the cameras catch my glare, his smile, and the space between us charged like a storm about to break.