NORA POV
If there's a hell designed specifically for me, it's this one: waking up to a hundred notifications on my phone, all screaming my name — or, worse, "Mystery Woman."
Ella bursts into my apartment before I even finish my coffee, waving her tablet like it's a weapon. "Oh. My. God. Nora. You broke the internet."
I groan, dragging a pillow over my head. "Put me back under. Wake me when civilization ends."
She yanks the pillow away. "Don't play dead. Look at this."
On the screen: a photo from last night, blown up on every site that has ever cared about Adrien Moreau's bone structure. The headline: "Adrien Moreau Finally Smiles — And It's For Her."
Her. Me.
In the photo, I'm leaning in, whispering something probably sarcastic, and Adrien is looking down at me with the ghost of a smile that looks… real.
My stomach does a weird, traitorous flip.
"I hate this," I mutter.
"No you don't," Ella shoots back, flopping onto the couch. "You love it. Admit it. Adrien freaking Moreau — smiling like you're the only person in the Louvre."
"It wasn't the Louvre."
"Metaphor, Nora."
I pace the kitchen, cradling my mug like a shield. "This isn't a rom-com. This is my actual life imploding. Look—" I snatch her tablet, scrolling through the comments. "'Who is she?' 'Is she French?' 'She looks like trouble.' Oh, fantastic. Trouble. That'll look great on my résumé."
Ella grins wickedly. "Better than 'Adrien Moreau's Secret Smile Coach.'"
I choke on my coffee. "That is not a thing."
"It is now." She shoves her tablet at me again, this time pulling up a meme. Someone's photoshopped a halo over my head. Another tagged me as a Disney princess who tamed the beast.
Kill me.
Before I can throw her tablet out the window, my phone rings. Marcus Hale's name blinks like a warning siren.
Ella squeals. "Answer it. Speakerphone. Please."
I shoot her a look but swipe anyway. "Hello?"
Marcus doesn't bother with pleasantries. "Nora, darling, you're trending in twelve countries. Hashtag MysteryMuse is viral. I've already lined up a narrative: you're elegant, elusive, the perfect counterbalance to Adrien's gravitas—"
"Marcus." I rub my temple. "I'm a social worker who can't afford decent Wi-Fi."
"Exactly! Authenticity. Do you know what this will do for his image? For your image?"
"I don't want an image."
He groans. "Sweetheart, you already have one. You walked into that museum last night and ignited a firestorm. Now, we manage it."
Ella mouths at me: Say yes.
I glare.
Marcus barrels on. "We'll do another appearance. Something casual. Intimate. Let the public eat it up. Lunch date? Stroll along the Seine? Dog adoption?"
"I don't even have a dog."
"We'll rent one."
"Goodbye, Marcus." I hang up before he can suggest I fake a wedding.
Ella claps like she's at the theater. "This is delicious. You and Adrien are basically the plot twist the world didn't know it needed."
I sink onto the couch, covering my face. The truth is, last night's images won't leave my head either. Not just the photos. The moments behind them.
The way his hand rested at my waist, steady but not possessive. The heat that lingered through silk fabric. The way he looked down at me — like he was cataloguing every breath, every smart remark, and filing it away where no one else could touch it.
God help me, it didn't feel staged.
Ella nudges me with her elbow. "You're thinking about him."
"I'm thinking about running away and joining a monastery."
"Uh-huh. One with Wi-Fi so you can stalk his pictures?"
I throw a cushion at her. She dodges, laughing.
But later, when the apartment is quiet again, I catch myself scrolling through the photos on my phone. Every frame of us last night looks like something out of a story that isn't mine.
Except it is.
And I can't shake the uneasy truth blooming in my chest: for all the play-acting, for all the scandal, some part of it felt dangerously real.