NORA POV
The thing about Mondays is that they already suck before they even start. By eight a.m., my kitchen looks like a war zone — half-burnt toast, papers scattered across the table, my laptop groaning under lesson plans. I'm halfway through my third cup of coffee when my phone buzzes across the counter.
Unknown number. Paris area code.
I squint at it. Could be spam. Could be Ella ordering croissants again under my name because "Nora, your credit card points are basically community property."
I swipe. "Hello?"
A pause. And then—
"Nora."
That voice. Deep, smooth, annoyingly magnetic. Like it was carved for late-night whiskey ads.
I nearly spill my coffee. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
"Good morning to you too."
Adrien Moreau. Calling me. On a Monday.
My brain scrambles. "How did you even get my number? Is there, like, a billionaire's guide to invading privacy, or—"
"Marcus," he says simply.
Of course. PR Panic Man.
I set my mug down with exaggerated care, because if I break another one this week Ella will stage an intervention. "You can't just call me. There are boundaries, you know. Rules. Civilized society and all that."
"You answered."
The smugness in his tone nearly fries my last nerve. "Because I thought you were a telemarketer. Which, frankly, you kind of are. You're just selling a shinier scam."
Silence. And then, damn him, the faintest sound of amusement. A low exhale, like I've dragged a laugh out of him against his will.
My heart does a stupid skip. I glare at the phone as if I can intimidate his voice through it. "What do you want?"
"A meeting."
I actually laugh. "With me? No thanks. I'm busy. Some of us have jobs that don't involve posing for GQ."
"Tonight." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Seven o'clock. I'll send a car."
I nearly choke on air. "Excuse me? You don't get to just—summon people. I'm not a—what's the word—oh right, a minion."
"Nora." The way he says my name is infuriatingly steady. "You've seen the headlines. You know why this is necessary."
"Oh, I've seen them." I shove a paper across the table, the one Ella gleefully shoved under my nose at breakfast. Adrien Moreau's Mystery Muse. There's my face, blurry but recognizable, next to his perfect one. "Apparently, I'm your 'Muse.' Do I get royalties for that?"
"You get an explanation."
Something in his tone shifts. Less command, more… something else. Something that makes my stomach tighten against my better judgment.
I press the phone harder to my ear. "You think you can fix this by dragging me to dinner? What, pose for the cameras again so everyone thinks I'm your—your—"
"Girlfriend?"
The word drops like ice water.
I sputter. "Absolutely not."
"You don't have a choice."
"Excuse me?" My voice spikes. "I have plenty of choices, thanks. One of them is hanging up right now."
He doesn't flinch. "If you walk away, the press will hound you. They'll find your school, your friends, your family. They'll decide who you are without your input. And they won't be kind."
I freeze. Because he's right. And I hate that he's right.
The coffee tastes bitter on my tongue. My whole life, I've managed to fly under the radar — ordinary, manageable, safe. Now one photo, one ridiculous collision at a museum gala, and suddenly the entire city wants to dissect me like a science project.
And Adrien Moreau is offering… what? Protection? A deal with the devil?
I pace my kitchen, phone clutched tight. "Why me? You could pick any socialite, any model, someone who knows how to play this ridiculous game."
A beat of silence. Then, quietly: "Because they'd play it too well."
I blink. "That makes no sense."
"It makes all the sense." His voice is softer now, but no less insistent. "Seven o'clock. Be ready."
The line clicks dead before I can unleash the tirade building in my throat.
I stare at my phone, aghast. "Did you just—hang up on me?"
Ella chooses that exact moment to stumble out of her bedroom, wrapped in a blanket like a human burrito. She squints at me. "Why are you yelling at your phone?"
"Because a certain billionaire thinks he can boss me around like I'm his personal intern."
Her eyes go wide, instantly awake. "Wait. He called you?"
I groan, flopping onto the couch. "Unfortunately."
She gasps. "And he wants to see you? Tonight? Nora, this is epic!"
"This is a disaster."
"It's fate. Do you realize how many women would sell their kidneys to be summoned by Adrien Moreau?"
I throw a pillow at her. "I'm not selling any organs. I'm staying home. I'll—pretend I lost my phone. Or died. That works too."
Ella snatches the pillow, grinning like the cat who stole all the cream. "Nope. You're going. And I'm picking your outfit."
I groan again, louder this time, because deep down I already know she's right.
I can say no. I can resist.
But seven o'clock is looming. And my life, apparently, isn't mine anymore.