NORA POV
By midmorning, Paris felt like it was staring at me.
Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was true.
The woman behind the bakery counter gave me an extra-second glance when she handed over my croissant. The man on the Metro lifted his phone too casually, lens tilted in my direction. A teenager on the corner whispered to her friend while both of them looked straight at me, then laughed into their hands.
I told myself I was imagining it. That I was just hypersensitive because of the photo.
The photo.
It had taken me an hour to open it. I'd ignored Lila's messages, ignored my coworkers' curious emojis, ignored the vibration of my phone skittering across the table like it wanted to crawl away from me. But eventually curiosity won.
And there it was: a frozen moment that wasn't even the worst one. Adrien and me, not touching, not kissing. But the angle—God, the angle. His body leaning toward mine, his head bent, his mouth hovering just enough that anyone would assume the next frame contained the kiss itself. My eyes upturned toward him, lips parted like a traitor.
The caption didn't need words. The internet supplied them.
— Who is she???— Gold digger vibes.— Not his usual type.— I bet she's an intern.— Look at her, she's starstruck.
I wasn't. I wasn't starstruck. Except the longer I looked at that photo, the less convinced I became.
It wasn't just my body in it. It was the way I was leaning in too. Like I wanted it. Like I wanted him.
Heat flushed across my face, even though I was standing alone in my tiny kitchen. I closed the app, then opened it again thirty seconds later, like some masochist.
The comments multiplied, uglier by the hour. A gossip site had taken the liberty of zooming in on me—blurry, half-obscured by shadows, but apparently enough for them to declare I was "a nobody in borrowed silk."
Not inaccurate. Which somehow made it worse.
By the time Adrien's knock came, my nerves were frayed enough that I nearly threw my coffee at the door.
I yanked it open. "Do you not own a phone?"
He stood there, immaculate as always. Dark coat, crisp shirt, the faintest trace of cologne that made my knees weaker than I wanted to admit.
"I called," he said evenly. "You didn't answer."
"I was busy."
"Looking at your phone." His gaze flicked to the device clenched in my hand.
I rolled my eyes, stepping back reluctantly to let him in. "Congratulations, Sherlock."
He moved past me like he owned the apartment, which, given the photo, the internet probably thought he did. His presence shifted the air immediately—cooler, sharper, charged. My space felt smaller with him in it.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
I blinked. "What?"
"Breakfast."
"Are you serious right now?"
His jaw tightened. "You should keep your strength up."
I laughed, brittle. "What am I, your PR project? Make sure she eats, make sure she looks presentable, make sure she doesn't embarrass the company?"
His eyes snapped to mine, darker than usual. "That's not what I meant."
"Really? Because from where I'm standing, it feels like you're here to manage me, not talk to me."
Silence stretched between us, thick with everything unspoken.
Finally, he said, "I came to tell you it's under control."
The words landed like a slap.
Under control. As if I were a crisis. As if I were one of his companies bleeding money that needed restructuring.
I folded my arms. "Good to know. Should I be sending you a monthly report too? Key performance indicators: how well Nora Quinn survives being called a tramp by strangers on the internet?"
Something flickered in his expression—anger, maybe, or guilt. It was hard to tell with him. He was too good at masking.
"Nora," he said, quieter now, "I won't let them touch you."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. His voice carried the kind of conviction that could rebuild empires. But it also carried that dangerous assumption that he could fix this. That I was something to be managed, a PR storm to weather.
I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to keep my composure. "You don't get it. They don't have to touch me. They just… they look at me. They whisper. And suddenly I'm not me anymore. I'm whoever they say I am."
His gaze softened—fractionally, but I saw it. That same look from last night, when he'd asked me not to regret. When his control had slipped just enough that I could see the man beneath.
It hurt to see it now, because it meant he did see me. At least a little. But not enough.
I shook my head. "You can't control this, Adrien. You can't control me."
He didn't answer right away. Just stood there, silent, like he was weighing every possible move. Chess again. Always chess.
Finally, he said, "If you trust me—"
I cut him off. "That's the problem. I don't know if I can."
The words tasted like acid, but I couldn't stop them. The crack was there now, running right through me. Did he want me because of me, or because he couldn't stand the idea of anyone else having the narrative?
My throat burned. I turned away before he could see too much, before the sharp edge of tears betrayed me.
"I think you should go."
For once, he didn't argue. Just a long silence, then the soft click of the door closing behind him.
I sank onto the couch, phone buzzing again on the table. Another headline flashed across the screen: Adrien Duval's Mystery Woman Hides Away in Paris Apartment.
Mystery Woman. That's all I was to them. And maybe to him too.
The tears came then, hot and unwanted, blurring the words until they dissolved into nothing.