ADRIENPOV
The office is quieter than it should be.
Usually, mornings here mean movement—assistants slipping in and out, voices clipped and efficient, the hum of a machine designed to run without faltering. But today the silence is heavier, punctuated only by the occasional click of Marcus's pen as he paces in front of my desk like a trapped animal.
He's been at it for nearly an hour.
I lean back in my chair, glass of water untouched beside me, the city skyline bleeding pale light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My reflection stares back at me: calm, composed, immaculate in a navy suit. On the surface, nothing is wrong.
On the surface.
Marcus clears his throat for the fifth time. "Adrien, you're not listening."
"I am."
"You're not reacting."
"I rarely do."
He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "We have a crisis. Overnight, that photo went from gossip to global headline. It's everywhere—Europe, the States, Asia. They're calling her 'the Cinderella from nowhere.' Vogue wants a profile. Buzzfeed's running memes. And—God help us—TikTok has already shipped your wedding."
I arch an eyebrow. "Shipped?"
"Romantically paired you off. Edited music videos. Hashtags. It's—" Marcus stops himself, shaking his head. "Point is, she's not going away. And if you don't address it, they'll start digging."
He doesn't have to finish the thought. Digging means past, history, family. Things I prefer buried.
I tap the glass of water once, deliberate. "Then we'll control it."
Marcus's eyes brighten with manic hope. "So you'll issue a statement?"
"No."
He deflates. "No?"
"She and I will be seen together."
The pen falls from his hand. "Together? As in… dating?"
Before I can answer, the door bursts open. Daniel strolls in without knocking, sunglasses perched on his head, looking as if he's been awake since last century and is deeply unbothered by it.
"Dating?" He grins. "God, please tell me this is true. I'll never let you live it down."
Marcus whirls around. "Daniel, do you ever knock?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Daniel drops into the chair opposite me, folding himself into it with the ease of a man who's never respected boundaries. "So. Cinderella. Tell me everything. Did she slap you before or after you asked for her number?"
I don't rise to it. I never do. "She'll meet me here tonight."
Marcus nearly chokes. "You've already contacted her?"
"She was contacted."
Daniel smirks. "Translation: you sent her a command and she either shows up or faces execution."
"She'll show," I reply evenly.
Daniel leans forward, eyes glinting. "You sound awfully certain. Care to explain why?"
Because when I touched her wrist last night, she didn't pull away. Because when the flashes erupted, she met my gaze instead of cowering. Because she intrigued me, and people rarely do.
But I don't explain. Instead, I adjust my cufflink. "Because she understands stakes."
Marcus mutters something under his breath about ulcers.
The intercom buzzes. My mother's voice, cool as steel: "Adrien."
Daniel lets out a low whistle. "Speak of the ice queen."
I press the button. "Come in."
The door opens, and Eleanor Moreau sweeps inside, elegance incarnate. Tailored cream suit, pearls, posture sharp enough to cut. She surveys the room, gaze landing briefly on Daniel before dismissing him.
"Leave us," she says.
Daniel doesn't move. "Sorry, Madame Moreau, I'm practically part of the furniture."
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Then consider yourself an eyesore."
Marcus bolts for the door, muttering excuses, but Daniel lingers, enjoying the tension like a glass of aged whiskey.
"Stay," I tell him, before she can press the point.
Her eyes flick to mine, narrowing. A silent duel. Finally, she lowers herself into the chair Marcus vacated.
"This… situation," she begins, tone precise. "You've allowed it to spiral. The girl is no one. From nowhere. And yet, she is now tied to our name. Do you understand how reckless that is?"
Daniel lifts his hand. "I like her already."
Eleanor ignores him.
I fold my hands on the desk. "It's being handled."
"Handled," she repeats. "By parading her on your arm, no doubt. Adrien, you cannot manufacture authenticity with… with someone so ordinary."
"Perhaps authenticity is exactly what we require."
Her eyes flash. "She will ruin you."
I lean back, voice calm. "Or save me."
Silence stretches. Eleanor studies me, searching for cracks, weakness. Finding none, she rises. "Do as you wish. But don't expect me to clean up the debris."
Her heels click against marble as she leaves, perfume lingering like a threat.
Daniel waits until the door closes, then lets out a low laugh. "God, I love when you poke the dragon. But seriously—what's the plan?"
I glance once at the skyline, at the world already whispering, speculating, demanding.
"The plan," I say, "is to make her indispensable."
Daniel tilts his head. "To you, or to the narrative?"
I don't answer.
Because I don't know yet.