NORA POV
I tried pacing my apartment, but my borrowed heels kept betraying me with squeaks against the wood floor. Ella lounged on my couch like she owned the place, scrolling through her phone while I panicked in circles.
"Stop pacing," she said without looking up. "You're making me seasick."
"I'm not pacing. I'm—mentally preparing."
"For what? A beheading?" She finally looked at me, smirk tugging at her lips. "You're having dinner, Nora. Not facing the guillotine."
I groaned. "With Adrien Moreau. In public. After I've already been declared his 'mystery woman' and meme-fied in half the world."
Ella grinned wider. "And don't forget the comment section thirsting over you.
I threw a shirt at her head. She caught it effortlessly, still smug. "Not helping."
"You look amazing," she said, dropping the sass for once. "Really. That dress? Killer. The hair? Perfect. Adrien is going to choke on his champagne."
I tugged at the neckline of the satin slip she'd bullied me into wearing. "I feel like I'm pretending to be someone else."
She shrugged. "So what? Pretend. The rich do it all the time."
Before I could argue, a horn sounded outside. My stomach flipped.
Ella peeked through the blinds, whistling. "Ooooh. Black car, tinted windows, driver in a suit. Girl, you're not going to dinner—you're getting drafted into a Bond movie."
I inhaled sharply. "It's just dinner. Just dinner."
"Sure," she said, already pulling out her phone. "Text me updates, or I'll assume you've been kidnapped and sold into a billionaire's harem."
I rolled my eyes, grabbed my clutch, and forced myself out the door before I lost my nerve.
The car smelled like leather and money. That was the only way I could describe it. The driver, all stoic professionalism, held the door like I was royalty. I muttered a thank you, sinking into the seat, my pulse still racing.
Outside, Paris unfurled in gold lights and bustling streets, but the glass was tinted enough to make me feel invisible.
Too bad my thoughts weren't.
What was I even doing? This wasn't my world. I dealt with underfunded classrooms and too many case files, not crystal stemware and… him.
Adrien Moreau. Cold, sharp-edged, untouchable. Except when he wasn't. Except when his hand had closed around my wrist like it meant something. Except when his eyes—God, those eyes—looked at me like I wasn't just noise in his carefully orchestrated life.
I shook my head. No. Dangerous territory.
The car slid to a stop in front of a restaurant that didn't even bother with a sign. Just sleek glass doors, two men in tailored suits, and an aura of exclusivity that practically whispered: if you have to ask, you don't belong.
My throat tightened. I definitely didn't belong.
The driver opened my door. "Miss Quinn."
I stepped out, legs unsteady, and caught my reflection in the glass. Not bad. Not me, exactly, but not bad.
Inside, the air smelled like truffle and old money. The lighting was soft, flattering, and every head turned—subtly, of course—but turned all the same.
And there he was.
Adrien sat at a corner table, posture perfect, black suit molded to him like sin tailored. He looked carved, polished, every inch the heir people worshiped. But when his eyes lifted and locked on me, something shifted.
For a heartbeat, he wasn't Adrien Moreau, untouchable king. He was just… a man watching me walk toward him.
I swallowed hard.
"Nora." He stood, moving around the table, his hand brushing lightly against mine in greeting. The contact sent a stupid thrill up my arm. "You came."
"Your driver didn't really give me a choice," I muttered, though my voice betrayed me, a little softer than intended.
He smirked, but didn't push. He pulled out my chair like it was second nature, then settled across from me.
Menus appeared. Champagne appeared. I blinked at the efficiency. "Do they just—know?" I whispered.
Adrien's mouth curved. "They know."
I rolled my eyes, grateful for the familiar shield of sarcasm. "Of course they do."
We ordered—well, he ordered, because half the menu was in French I couldn't pronounce—and the conversation started cautiously. He asked about my work, my students, my ridiculous rent. I teased him about being allergic to subway trains and normal people problems.
For a moment, it almost felt… normal.
Until I noticed the first phone.
At the table near the bar, a woman angled her screen just a little too obviously. A discreet snap. Then another.
My stomach sank. "Adrien…"
"I see it." His voice was low, calm. "Ignore them."
Easy for him to say. My life wasn't built for this microscope.
By the time the entrées arrived, I spotted three more phones. Someone even pretended to take a selfie but angled the camera toward us. My pulse raced.
"You're enjoying this," I accused in a hiss.
His eyes glinted. "I'm enjoying you being here."
My heart stuttered, and I cursed myself for reacting.
By dessert, it was no longer subtle. Notifications were lighting up his phone—Marcus probably melting down on the other end—but Adrien remained maddeningly composed, sipping his wine as if the world outside wasn't sharpening its claws.
"Tell me something true," he said suddenly, leaning forward. His voice was softer now, meant for me alone. "Not for the cameras. For me."
I blinked, caught off guard. "True?"
"Yes." His gaze pinned me, steady, patient. "Something no one else knows."
I hesitated, my throat dry. Then, against every rational bone in my body, I whispered, "I hate champagne."
A slow smile curved his mouth. "Do you?"
"It tastes like expensive static."
His laugh—low, genuine—startled me. Heads turned, diners whispering. But for a moment, I forgot them.
Then his hand brushed mine on the table. Just a touch. Barely there. But my breath hitched all the same.
And that's when the first flash went off.
Not from inside. From outside.
I twisted in my chair, heart plunging. Through the glass walls, the street was a storm of cameras now, drawn by the posts that must have gone viral while we sat here pretending. Paparazzi pressed against the glass, lenses like weapons, hungry.
Adrien's expression didn't change. Controlled. Calm. He stood, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease. "Ready?"
I wanted to scream no.
But his hand was there, steady, waiting.
And for reasons I couldn't explain, I took it.
We stepped into the storm together.