CHAPTER 6

Rachael’s phone buzzed again. She groaned. The screen flashed Mom in bold letters. She ignored it. Two seconds later, it buzzed again. Relentless. Like a mosquito that refused to die.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, snatching it up. “What do you want now, Mom?”

“You know what you did!” her mother fired back, her voice shrill. 

 Rachael let out a long sarcastic laugh.

“I know what I did?” Rachael said. I should be the one telling you that.

“Rachael, you disappointed me.”

“Oh, really?” She said with her voice dripping in sarcasm. 

“You embarrassed me,” her mom snapped. “You stormed out of a perfectly good dinner with a respectable man. Do you know how rude that was?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rachael shot back, dripping sarcasm. “Next time I’ll stay and let him grade me on my salad-eating techniques. Maybe he’ll give me an A-minus if I chew slow enough.”

Her mother gasped. “He is a lecturer at an international university, Rachael! Do you think such men grow on trees?”

“No, but apparently, they pop up at overpriced restaurants to torture unsuspecting daughters.”

“Don’t be dramatic!”

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m being traumatized. There’s a difference.”

“You should have at least given him a chance. You never know.”

“Oh mother! I know.”

There was a dangerous pause on the line. Then her mother said, low and deliberate, “You will apologize to him.”

Rachael nearly choked. “Apologize? For what, Mom?”

“For being disrespectful!”

“Why do you meddle in my affairs, but never in Jules’? How is this fair to me?”

“You have bad taste in men.”

“Are you hearing yourself?” Rachael sounded frustrated.

“You will apologize,” her mom repeated firmly, “and you will see him again.”

Rachael’s mouth dropped open. “I won’t mother. And you won’t make me.”

Her mother sighed theatrically. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re meddling!” Rachael snapped before hanging up.

Marianne watched the whole arguement unfold, while she sat in silence.

She tossed her phone onto an opposite couch and collapsed beside it, clutching a pillow. “Unbelievable. My life is a circus. And my mom? The ringmaster.”

“Maybe your mom is right,” Marianne said, slowly. “Maybe you should have given Lawrence a chance.”

At the sound of that, Rachael shot Mariane a sharp look. Marianne looked away immediately.

Monday came like a slap. Rachael dragged herself to the gallery, coffee in one hand, a bad attitude in the other. She hoped the week would start quietly. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

Around noon, her boss popped his head out of his office.

“Rachael, I need you to get some supplies from the store.”

Her head whipped around. “I beg your pardon?”

“Supplies. Paper, paints, brushes—the usual. We’re running low.”

She blinked. “And you want me to fetch them?”]

“Yes.”

She folded her arms. “With all due respect, sir, my job description does not say ‘delivery girl.’”

He arched a brow. “Your job description says ‘assistant.’ And assisting includes tasks like this.”

“Tasks like filing. Tasks like scheduling. Not carrying bags like an unpaid intern on laundry day.”

His expression hardened. “Rachael.”

She groaned. “Fine. But if I throw my back out, I’m suing for emotional damages.”

Half an hour later, she regretted everything. The drizzle had started, light but steady enough to smear her carefully applied eyeliner. She marched out of the art supply store, juggling bags heavier than her dignity.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” she muttered, struggling to balance them. Her arms ached. Her makeup felt like it had melted into abstract art. She fumbled for her phone—no mirror. She glanced around.

That’s when she spotted it.

A sleek, black Audi parked near the curb. Tinted windows. Polished to perfection.

“Perfect,” she mumbled, inching closer. “Sorry, fancy car. You’re my mirror now.”

She leaned toward the passenger-side window, squinting at her reflection. Mascara smudged, lipstick fading—she looked like a raccoon that had lost a bar fight. She fished out her lipstick and leaned closer, fixing what she could.

And then—the window rolled down.

Rachael froze, mid-pout. Her eyes widened as the glass slid away to reveal—

Adrien.

Seated comfortably, one hand on the armrest, his gaze fixed on her. His expression unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes—sparkled faintly with amusement.

Rachael’s brain short-circuited. No. No, no, no. Of all the people. Of all the cars.

She cursed herself silently. How long had he been watching? Had he seen the raccoon meltdown? Oh God. He must think she was pathetic.

Adrien’s lips curved, just barely. “Interesting choice of mirror.”

Her cheeks burned. “I… I didn’t… I wasn’t—oh, for heaven’s sake!” She clutched the bags tighter, wishing the ground would swallow her.

“Relax,” Adrien said smoothly. “It suits you.”

That only made her splutter more. “It—what—that doesn’t even make sense!”

He didn’t reply. He just studied her, cool and calm, while her thoughts tumbled over themselves.

Finally, he said, “Join me for lunch.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Lunch. It’s drizzling. You look exhausted. Come.”

She straightened. “I already had lunch.”

One dark brow arched. “Really?”

She scowled. “I had a sandwich. And I’m not hungry.”

She regretted saying the details.

He let it go, unbothered. “Then let me take you back to work. It’s raining. You’ll ruin your dress. And you clearly can’t carry all that.”

Rachael cursed her boss under her breath. “Traitor.”

She hesitated, but the drizzle was worsening, and the supplies felt heavier by the second. Finally, she huffed. “Fine.”

Adrien leaned back, gesturing for Etienne, his driver, to open the door. Rachael climbed in, trying not to look impressed. She failed instantly.

The car was immaculate. Black leather seats, stitched with precision. The faint scent of cedarwood and something sharper—his cologne—wrapped around her. A discreet console gleamed with polished chrome, holding a crystal water bottle.

“Wow,” she muttered before she could stop herself. 

“Comfortable?” Adrien asked lightly.

“More like intimidating. I feel like the car is judging my life choices.”

Etienne pulled into traffic smoothly. The silence stretched, but Adrien broke it first. “I’m hosting an art festival in a week.”

Rachael blinked. “An art festival?”

“Yes. International collectors, exhibitions, performances. I’d like you to be there.”

She laughed nervously. “That’s… nice. But no, thank you.”

“Think about it,” he said calmly. “You wouldn’t want to miss it.” 

He slipped a card from his jacket and handed it to her.

She took it reluctantly. The card was heavy, embossed in gold, the kind you’d expect from royalty.

“Why do all your cards look like they belong in a vault?” she muttered.

His lips twitched. “Quality speaks for itself.”

Rachael just rolled her eyes.

Adrien’s eyes gleamed, but he said nothing. Just watched her as though he knew exactly what game he was playing.

The car pulled up outside the gallery. Rachael was about opening the car when Etienne stepped out and opened the door. Adrien followed, then surprised her by taking some of the heavy bags from her arms.

“What are you doing?” Rachael asked, bewildered.

“Helping.”

“You? Helping? What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

Why would a billionaire want to touch low quality supplies? She thought.

He carried them effortlessly, Etienne following with the rest. He even opened the gallery door for her. Rachael stood there, stunned.

“You’re… full of surprises,” she muttered.

Adrien leaned slightly closer. “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

Before she could reply, he turned and walked back toward the Audi. The engine purred, and the car slipped into traffic.

Rachael exhaled, shaking her head. “Unreal.” She turned to head inside—

A door slammed.

Across the street, a white G-Wagon gleamed. A woman stepped out, heels clicking sharply against the pavement. Long hair, perfect poise, eyes narrowed like a hawk.

She had seen everything.

And with that, she marched toward the gallery, determination in every step.

“Hi,” she called out to Rachael, before Rachael entered inside the gallery. “I’m Sofia. Sofia Romano.”