CHAPTER 7

Rachael turned back to look at the person talking to her.

At the sight of Sofia, she was a little intimidated. The woman stood like a magazine cover that had come to life—sleek black hair flowing effortlessly down her back, a tailored cream coat draped over her shoulders, and heels that probably cost more than Rachael’s rent. And she was staring. At her. With a focus sharp enough to cut glass.

“Um… hi?” Rachael said slowly, hugging her handbag to her chest like a shield.

The woman’s smile was dazzling. Too dazzling. The kind of smile that could sell perfume, crush self-esteem, and convince billionaires to sign contracts—all at the same time. It screamed: I eat girls like you for breakfast and floss with your insecurities.

“I’m Sofia. Sofia Romano.”

The name rolled off her tongue like a brand. Like Rachael was supposed to swoon, clap politely, and say, Oh yes, the Sofia Romano! The celebrity of all celebrities! Instead, she squinted.

“Cool,” she said flatly. “And I’m Rachael. Rachael Beaumont. I work here. Need something?”

Sofia’s eyes flicked over her from head to toe, lingering on her rain-frizzed hair and smudged eyeliner. Rachael felt the judgment burn hotter than the Parisian sun at high noon.

“You work here?” Sofia asked, her voice dripping with condescension.

Rachael blinked. “Yeah.”

Sofia stepped back a little, scanned the gallery building like it was a termite-infested shack, and then turned back with a faint smirk.

“Do you also work for Adrien?” she asked, tilting her head with a little pizzazz, as though she were delivering the juiciest gossip on earth.

“Why do you care?” Rachael shot back, narrowing her eyes.

Sofia’s smile widened, sharklike. “That was Adrien Moreau’s car, wasn’t it? The black Audi? And you got out. With him. Carrying your bags.”

Rachael’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. She probably looked like a confused goldfish gasping for oxygen. “So what if I was?”

Sofia’s smile didn’t budge. But her eyes? Ice cold. Diamonds under pressure.

“He doesn’t usually… help people. Especially not…” Her gaze slid to Rachael’s chest. Her eyes rested on the plastic badge clipped to her shirt. She read it aloud, drawing it out like a verdict. “…random assistants.”

Rachael bristled. Heat rose to her cheeks. “Watch it.”

Sofia’s heels clicked against the pavement as she stepped closer, each step echoing like a countdown to something terrible.

“I’m just curious, darling,” Sofia said softly, lowering her voice to a whisper sharp enough to cut. “Because Adrien and I… know each other very well.”

Rachael’s stomach flipped. The way she said it—smooth, deliberate, with just enough venom to sting—made her want to chuck her supplies at Sofia’s perfect head and sprint away.

“Oh. Great for you,” Rachael said, forcing out a laugh that was anything but natural. “Then maybe you can ‘know him’ somewhere else. Because I’m late, and these paintbrushes aren’t going to organize themselves.”

Sofia tilted her head, lips curving into a smile too sweet to be real. “You’re funny. I like that.” She leaned closer, her perfume sharp and expensive, filling Rachael’s lungs like poison air. “But let me give you some advice, Rachael.”

Rachael stiffened. Her grip tightened on her handbag. “Advice? From you? Oh boy, this should be good.”

“Stay away from Adrien. He’s… complicated. And trust me, you don’t want to get tangled in his world.”

Rachael forced a smile, though her insides twisted like wrung laundry. “Noted. Thanks. But here’s my advice to you: if you have an issue with Adrien, throw your shades at Adrien. Not at me.”

For a split second, Sofia’s smile cracked. Just a flicker. Then it was back, brighter, shinier, even more dangerous than before.

“We’ll see,” she said smoothly, before strutting back toward her white G-Wagon like a runway queen. Her heels clicked with power, her coat flared dramatically in the drizzle, and her engine roared like a lion. Seconds later, the car slid into traffic and vanished.

Rachael stood frozen, soaked, arms aching with supplies, brain whirling.

“What… just happened?” she muttered under her breath.

The gallery door creaked open, and Monsieur Laurent’s head popped out, his eyes narrowed at a clipboard in his hand. “What’s taking you so long?” he barked.

“I’m coming,” Rachael snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. She pushed past him, clutching her bags, and stomped into the gallery.

That evening, Rachael collapsed onto the couch with all the dramatics of a soldier returning from battle. Her hair was still damp from the drizzle, and she looked half-dead, but her eyes were alive with indignation.

Marianne appeared from the kitchen with two mugs of hot chocolate. She placed one in Rachael’s hands and sat opposite her. “Alright,” she said calmly, “spill.”

Rachael didn’t need a second invitation. She launched into the story with the flair of a Shakespearean actress auditioning for a tragicomedy.

“First of all,” she began, waving a hand wildly, “do you know how heavy those bags were? I’m telling you, Marianne, I was one squint away from breaking my spine in the middle of Rue Montaigne. Then, of course, the universe decided it was the perfect time to humiliate me. Because who was sitting inside a shiny black Audi, watching me fix my melted raccoon makeup on his car window? Adrien. Freaking. Moreau.”

Marianne’s eyes widened. “No way!”

“Yes way!” Rachael cried. “And do you know what he said? He said, ‘Interesting choice of mirror.’” She mimicked his deep voice with exaggerated dramatics. “Like—what is that even supposed to mean? Was he mocking me? Flirting? Diagnosing me with bad eyeliner? I don’t know! But he looked smug, Marianne. Smug!”

Marianne bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “Oh my God.”

“And then,” Rachael continued, pointing with her mug for emphasis, “he offered me lunch. Lunch! As if I was some poor, hungry stray cat he decided to feed out of charity. Of course, I said no, because I have dignity. But then he offered me a ride. And—and—you won’t believe this—he carried my bags into the gallery. With his own billionaire hands. Like, what the actual hell?”

Marianne nearly spat out her drink. “He carried your art supplies?”

“Yes! Paintbrushes, canvases, the whole thing. Like some glorified UPS delivery man. And he did it with a straight face. No complaining. Just… swoosh, billionaire magic.”

Marianne’s giggles filled the room. “Okay, but Rachael… that’s kind of sweet.”

“Sweet? Sweet?” Rachael’s eyes widened. “Marianne, listen carefully. I was flustered, humiliated, and then—then, as if the day wasn’t already cursed—guess who showed up? Guess. Guess!”

Marianne frowned. “Um… your mom?”

“No!” Rachael groaned. “Worse! Sofia Romano.”

Marianne blinked. “Sofia Romano… the Sofia Romano? The Italian heiress? Adrien’s—”

“Yes! That one!” Rachael interrupted, nearly spilling hot chocolate on the couch. “And she came strutting out of her fancy G-Wagon like she was about to film a Chanel commercial. Do you know what she did? She looked me up and down like I was a piece of chewed gum stuck on the sidewalk. And then she said—get this—‘Stay away from Adrien.’”

Marianne gasped. “No.”

“Yes!” Rachael slammed a pillow for emphasis. “Like some villainess straight out of a soap opera. Perfume choking me, heels clicking like death, and all. She called me a… a random assistant.”

Marianne covered her mouth. “She did not.”

“She did!” Rachael groaned. “And the worst part? I actually let her intimidate me for, like, two seconds. Two! I mean, I came back with a snappy line because obviously I’m not letting Sofia freakin’ Romano win, but still! The nerve!”

Marianne leaned back, clutching her stomach from laughing. “You sound like you’re living in a telenovela.”

“I am living in a telenovela!” Rachael cried, throwing her arms in the air. “Except there’s no director yelling cut, and my eyeliner budget is dying by the day.”

The room filled with Marianne’s laughter, and eventually Rachael cracked a reluctant smile. But when the laughter died down, her face turned thoughtful.

“Marianne…” she said softly. “What if she’s right? What if Adrien really is… complicated?”

Marianne hesitated. “Do you… want him to be complicated?”

Rachael groaned again, pressing a pillow to her face. “I don’t want him to be anything! I just want my normal, boring life back. But it feels like every time I turn around, Adrien’s there—making me feel like I’m in some high-stakes chess match I didn’t sign up for.”

Marianne sipped her cocoa quietly, her eyes thoughtful. “Maybe you should stop running, Rach. Maybe you should… figure out what he wants.”

Rachael peeked out from behind the pillow. “Or… I could block him, run away, and start a new life as a goat farmer in Greece.”

Marianne chuckled. “Or that.”

Rachael groaned dramatically, flopping across the couch like her soul had been drained. “My life is a circus. And guess what? Adrien and Sofia are the clowns.”

Marianne raised a brow. “Funny. I thought you were the clown.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.” Rachael shoved a pillow at her, but her laugh betrayed her.

Still, long after Marianne dozed off beside her, Rachael lay awake staring at the ceiling. Sofia’s warning echoed in her head like a ghost.

Stay away from Adrien.

Easier said than done.