CHAPTER 8

Sleep was a joke that night.

Rachael tossed and turned until her sheets were a tangled mess around her legs. She ended up flat on her back, staring at the ceiling like it might give her answers. But all it gave her was silence—silence and the ghost of Sofia Romano’s perfume, sharp and cloying in her memory.

“Stay away from Adrien.”

Those words had drilled into her ears and burrowed into her skull. They echoed now with the persistence of a dripping faucet—annoying, unshakable, impossible to tune out.

She sat up abruptly, pressing her palms against her temples as though she could squeeze the thought out. Her gaze slid unwillingly to the dresser.

There it was.

The ivory card Adrien Moreau had handed her the other day. It perched smugly at the edge of the polished wood, its embossed gold lettering catching the silver threads of moonlight like it was deliberately mocking her.

She scowled at it.

“Don’t look so fancy,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re just paper.”

Of course, that was when Marianne decided to stir. Her roommate’s muffled voice floated from the other bed, thick with sleep but sharp enough to strike.

“Paper?” Marianne yawned. “You’re arguing with stationery now? Wow. Rock bottom looks good on you.”

Rachael groaned and flopped back on her pillow, covering her face with her arm. “Go back to sleep.”

“Nope.” Marianne sat up, her messy curls a halo of chaos around her head. “Not when you’re glaring at Adrien Moreau’s invitation like it stole your boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Rachael shot back.

“Exactly!” Marianne grinned wickedly. “Which means you’re free to accept Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Broody’s invitation. Girl, it’s Adrien Moreau’s personal invite, not a random pizza coupon. Normal people would frame that card.”

Rachael pushed herself up on her elbows, giving her a withering look. “Do I look normal to you?”

Marianne pretended to consider. “Fair point. You look like someone rehearsing excuses in case she chickens out of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“It’s not a once-in-a-lifetime anything,” Rachael argued. She didn’t sound convinced.

Marianne began to laugh.

Rachael grabbed her pillow and chucked it at her. Marianne squealed, caught it, and hugged it like a prize.

“Face it,” Marianne said between laughs. “You want to go. That’s why you’re still awake, talking to yourself. That’s why you keep glancing at that card like it’s gonna sprout legs and dance.”

Rachael’s silence was answer enough.

She rubbed her temples again. Her chest was tight with conflicting emotions: curiosity pulling one way, pride yanking the other. A part of her longed to walk into that festival in her best dress, to see his expression when she showed up. To prove that she wasn’t intimidated by Adrien Moreau or Sofia Romano or anyone else in their glittering world.

But another part—the louder part—reminded her of the smirk on Sofia’s lips, the warning in her voice. Stay away from Adrien. And worse, the knowledge that Adrien himself was likely playing some kind of game. He always was.

She swung her legs off the bed, stomped over to the dresser, and snatched up the card. The golden edges gleamed under her lamplight. For one fleeting, dangerous second, she imagined herself at the festival: the lights, the champagne, the hum of Paris’ elite whispering her name as Adrien introduced her.

Her stomach tightened.

Then she shoved the card into the drawer and slammed it shut with enough force to rattle the frame.

“What if Sofia shows up?” she muttered, her voice firm this time. 

Marianne watched her with an arched brow. “So… you’re really not going?”

Rachael crossed her arms. “Really.”

“You know you’re going to regret it.”

“Maybe.”

Marianne shook her head, a sly smile tugging her lips. “Girl, you’ve got more willpower than me. If Adrien Moreau invited me anywhere, I’d already be in heels, halfway out the door.”

“Good for you.”

“Bad for you,” Marianne corrected, sliding back under her covers. “Because one day you’ll wake up and realize pride doesn’t keep you warm at night.”

Rachael ignored her, but the words burrowed anyway.

She climbed back into bed, pulling the sheets to her chin. She shut her eyes. But the ceiling reappeared behind her eyelids, and with it, the card, and Adrien’s steady gaze, and Sofia’s poisonous whisper.

Sleep remained a joke.

Adrien Moreau thrived in boardrooms the way most men thrived in oxygen.

The conference table gleamed under the soft light of the chandelier, a polished runway of numbers and projections, and he ruled it like a stage. Executives in tailored suits leaned forward, hanging on his every word as though the rhythm of their careers pulsed in time with his voice.

“Gentlemen,” Adrien said smoothly, gesturing toward the sleek screen that displayed rising graphs, “Paris doesn’t just need visionaries—it needs executioners. Dreamers sketch the outlines; we carve them into stone.”

A murmur of agreement swept around the table.

Etienne, seated to his right, didn’t bother to mask his boredom. Adrien caught the slight roll of his eyes and almost smiled. They’d done this dance a hundred times—Adrien dazzled, Etienne tolerated, and the world bent anyway.

The deal closed effortlessly. Contracts signed, hands shaken, backs patted. Adrien’s pen never faltered, his smile never cracked. By the time the meeting dispersed, his audience was breathless with admiration, like men who had brushed too close to fire but couldn’t stop themselves from leaning in again.

“Another empire added to your collection,” Etienne said dryly, standing once the last executive shuffled out. “Remind me—are we conquering Paris tonight, or is that scheduled for next week?”

Adrien slipped his cufflinks back into place, his expression calm but his mind already elsewhere. “Tonight is reserved.”

Etienne’s brow arched. “The festival.”

Adrien didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Etienne studied him, folding his arms. “You know, it’s almost funny. You could be anywhere—New York, Tokyo, Milan—and yet you’re choosing to parade yourself in a gilded ballroom tonight. Don’t tell me it’s because you suddenly care about art.”

Adrien’s lips curved, but not in amusement. “Art,” he murmured, “has always been a weapon. Some wield it with brushes, others with money.”

“And you?” Etienne pressed.

Adrien straightened his tie, his reflection in the glass wall watching him with cold precision. “I prefer both.”

Etienne groaned. “So it is about her, then. The gallery girl.”

Adrien’s eyes flicked to him, sharp as a blade. For a moment, silence stretched. Then he said simply, “She interests me.”

“Interests you?” Etienne scoffed. “Adrien, you’re a Moreau. You don’t chase. People come to you. They always do.”

Adrien picked up his jacket, slipping it over his shoulders with slow, deliberate grace. His gaze drifted toward the Paris skyline, glittering like a sea of diamonds beyond the glass.

“She’ll come,” he said softly, almost to himself. “They always do.”

But even as he said it, a sliver of doubt twisted inside him—a sensation he despised. Rachael was unpredictable, stubborn in ways most people weren’t. That was what set her apart. That was what made her dangerous.

And what made her fascinating.

Etienne’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You’re smiling. That’s a bad sign.”

Adrien adjusted his cufflinks again, hiding the curve of his lips. “I’m only thinking.”

“About her,” Etienne muttered.

Adrien didn’t deny it. He never denied what was obvious. Instead, he allowed the silence to settle, heavy and deliberate, before stepping away from the table.

The festival awaited.

And if Rachael believed she could ignore his invitation, if she thought herself safe hiding in shadows while he moved in light—well. She was about to learn that Adrien Moreau didn’t play games he couldn’t win.

The Hôtel de Crillon glowed like a palace. Chandeliers blazed, violins whispered through the air, and Paris’ elite shimmered in silks and jewels. It was a night designed for spectacle, for power dressed in gold.

Adrien Moreau fit into it like he was carved for the role. Every greeting, every glance of respect, every careful laugh from those around him—he absorbed it with the ease of a man accustomed to command. His presence dominated without effort.

But when the orchestra swelled and the centerpiece of the evening was unveiled, one truth cut through the glittering haze:

Rachael Beaumont was not there.

No hesitation crossed his features. No flicker of irritation betrayed him. His glass of champagne remained steady in his hand as he moved through the crowd with measured grace.

If anything, the absence amused him.

“Successful evening,” Etienne remarked as he stepped up beside him, voice low and respectful. His eyes scanned the glittering hall. “Though, I noticed your…guest of interest declined.”

Adrien’s lips curved slightly. “Declined tonight. That doesn’t mean she’ll decline tomorrow.”

Etienne inclined his head. “Patience has never been your strongest virtue, Adrien.”

Adrien turned toward him, calm and assured, his tone edged with steel but not rebuke. “You mistake me, Etienne. This isn’t impatience. It’s strategy. A fire burns better when it has air. Let her think she has won a small battle. It will make the surrender far sweeter.”

They stood together in silence for a moment, watching the tide of silk gowns and black suits ripple past. Adrien’s gaze lingered not on the people, but on the grand wall of paintings across the room—every canvas lit, every frame gleaming. His eyes settled, for the briefest second, on the gallery’s insignia stamped in gold beneath the display.

Etienne followed the glance. His jaw tightened, just slightly, though he said nothing. He knew better.

Adrien’s smile deepened—controlled, deliberate, unreadable.

“The thing about doors,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is that sometimes they don’t need to be opened. Sometimes, you simply own the key.”

Etienne’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp but silent.

The orchestra swelled again. The crowd laughed. Adrien raised his glass, his reflection shimmering in the crystal, his smirk as cold as it was patient.

The game had only begun.