Chapter 3

Olivia's POV 

I stood in the foyer of my penthouse, still wearing Gabriel’s oversized white shirt under my leather jacket. The air felt stale, carrying the scent of expensive lilies and the lingering trace of Justin’s sandalwood candles that I hadn’t thrown away yet. 

Gracie was sitting on my white velvet sofa. She didn’t look up from her tablet when the door clicked shut. Her heels were already kicked off, and a half-empty espresso cup sat on the marble coffee table. 

"You’re four hours late for the wardrobe fitting," Gracie said. She finally looked up, her eyes scanning me from my messy hair down to my bare legs. Her gaze stopped on the men's shirt. She stood up slowly. "Where have you been? And whose shirt is that?" 

I dropped my keys on the console table and walked toward the kitchen. My head was still thudding, a dull rhythm behind my eyes. "I stayed at a friend's house." 

"You don't have friends who wear bespoke cotton and stay out of the tabloids, Olivia," Gracie said, following me. She grabbed my arm and turned me around. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the small crest on the pocket. "Is that a Moreau crest?" 

I pulled my arm away and opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of alkaline water. "So what if it is?" 

Gracie let out a sharp, disbelief-filled laugh. She leaned against the kitchen island, watching me drink. "You went home with Gabriel Moreau? The man is a tomb. He doesn't touch celebrities. He barely touches people." 

"He’s not a tomb," I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "He’s just boring. And disciplined. He told me that himself about ten times." 

"Olivia, listen to me very carefully," Gracie said, her voice dropping into the tone she used when she was negotiating a multi-million dollar contract. "Stay away from him. That isn't just a wealthy man. That’s a man with a very specific, very long history. Do you know why he’s never been linked to anyone? Why he’s so 'disciplined'?" 

I leaned back against the counter, crossing my ankles. "He said he has standards. I assume he meant I’m too loud for him." 

"It’s not about standards. It’s about Jolie Seraphine." 

The name landed like a stone in the quiet room. I stayed still, waiting for more. I remembered the way Gabriel had looked at the door of the club. The way his jaw had tightened when I mentioned he was waiting for someone. 

"Who is she?" I asked. 

"The girl he’s been in love with since they were in diapers," Gracie said. She walked over and took the water bottle from my hand, setting it down. "Her family and his are practically royalty in the wine world. They grew up together in France. Word is, he’s been waiting for her to notice him for a decade. She’s poised, she’s quiet, and she’s the only person he actually listens to." 

I felt a strange prick of annoyance in my chest. "He looked lonely at that club. He didn't look like a man in love." 

"He’s a man in waiting," Gracie corrected. "Jolie is the reason he doesn't do scandals. He’s keeping his reputation clean for her. If you crash into his life with your paparazzi and your drama, he won't just ignore you. He’ll ruin you to keep his world quiet." 

I walked past her into the living room, tossing my leather jacket onto a chair. I thought about Gabriel’s face when he told me I was a disaster. There had been a flicker of something else there when he defended me at the bar. It wasn't just duty. 

"He needs a wake-up call," I said, turning to face her. "And I need a distraction. Justin is already posting pictures with that yoga girl at our favorite breakfast spot. I saw the notification on the way home." 

"Olivia, no," Gracie said, her face pale. "Don't do what I think you're going to do." 

"I already offered him a fake relationship," I said. I sat on the edge of the sofa, picking up my phone. "He said no. But that was before he knew how much I can help him." 

"Help him? You'll destroy his chance with Jolie," Gracie snapped. She walked over and stood over me. "She’s his stability. You're a hurricane. Gabriel Moreau doesn't want a hurricane." 

"Maybe he’s tired of the sun always shining," I muttered. I opened my drafts and looked at the photo I took in his mirror. The white shirt looked good on me. The Moreau crest was clear. "If he’s so devoted to this Jolie, then why was he at a dive club like Obsidian? Why was he alone?" 

"Maybe they had a fight," Gracie said. "Maybe he’s human. It doesn't matter. You are not going to use a Moreau as a rebound to pique Justin’s jealousy. It’s dangerous." 

"I’ve spent seven years being safe, Gracie," I said. I stood up, feeling the blood rush to my head. "I spent seven years being the perfect girlfriend to a man who replaced me in seventy-two hours. I’m tired of being the girl who waits for the script to tell her when to cry." 

I walked toward my bedroom, pausing at the door. I looked back at Gracie. 

"He has a secret," I said. "And I think Jolie is only part of it. He’s hiding behind that discipline because he’s afraid of what happens if he lets go." 

"And you think you're the one to make him let go?" Gracie asked, her arms crossed tight over her chest. 

"I think I’m the only one who isn't afraid of him," I said. 

I shut the bedroom door and locked it. I sat on my bed and opened the photo again. My thumb hovered over the post button. My heart was thumping against my ribs, a fast, nervous rhythm. This wasn't just about Justin anymore. It was about the way Gabriel had looked at me when he told me I was a disaster. He had seen the mess, and for a second, he hadn't looked away. 

I typed a new caption. 

Borrowed shirts and better mornings. 

I didn't tag him. I didn't need to. The internet would do the work for me. I hit share and watched the loading bar move across the screen. 

"Your move, Gabriel," I whispered to the empty room. 

I laid back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling. I thought about the way his hands had felt on my arms when he pulled me away from that guy at the bar. They were steady. They were strong. 

I wondered what Jolie Seraphine had that I didn't, besides ten years of history and a soul that didn't crave the spotlight. 

Five minutes later, my phone started to explode.