Accidentally His: The Girl Who Trespassed のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 7

Adeline's POV---I'm probably going to get arrested for this.I mutter it under my breath as I approach a Mercedes G-Class, phone raised. October sunlight hits the glossy black paint. The car glows against the gray Manhattan sidewalk, screaming money I'll never have.Regular Friday afternoon on the Upper East Side. The street runs with its usual chaos. Professionals in tailored coats cut past. A delivery cyclist weaves through traffic. Tourists squint at Google Maps on the corner.Me? I'm here with one goal. Borrow a little luxury for my Instagram.My feed is becoming a graveyard. Grad school doesn't pay for itself, and my two part-time jobs barely leave time for sleep, let alone proper photoshoots. So I make do. I hunt for decent light, throw on the best outfit I own, and fake my way into these neighborhoods.An oversized cream sweater hangs off my left shoulder. Twelve dollars at a thrift store in Brooklyn. My jeans have a hole in the knee I didn't pay extra for. My boots have seen

Adeline's POV---The address Matteo texted leads to a door between a gallery and a private bank. No sign. No window display. Just gleaming steel and a small intercom button that probably costs more than my laptop did.I hover there for five minutes. Thumb over the buzzer. Heart loud against my ribs.A woman in head-to-toe Chanel glides past without glancing at me. Her heels click against the pavement with that assurance of people who have nothing to prove.I glance down at my jeans. The rip in the knee that used to feel vintage now feels cheap. My sweater has a loose thread at the hem. I tug it. The thread gets longer.My reflection stares back from the steel door. Ginger hair I barely brushed. Hazel eyes too wide. Skin pale enough to be allergic to sunlight.Albert's voice surfaces without permission. *Try not to embarrass yourself.*Last night I sat with my laptop and typed his name into three different search engines.Albert Rossi. CEO. Rossi International.Pages of results. Forbe

Albert's POV---The Metropolitan Museum swallows sound.Thirty minutes before guests arrive, the main gallery gleams. Ice sculptures catch light from chandeliers that cost more than most people's homes. Near the Temple of Dendur, a string quartet tunes its instruments.All as I ordered.My tuxedo sits precisely on my frame. I hold a champagne flute without drinking from it, crystal catching light between my fingers.Not tonight.I press my palm flat against the glass railing and let the chill bleed through.Matteo. *Car's five minutes out.*I check my watch. Third time in two minutes. My fingers drum once against the railing and stop.This shouldn't matter.Contract arrangement. She shows up, plays her part, leaves. We move on.Except my jaw has been set for an hour. And I keep returning to what I've been circling since yesterday morning.Matteo's report was thorough. Twenty-four. Columbia. Two jobs. Scholarship. No record, no family money, no connections that reach anywhere interest

Albert's POV---The private dining room sits forty stories above the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Heavy curtains that seal everything in when drawn. Phones stay outside. Nobody records.I've hosted these dinners once every four months for three years.They've always been predictable.I arrive early, bypass the Scotch, pour whiskey instead, and drink alone. The glass numbs my fingers. The whiskey burns going down. Neither touches the tension locked across my shoulders.A car is collecting Adeline right now. Bringing her here.Routine. Just expanding her exposure to my professional network.The lie sits worse than the whiskey.The truth is I want to see if she can hold ground with the real players. Not gala regulars who smile for photographers and say nothing that matters. These people shape policy. Move markets. Dismantle careers over wine and one careful sentence.The door opens.Senator Williams enters first. Gray suit. American Flag pin. That rehearsed smile that stopped reachin