Warm.
That was the first word that ca to mind.
Not the heat of the water or even his skin—but the warmth of his hands, steady against my waist as we moved in the shower together. No rush. No teasing. Just... closeness. Soft touches.
Whispered words I barely rembered, except that they made feel like the center of gravity had shifted again—and I was now the place Adrien Walton ca to land.
And now... this.
, seated on the dresser chair, wrapped in one of his ridiculous black robes—probably worth more than my rent—and Adrien standing behind with a hairdryer.
His fingers were careful—too careful for soone who ran a billion-dollar empire like a war general.
I stared at our reflection in the mirror.
The most powerful man in the city... holding a pastel pink hair dryer like it was the sword of Excalibur.
"You know," I said, fighting a smile, "Didn’t know you were embracing your inner soft girl.’"
He didn’t blink. "Hold still."
"It’s pink," I said, just to test him.
Still no reaction.
I pushed further. "You know, it’s okay to want to feel a little feminine now and then."
That got him.
"No. What? No."
I turned slightly, grinning now. "It’s okay. I an, self-expression is important—"
"I bought it for you," he said flatly.
"For ?"
"Yes." He looked vaguely exasperated. "You’ve been staying over more often. I just figured... you might like your own things here. So. Hair dryer. Toothbrush. Face stuff. Whatever."
I snorted. "So you got a pink dryer?"
"It had the best reviews."
"You didn’t just get the most feminine one on purpose?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
He finally t my eyes in the mirror, flatly unimpressed. "If I wanted to feel feminine, Isabella, I wouldn’t start with a hair dryer."
I cracked up. "Okay, fair."
His mouth twitched—barely. But I saw it.
"Besides," he added, brushing the strands away from my cheek, "you’re the only person allowed to make my place look ridiculous."
My grin softened. He was pretending to be gruff, but his hands hadn’t stopped moving. Slow. Focused. Like touching wasn’t a task, but sothing he needed to do.
"Adrien," I murmured.
"Hmm?"
I looked at him through the mirror. "You’re really drying my hair right now."
"I am."
"Why?"
He paused. Then: "Because if I don’t, I’m going to do sothing else. And you’ll never get to wear the clothes brought up for you."
My breath hitched. He wasn’t looking at in the mirror anymore. His gaze had dropped, dark and intense, to my reflection’s neck, then lower, to the simple towel wrap I had around .
My cheeks flushed. Not just a faint pink, but a proper, hot blush that spread down my collarbones. He hadn’t looked away. His fingers, still in my hair, gave a gentle, almost imperceptible squeeze.
"Oh," I managed, the word barely a whisper. My heart was thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Right."
The dryer clicked off. He set it down, but his fingers didn’t leave — they lingered at the ends of my hair, smoothing strands with that sa careful, maddening attention.
Then, finally, he said, "You asked who was at the door."
I straightened a little, the heat still in my cheeks but now for a different reason. "Yeah. You said later."
"It’s later."
His gaze softened, and he said, "Her na’s Clara Langford. A childhood friend—our families go way back. Her father sent over the paperwork this morning. She’s interning at Vantage and Cole, and I’m overseeing her placent."
"Okay, boyfriend," I teased instead, still watching him in the mirror. "Or should I say... peacock?"
He arched an eyebrow, that familiar half-smile playing on his lips. "Hmm... don’t tempt ."
****
Adrien’s fingers lingered around mine even after the driver opened the door.
"Ready?" he asked, voice smooth, unreadable.
"Not even a little," I murmured, but he smirked and leaned down anyway, brushing a kiss against my cheek.
"Too late. Ti to go be your boss."
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling as I followed him out of the car.
We hadn’t even taken three steps when soone called out, "Mr. Walton!"
We both turned.
A woman was walking toward us — tall, poised, with sleek chestnut hair and the kind of confidence that made people clear the way without her asking.
For a mont, sothing cold crept up my spine.
No. It couldn’t be.
She didn’t look exactly the sa — not in the polished suit, not with her hair tied up like that, not with that elegant smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
But sothing about her... the tilt of her head, the way her gaze flicked over like I barely existed...
Isn’t that—
Wasn’t this the woman Aria and I had seen while shopping? The one who’d judged my outfit like it personally offended her ancestors?
No. It couldn’t be the sa woman from the boutique. She hadn’t recognized . Hadn’t even blinked. Probably just a resemblance.
Still, I stood a little straighter beside Adrien, one hand tightening around my tablet. Just in case.
The voice snapped out of it.
"Isabella."
I blinked, startled. Adrien’s hand was still in mine, grounding and warm. His voice was patient—but that patient that ant I’d been in my head too long.
"Oh—sorry," I said quickly, clearing my throat. "Zoned out."
He gave a curious glance, then turned toward the woman.
"This is Clara Langford," he said. "The intern I ntioned."
Intern.
I blinked, trying to process that word with the sa person we almost dropkicked into a clothing rack two days ago.
"Clara, this is my personal assistant."
Clara smiled—not at , exactly, more... past . Polished, polite. Practiced. It was the kind of smile you use when you’re in a room full of people you’d prefer to bulldoze, but you’re playing the long ga.
"I’m Clara Langford," she said smoothly. "Nice to et you."
"Isabella Miller," I replied, trying to sound normal. "The pleasure is mine."
Maybe she didn’t recognize .
Maybe she didn’t want to.
Either way, I had a very, very bad feeling.
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