Fake Date, Real Fate

My legs still tingled from where Adrien’s hands had been during the drive—and the kiss that had left my lips warm, my heart borderline feral, and my head in some cloud I had no intention of coming down from.

Thomas greeted us with a polite bow. "Mr. Walton. Ma’am." His voice was as smooth and deep as the polished mahogany of the grand staircase that swept up into the shadows behind him.

Adrien led me to the sofa and I sank into cushions so deep I felt I might never get out. He didn’t sink, of course. He belonged here, his posture relaxed and easy against the dove-grey velvet. Then Thomas handed me a chilled glass of juice.

I gave him a smile. "Thanks, Thomas."

I had barely taken two sips of the chilled juice in my hand before Thomas leaned subtly toward Adrien and asked, "Sir, should we begin?"

Begin what? I looked at Adrien, one brow raised.

He gave a small nod.

A moment later, a woman stepped into the room. Tall and effortlessly looking. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek low bun, her lips painted the kind of perfect crimson that said I wear couture in my sleep. She was dressed in a crisp black ensemble that looked like it cost more than my rent, and she carried herself like someone who had no time for mediocrity.

"Good evening," she said with a single nod.

My glass nearly slipped from my fingers.

I knew that face.

ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ N(o)vᴇl(F)ire.nᴇt

I whipped toward Adrien so fast my neck cracked. "Is that—? Wait. Is that Ruth Gates?"