3

Adrien cracked the suite door open. The corridor was empty, but the air felt charged, like the calm before a storm.

He walked back to the bathroom. Aurora was wringing her hands, the sleeves of his shirt flopping uselessly.

"Now," he said. He grabbed her wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but it brooked no argument.

He dragged her out of the bathroom, past the bed she had almost collapsed on, to a narrow panel in the wall near the closet. It was a servant's entrance, designed for discretion.

"This leads to the garden level," Adrien said. "Stay off the main paths. Go to the parking lot."

Aurora nodded frantically. She was barefoot, holding her ruined heels in one hand. She looked like a runaway bride, or a mistress fleeing a crime scene.

She turned to go, but Adrien caught her shoulder. He spun her around.

"Your collar," he murmured.

Before she could react, his hands were at her neck. He flipped the collar of the shirt up, buttoning one more button. His knuckles grazed her skin-cold against warm. For a second, he didn't pull away. He stared at the pulse point on her neck, his thumb brushing over it.

Aurora held her breath. The moment stretched, taut as a wire.

Then Adrien stepped back, his face a mask of indifference. "Go. Don't let anyone see your face."

Aurora didn't wait. She pushed through the narrow door and ran.

The stairwell was dim and smelled of dust. She took the steps two at a time, her bare feet slapping against the concrete. Pain shot through her soles as she hit the gravel at the bottom, but she didn't stop.

She burst out into the cool evening air. The sun had set, leaving the sky a bruised purple. She was in the rear gardens, a maze of manicured hedges and stone statues.

The wind bit through the thin cotton of Adrien's shirt. She hugged herself, shivering. She felt exposed. Naked.

She ducked behind a row of hydrangeas, trying to orient herself. The parking lot was east. She just needed to cross the koi pond clearing.

Flick. Click.

The sound of a lighter froze her blood.

Ten yards away, under the shadow of an oak tree, a man was leaning against the trunk. Pierce Montgomery. The biggest gossip in the tri-state area.

Aurora dropped to a crouch, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Pierce turned his head. He squinted into the gloom.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice slurring slightly. He was drunk.

Aurora tried to scramble back, but her foot snapped a dry twig. Crack.

Pierce's eyes widened. He saw a figure. A woman. Long dark hair. A man's white dress shirt. Bare legs.

He let out a low whistle. "Well, well. Looks like the funeral wasn't so boring after all."

He took a step toward her.

Aurora didn't think. She bolted. She sprinted away from the parking lot, deeper into the garden, toward the koi pond.

"Hey! Wait up!" Pierce laughed, but he didn't follow. He didn't need to. He had a story.

Aurora reached the edge of the pond and stopped, gasping for air. Her lungs burned. She looked down at herself. The white shirt was a beacon in the darkness. Even if Pierce hadn't recognized her face, he had seen the shirt.

And now, voices were drifting from the terrace.

"She went this way! Pierce said he saw someone running!"

It was Chloe. And Ingrid.

Aurora looked around wildly. There was nowhere to hide. The hedges were too low. The wall was too high.

She looked at the pond. The water was murky, green with algae and mud.

She looked at the pristine white shirt.

If they found her like this-clean, wearing a man's shirt-she was a whore.

But if she was a victim of an accident...

Aurora made a choice.

---

4

The voices were getting closer. Flashlight beams cut through the twilight like searchlights.

Aurora dropped to her knees in the mud at the edge of the pond. The damp earth soaked into her skin, cold and slimy. She didn't hesitate. She grabbed handfuls of the muck-black, stinking silt-and smeared it over the white cotton.

She ruined the shirt. She rubbed mud into the fabric until the crisp white was gone, replaced by stains that looked like a struggle.

She reached into the water, her fingers tangling in the slimy pond weeds. She ripped a handful out and shoved it into her hair, matting the dark strands against her skull.

It wasn't enough.

She looked at a sharp rock jutting out of the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut and dragged her forearm across it.

The skin split. Blood welled up, bright and hot, mixing with the mud.

Pain sharpened her mind. She let out a sob-half real, half performance-and collapsed onto the grass, curling into a ball just as the first beam of light hit her.

"There! Over by the water!"

Footsteps thundered on the grass.

"Oh my god!" Chloe's voice was high, theatrical.

Aurora squeezed her eyes shut against the glare. She was surrounded.

"Aurora?" Ingrid's voice was sharp. "What the hell are you doing?"

Aurora sat up slowly, trembling. She looked pathetic. Mud-caked, bleeding, wet.

"I..." She coughed. "I slipped."

Chloe pushed to the front, her eyes scanning Aurora's body. She saw the shirt. Her eyes narrowed.

"Where is your dress, Aurora?" Chloe asked, her voice dripping with fake concern. "And whose shirt is that?"

Ingrid laughed, a cruel, barking sound. "That's a man's shirt. Did you slip out of someone's bed and fall into the pond?"

The crowd murmured. Phones were out. Flashes popped, blinding her.

"Disgusting," someone whispered. "At her husband's funeral."

Eleanor Holden, the matriarch, pushed through the crowd. She leaned on her cane, her face a mask of fury.

"Explain yourself," Eleanor demanded. "Now."

Aurora opened her mouth, but her throat was dry. The drug was still humming in her system, making it hard to form words. The accusations were piling up like stones, ready to crush her.

"I fell," Aurora whispered. "I just fell."

"Liar," Ingrid spat. She reached out, grabbing the collar of the shirt. "Let's see who this belongs to. Maybe there's a monogram."

Aurora flinched back, slapping Ingrid's hand away.

"Don't touch me!"

"Enough."

The word was spoken softly, but it cracked through the air like a whip.

The crowd parted instantly. Silence fell over the garden, heavy and sudden.

Adrien Larsen walked into the circle of light. He had changed his jacket, but he was still wearing the same trousers. He looked impeccable. Untouchable.

He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at Eleanor. He walked straight to Aurora.

He looked down at her-at the mud, the blood on her arm, the weeds in her hair. His expression was unreadable.

Chloe stepped forward, a flirtatious smile plastering itself onto her face. "Adrien, I'm so sorry you have to see this. My sister is clearly having a breakdown..."

Adrien ignored her. He took off his suit jacket.

With a fluid motion, he draped the heavy, warm wool over Aurora's shoulders, covering the muddy shirt. He crouched down, bringing his face level with hers.

"You're hurt," he said. It wasn't a question.

Aurora stared at him, her heart stopping. Was he going to expose her? Was he going to tell them she broke into his room?

Adrien turned his head, looking up at Eleanor.

"She didn't slip out of a bed," Adrien said, his voice bored. "She slipped on the moss. I saw it happen from the terrace."

---

5

Ingrid scoffed, though it lacked her usual confidence. "You saw it? Then whose shirt is that, Mr. Larsen?"

Adrien stood up, towering over Ingrid. He looked at her with the same interest one might show a cockroach.

"Mine," he said.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

"Her dress was ruined by the pond water," Adrien continued, the lie rolling off his tongue with terrifying ease. "I didn't think it was appropriate for Mrs. Holden to be seen in wet, transparent silk. So I had my driver fetch a spare shirt from my car."

He looked at Eleanor. "Unless you would have preferred her to walk back to the house naked?"

Eleanor's face paled. "Of course not. That was... very chivalrous of you, Adrien."

The narrative shifted instantly. It wasn't a scandal anymore. It was a rescue. Adrien Larsen, the untouchable billionaire, had saved the grieving widow from embarrassment.

"But Pierce said-" Chloe started, desperate to salvage her sabotage.

"Pierce is drunk," Adrien cut her off. "He wouldn't know a woman from a weeping willow in this light."

He looked down at Aurora and extended a hand.

"Up."

Aurora took his hand. His grip was warm, calloused, and strong. He pulled her to her feet effortlessly. She swayed, dizzy, and he steadied her, his hand lingering on her waist for a fraction of a second too long.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Adrien leaned in close, adjusting the jacket on her shoulders. To the onlookers, it looked tender.

"Don't thank me," he murmured against her ear, his voice dropping to a frequency only she could hear. "This isn't charity, Aurora. You owe me."

He pulled back, his face returning to its marble mask.

"Take her inside," Adrien ordered the staff. "Clean her up."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness without looking back.

Aurora watched him go. The jacket smelled like him-cedar and smoke. It was heavy on her shoulders, like a shield. Or a yoke.

---