The Moreau penthouse overlooks the Seine like a predator surveying its territory.

I stand in Adrian's bedroom—because apparently that's where we're starting this beautiful disaster—watching him adjust his cufflinks in the mirror. He's already dressed. Of course he is. The man probably emerges from the womb in a tailored suit, fully briefed on quarterly earnings reports.

"You're staring," he says without turning around.

"I'm assessing the opposition. There's a difference."

He turns then, and the sight of him hits me like it always does—that impossible combination of expensive tailoring and dangerous intensity. The charcoal suit fits him like it was painted on, the white shirt unbuttoned just enough to make me forget how to breathe properly. His storm-cloud eyes catch mine in the mirror, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

He's enjoying this.

"The Beaumont gala," he says, moving toward me with that controlled grace that makes my pulse do stupid things. "Three hundred of Paris's most influential people. Media, investors, competitors. You'll need to be perfect."

"I'm always perfect," I lie smoothly. "It's my default state."

"No." He stops inches away, and suddenly the bedroom feels smaller, the air thicker. "You're usually armored. Tonight, you need to be charming. There's a difference."

The bergamot and leather of his cologne wraps around me, and I have to actively prevent myself from closing my eyes. This is the problem with proximity—with the constant, maddening awareness of how he takes up space, how he makes me feel small in a way that should terrify me but instead makes my skin feel too tight.

"I can do charming," I say, but my voice has gone softer than I intended. "I'm French."

"You're a weapon," he corrects, and there's something almost reverent in how he says it. "I just need you to point yourself at the right targets."

I should feel objectified. Instead, I feel seen.

"What are you getting out of this, Adrian? Really?" The question escapes before I can stop it. We're supposed to be keeping this transactional, fake, controlled. But there's nothing controlled about the way he's looking at me right now.

He reaches out, and his fingers brush a strand of hair away from my face. The touch is barely there—barely anything—but it sends electricity down my spine.

"I'm getting you," he says quietly. "That's the point."

The dress he had delivered is crimson silk that moves like water—dangerous and elegant and exactly the kind of thing I'd never choose for myself. Too much. Too visible. Too vulnerable. Which means it's probably genius, because that's what Adrian does. He sees what you're hiding and forces you to wear it anyway.

I slip into it in the marble bathroom, watching myself transform in the mirror. The neckline dips low without being obscene. The back is even lower. My dark auburn hair, released from its usual armor of a messy bun, falls in waves past my shoulders. I look like someone who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to take it.

I look like a lie.

When I emerge, Adrian is waiting by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I watch him see me. Actually see me—not the Isabelle Rousseau who exists in boardrooms and family obligations, but something else. Something real.

His jaw tightens.

"Jesus, Isabelle."

"That good?" I move toward him, and I'm hyperaware of every step, every shift of silk against my skin. This is dangerous. This is exactly what we agreed not to do.

"That dangerous," he corrects. He reaches for my hand, and his touch is warm, steady, grounding. "You look like you could destroy a man and smile while doing it."

"That's the goal, isn't it?" But my voice wavers slightly. "Make them believe you belong at Adrian Moreau's side?"

"That's not the goal." He pulls me closer, and suddenly his hand is on my waist, spanning the bare skin at the small of my back. The touch is possessive and gentle all at once, and it makes me forget why I'm supposed to be keeping my distance. "The goal is to make them believe you're the only reason I'm there."

The car ride to the gala is torture.

Adrian sits beside me in the back of his Bentley, his hand never leaving my knee, and I spend the entire journey trying to calculate the exact distance required to keep my sanity intact. It's not working. Nothing is working. His thumb traces circles on my skin, and I'm convinced he can hear my heart trying to escape my ribcage.

"Tell me something," I say, because silence is worse. Silence makes me think about how his hand feels, how close he is, how easy it would be to turn toward him and—

"What?"

"Why me?" I turn to face him, and the city lights slide across his features. "There are hundreds of women who'd kill for this. Women who actually want to be with you. Why the girl who keeps trying to stab you with her words?"

He's quiet for a moment, considering. His storm-cloud eyes are dark in the low light, and I can't read what's happening behind them.

"Because you're honest," he finally says. "In a world full of people who want something from me, you're the only one who doesn't pretend. You hate this arrangement. You think I'm dangerous. You're probably right about both things. But you're still here."

"That's not honesty. That's desperation."

"Is it?" His hand moves from my knee to my chin, tilting my face toward his. We're so close now that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. "Or is it that you want this as much as I do, and it terrifies you?"

I should pull away. I should make a joke, deflect, hide behind sarcasm. Instead, I stay exactly where I am, suspended in the space between his words and the truth of them.

"Both," I whisper. "It's both."

The Beaumont gala is everything Adrian promised it would be—a carefully orchestrated display of wealth and power, where every handshake is a negotiation and every smile is a calculated investment. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen tears. Champagne flows like water. Women in couture gowns orbit powerful men like planets around suns, and I suddenly understand that this is the world Adrian built himself into. A world of beautiful surfaces and hollow depths.

He doesn't let go of my hand the entire evening.

We move through the crowd, and I watch him work the room with surgical precision. He introduces me to investors, competitors, board members, and each time he does, his hand finds the small of my back, or his fingers lace through mine, or his arm wraps around my waist. Each touch is a claim. Each touch is a statement.

This one is mine.

But here's the thing nobody tells you about fake dating a man like Adrian Moreau: it's impossible to fake when you're actually attracted to him. When you actually want him. When every cell in your body is screaming to get closer.

I watch him command a room full of people twice his age, and I'm struck by how lonely he looks while doing it. There's a distance in his eyes, a careful calibration of charm and authority that keeps everyone at arm's length. He's performing, just like I'm performing, except his audience is bigger and his stakes are higher.

"You're thinking very loudly," a voice says, and I turn to find Margot Delacroix approaching with the predatory grace of someone who's never been told no in her life.

She's stunning in that cold, calculated way that makes me feel like I'm wearing a costume. Her platinum blonde hair is perfectly styled. Her dress probably costs more than my apartment. And her smile—God, her smile is a weapon.

"Margot," I say, because I've done my homework. Adrian's ex. The woman he dated for two years before she got too comfortable, too possessive, too convinced that his success was something she'd earned. "I've heard so much about you."

"Have you?" She steps closer, and I catch the scent of tuberose and musk—heavy, cloying, impossible to ignore. "Adrian never mentioned me?"

"He mentioned you were beautiful," I lie smoothly. "And that you had excellent taste in jewelry."

It's a calculated insult wrapped in a compliment, and I watch her eyes narrow as she processes it. This is what Adrian wanted me to do—charm and strategize in real-time, use my mind like a weapon. And God help me, I'm good at it.

"How charming," Margot says, but her smile has sharpened. "Tell me, how long do you think Adrian will keep you around? He has a pattern with women. He gets bored quickly."

"I wouldn't know," I say, turning to find Adrian watching us with an expression I can't quite read. "I'm not interested in patterns. I'm interested in the man himself."

It's the truest thing I've said all night, and it terrifies me.

Margot drifts away, and Adrian appears at my side like he was always meant to be there. His hand finds my waist again, and this time the touch feels different. Protective. Possessive in a way that has nothing to do with the performance.

"What did she want?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.

"The same thing every woman here wants," I say, watching the crowd. "To know if you're actually interested in me or if this is just another acquisition."

"And what did you tell her?"

I turn to face him, and we're close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the slight tension around his eyes. Up close, Adrian Moreau looks less like a billionaire and more like a man who's fighting something he can't quite control.

"I told her the truth," I say. "That I'm not interested in patterns."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or hope, or something far more dangerous.

"Dance with me," he says, and it's not a request.

The ballroom is crowded, but it feels like we're alone when his hand settles on my bare back and pulls me close. The silk of my dress is barely a barrier between his palm and my skin, and I'm acutely aware of every point of contact—his hand in mine, his chest against my breasts, his thigh brushing mine as we move.

"This is a terrible idea," I whisper, but I don't pull away.

"Probably," he agrees, and I can feel him smile against my hair. "But you're not leaving."

"No," I admit. "I'm not."

We dance, and it's the most dangerous thing I've done since agreeing to this arrangement. Because dancing with Adrian Moreau doesn't feel fake. It doesn't feel like a performance or a strategy or a calculated move. It feels like the only honest thing happening in this entire ballroom full of lies.

His mouth brushes my temple, and I close my eyes.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs. "Tell me this is too much, and I'll walk away."

I don't tell him to stop.

Instead, I turn my head slightly, and suddenly we're almost kissing. The space between our mouths is measured in millimeters and bad decisions. His hand tightens on my back, pulling me impossibly closer, and I can feel his heartbeat against my chest—fast, irregular, out of control.

"Isabelle—"

"Don't," I say, because if he says my name like that, with that edge of desperation and need, I'm going to do something irreversible. I'm going to kiss him in front of three hundred people. I'm going to destroy the careful architecture of this arrangement. I'm going to prove that I can't actually control anything, least of all my own desire.

I pull away, and the loss of his warmth is immediate and devastating.

"I need air," I say, already moving toward the terrace.

The Paris night is cool against my flushed skin, and I grip the stone railing like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity. The Seine flows below like dark silk, and I can see my reflection in the water—a woman in a crimson dress who looks like she's about to combust.

Adrian follows me, because of course he does. He's always following, always pursuing, always making it impossible for me to maintain the distance I need.

"That was—" he starts, but I cut him off.

"A mistake," I say, not turning around. "That's what we're calling it, right? A mistake born from proximity and adrenaline and the fact that we're both excellent at playing a part."

"Is that what you think that was?"

I force myself to turn and face him, and the expression on his face nearly breaks me. He looks raw. Unguarded. Terrifyingly honest.

"I think you're a powerful man who's used to getting what he wants," I say carefully. "And I think I'm a woman who's spent her entire life learning not to want anything, because wanting things means losing them. And I think we're playing with fire because we're both too broken to know better."

"Then let's burn," he says simply.

The words hang between us like a promise and a threat.

"I can't," I whisper. "I can't let myself need you. I can't let myself believe that this is real, because when it inevitably falls apart—and it will fall apart, Adrian, it always does—I won't survive it."

He moves toward me, and I hold up a hand to stop him.

"I need to go," I say. "I need to get out of this dress and pretend that tonight didn't happen."

"Isabelle—"

But I'm already moving, already walking back into the ballroom, already rebuilding the walls that dancing with him had started to crack. Behind me, I can feel Adrian watching, and I know without looking that his expression is the one I can't afford to see—the one that looks like he's feeling exactly what I'm feeling.

Loss.

Hunger.

The terrifying realization that we've crossed a line we can't uncross, and pretending otherwise is only making it worse.

The car ride home is silent.

Adrian doesn't touch me, doesn't try to convince me, doesn't do anything except sit in the darkness with his jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists. I stare out the window at the sleeping city and try not to think about how his hand felt on my skin, how his mouth almost tasted, how close I came to destroying everything I've built in the space of a single dance.

When we arrive at his penthouse, I move to leave, but his voice stops me.

"Stay," he says quietly. "Just for tonight. I won't touch you. I just... don't want you to leave."

I should say no. I should get out of this car and never look back.

Instead, I stay.

We sit on his terrace overlooking the city, fully clothed and careful not to touch, and it's somehow more intimate than anything that's happened between us so far. The night stretches out before us, dark and endless, and I can feel the moment approaching—the one where everything changes.

"Why did you really take this deal?" Adrian asks into the silence. "Your father's company is stable. You don't need my money."

I consider lying, but I'm tired of lying.

"Because I wanted to prove that I could control something," I admit. "That I could use a powerful man instead of being used by him. That I could be the one holding the reins."

"And now?"

I turn to look at him, and in the darkness, I can barely see his face. But I can feel him watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

"Now I'm not sure who's holding the reins," I say. "And it's terrifying."

He reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and takes my hand. His thumb traces circles on my palm, and I feel the gesture all the way to my bones.

"Then we figure it out together," he says. "No more running. No more pretending."

I should tell him it's impossible. I should tell him that people like us don't get happy endings, that love is a cage designed by the wealthy to trap women, that wanting someone this much is a weakness I can't afford.

Instead, I squeeze his hand and watch the Seine flow beneath us, carrying away the old Isabelle and dragging in someone new.

Someone dangerous.

Someone who might actually burn.