ADRIEN’S POV
The words left my mouth before I had time to soften them.
"Come home with me."
She turned to look at me, eyes wide. "What?"
I didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Not if I wanted to keep this plan from sounding as calculated as it truly was.
"To my place. Tonight."
"For... what exactly?"
"To clear any lingering rumors of the scandal," I replied, my voice deliberately measured. "We need to be seen together."
She hesitated. I could feel it, even in the silence that followed.
"You’ve already cleared everything up," she said quietly. "The internet’s been wiped clean."
I turned my head, letting my gaze finally meet hers. The passing streetlights cut across her face in fractured flashes. Beautiful. Fragile. Tired.
"Online eyes are easily distracted," I said. "But the whispers... they take longer to silence completely."
"Being seen together tonight. Under my roof. It dispels any lingering doubt more effectively than any press release or deleted article ever could."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Wouldn’t a public dinner be more efficient? An overnight stay seems... excessive."
I nearly smiled. Not because it was a ridiculous suggestion — she was absolutely right — but because her instincts were sharp. Just not sharp enough to see through the deeper layers.
"Excessive?" I echoed. "Or simply... more convincing?"
A beat passed.
"A show," I said. "You and me. Looking like we’re in love."
The idea hadn’t been mine, not completely.
It was Cameron.
The bastard.
yesterday nights, after solving the problem at the private ICT, he had leaned back in his chair and casually tossed the idea at me like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"You need a night-in setup," he said. "Matching pajamas. A soft, domestic vibe. Comforting. Familiar and sexy, but not too sexy. Like you’ve been together long enough to not try so hard anymore."
I’d stared at him like he’d lost his goddamn mind. "Matching. Pajamas."
Cameron grinned, annoyingly pleased with himself. "You want to kill rumors? Then start looking like the guy who’d build a fort with her in matching teddy bear pajamas."
I leveled him with a look that would’ve had most people leaving the country.
He didn’t flinch. "Trust me," he said, standing. "People believe what they feel. Let them feel cozy."
"You’re lucky you’re my friend," I muttered.
"And you’re lucky I’m a genius," he’d grinned. "Just trust me. It’ll work."
I’d nearly fired him on the spot.
Instead, I ordered the stupid pajamas.
****
The moment the car rolled to a stop outside the gates, I switched.
I stepped out first, scanning the dark hedges with a practiced eye. I knew exactly where the hired paparazzi’s were. Cameron had arranged them personally. He paid them well to wait, not shoot, until the right cues were given.
I opened her door myself. Smooth and deliberate.
Every movement mattered now.
"Smile," I said under my breath as she stepped out. "There are paparazzi buried in the hedges."
Her breath caught. She looked around, wide-eyed, searching the shadows. She wouldn’t find anything — they were good, I made sure of it. Cameron had gone so far as to test the sightlines in daylight and again at dusk so we wouldn’t make her uncomfortable with them being visible.
I felt her fingers tighten slightly in mine as we walked toward the house. I laced our hands together — not loosely, but firmly. Securely. Like it had always been that way.
For the cameras. For the headlines.
And maybe, for me.
This wasn’t a rescue mission anymore.
This was war.
The headlines tomorrow wouldn’t read Adrien Walton’s girlfriend caught in scandal. No. They’d read Power Couple Shuts Down Rumors with Cozy Night In.
Let them speculate. Let them wonder how real it was. The best lies were soaked in truth.
Once inside, I dropped her hand.
No need to keep holding on. Not when the eyes were gone — for now.
Thomas greeted us, offering his usual stiff professionalism. I gave him the cue, the practiced line: "We won’t require anything further tonight." Translation: We’ve got this from here.
He understood, of course. He always did.
The rest was theater.
I handed her the pajama set, watched her expression twist in disbelief, amusement, confusion.
"Matching pajamas," she echoed.
Cameron was going to owe me dinner for this. A very expensive one.
But still... when she took the bundle, her fingers brushing mine, something tightened in my chest.
*****
She walked in like it was nothing.
Barefoot, soft steps on polished tile. Wearing that ridiculous teddy bear pajama set that should’ve made her look childish—harmless. But instead...
She looked like temptation wrapped in innocence.
And I was already screwed.
I didn’t show it, of course. I kept my hands busy—moving bowls, adjusting the tray, rearranging parsley like it mattered—anything to keep my mind off how good she looked in my house.
In that cloth.
When I looked up, our eyes locked. Just for a second. But something passed between us—recognition, maybe. A silent truce, or the kind of understanding two people fall into when they’re playing a dangerous game together.
"You look... convincing," I said, keeping my tone light and under control.
She raised a brow. "You’re really committing to this."
I gave a noncommittal shrug and opened the fridge. If I looked at her too long, I’d forget why we were doing this.
We talked Joked.
Chopped vegetables.
Cooked.
All of it simple and ordinary.
Except it wasn’t.
It was all carefully choreographed chaos. Calculated normalcy. A life I never really had—domestic, quiet, human. And she fit into it like she’d always been meant to. Even if I kept telling myself this was fake.
She teased me. Called me "Chef Walton." Rolled her eyes at my onion-cutting skills and leaned into the rhythm of our staged evening like it wasn’t being broadcast through thermal imaging and paparazzi shots from half a mile out.
But every time her fingers brushed mine, something shifted.
Every time she smiled at me like she forgot it was all pretend, something cracked open.
By the time I reached across her for the salt and felt her hand graze mine—warm, soft, hesitant—I knew I was nearing the edge.
"Careful," I murmured, low. Half warning, half plea.
She echoed it back to me, just as breathless. "Careful."
God help me, I wanted to forget the cameras. I wanted to forget the plan. I wanted to forget that this entire moment was designed to manipulate headlines and fool public opinion.
I wanted to lean in. To smell the sweet scent of whatever shampoo she used, to trace the line of her jaw. To ask her why this felt so real, here, in this kitchen, under the weight of invisible eyes.
Because when she looked at me like that—open, curious, unguarded—I wasn’t acting anymore.
We moved closer.
Small touches.
Staged laughter.
Then—
Click.
I heard it.
She did too.
Her head turned, eyes landing on the camera lens tucked behind the window trim. I watched her shoulders stiffen, saw the moment she remembered what this was.
"They’re rolling," she said softly.
I forced the smirk back onto my face. "Remember—they’ve got eyes on us. Thermal lenses, probably."
She stepped in, placed a hand on my arm. Her skin was warm through the fabric, her touch featherlight.
"You mean like this?" she asked.
It should’ve been fine. Just enough for the image.
But I looked down at her hand, then up at her face—and something inside me snapped.
"A little more," I said, almost hoarsely.
She leaned in. Her head was tilted back slightly, showcasing the elegant line of her throat as she played the role perfectly.
But she had no idea what she was doing to me.
She was smiling for the cameras. Laughing for the watchers.
My eyes dropped to her mouth. The curve of her lips, parted slightly. It wasn’t a performance anymore.
It was just her, looking at me, in this moment, under these insane circumstances. My world narrowed to just her face.
And all I could think about was kissing her.
Not for a headline.
Not for a goddamn photo op.
Because I wanted to. Because I needed to.
So I didn’t ask.
I didn’t think.
I leaned in.
And kissed her.