The Widow's Price: Owned By Adrien

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.

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