Accidentally His: The Girl Who Trespassed

Adeline's POV

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I'm probably going to get arrested for this.

I mutter it under my breath as I approach a Mercedes G-Class, phone raised. October sunlight hits the glossy black paint. The car glows against the gray Manhattan sidewalk, screaming money I'll never have.

Regular Friday afternoon on the Upper East Side. The street runs with its usual chaos. Professionals in tailored coats cut past. A delivery cyclist weaves through traffic. Tourists squint at G****e Maps on the corner.

Me? I'm here with one goal. Borrow a little luxury for my I*******m.

My feed is becoming a graveyard. Grad school doesn't pay for itself, and my two part-time jobs barely leave time for sleep, let alone proper photoshoots. So I make do. I hunt for decent light, throw on the best outfit I own, and fake my way into these neighborhoods.

An oversized cream sweater hangs off my left shoulder. Twelve dollars at a thrift store in Brooklyn. My jeans have a hole in the knee I didn't pay extra for. My boots have seen better years.

Step into the right light, angle yourself so, and I could pass for anyone.

Anyone who owns a car worth more than my entire student loan debt.

I line up near the driver's side door and check my reflection in a shop window. My hair has that messy wave because I skipped the blow dryer. In this light my hazel eyes look close to gold.

That'll do.

I'm mid-pose, phone lifted, when I hear it.

That laugh.

Every muscle in my back locks. I know that sound. Everyone at Columbia does.

Bianca Moretti.

Her cherry-red convertible pulls alongside the G-Class, engine purring. She's windblown, highlighter catching in her blond hair, designer sunglasses perched perfectly, three friends draped across the leather seats as if placed there for a magazine shoot.

I don't move.

*Please don't see me.*

"Adeline?" Her voice cuts through the street noise. "Is that you?"

Of course she spotted me.

I lower my phone, trying to look like I'm doing anything else. Checking messages. Reading a caption. Certainly not posing next to a car I'll probably never sit inside.

Bianca slides her sunglasses down her nose. Her eyes gleam. "Nice car."

The words hang there.

Her friends shift forward. All familiar faces from campus. The ones who spend more on coffee than I spend on groceries.

One whispers. The rest giggle.

"Is it yours?" Bianca smiles.

A trap. She knows I take the train. Knows about my part-time jobs and the way I count change at the grocery store. My taxes get filed in a bracket that can't even spell Mercedes.

I should laugh. Shrug it off. Walk away.

My mouth has its own plan.

"It is."

The lie drops out before I can pull it back.

*Why did I do that.*

Three years of Bianca's dominance pressed into my chest. Three years of never measuring up. Showing up with leftovers while everyone else ordered sushi. Rotating the same thrift finds while the rest swapped stories about their dads arranging internships over scotch.

She pulled me from the Milano program without blinking. One call from her father and five months of my work vanished. My professor said it was a funding issue. Bianca said nothing. Which was worse.

I want to win. Once.

Her eyebrows arch. Her friends exchange loaded looks, recalibrating, filing away whatever this is about to become.

"Really." Her tone dares me.

*Tell her you're joking. Get out. Don't dig this hole any deeper.*

I will not hand this moment to her.

"Prove it," Bianca says.

Phones are out. Her friends look way too eager to watch me unravel.

*This is the stupidest thing I have ever done.*

My feet move anyway.

I walk toward the driver's side door with confidence I do not feel. My hand reaches for the handle. The metal is warm from the afternoon sun.

Locked.

I'll make some excuse. Forgot my keys.

The handle clicks.

The door swings open.

Sound drops out.

There is someone inside.

A man, mid-text, stares up at me. Dark hair. Steely gray eyes. A suit tailored within an inch of its life. He looks expensive and stunned, hands suspended over his phone, perfectly motionless.

We stare at each other.

I should bolt. Grovel. Call it a mix-up and run until Brooklyn swallows me whole.

Bianca and her friends are pressed against the glass. Phones raised. Probably streaming all of it.

One thought left: commit or be humiliated forever.

My body moves before the thought finishes forming.

I slide in.

Everything happens in slow motion. Expensive leather beneath me. Solid resistance where I expected empty space. I land hard, a second too late to fix it. I am sitting on him. A total stranger. A lap that did not agree to any of this.

His body goes rigid. His arms lift wide, hands spreading open, as if I'm something dangerous. A muscle moves once in his jaw. His breath catches. His eyes travel over my face.

I look away first.

His cologne reaches me.

Cedar. Expensive. The kind that lingers in elevator air long after the man has gone.

I hate that I noticed.

I pull the door shut, hands unsteady.

"Please," I whisper. "Wait for them to leave."

Outside, Bianca's convertible makes a show of its engine. Phones raised.

Through the glass I catch her face one last time. The smirk holds. But her eyes have gone flat, the way eyes go when someone expected an outcome and received a different one. The light flashes green. They're gone.

The air inside the car sits heavy between us.

I scramble to the passenger seat and press myself against the door. "I'm so sorry. I swear, I'm not usually. I'm sorry."

He doesn't move except to smooth his jacket. One deliberate gesture. The shock that crossed his face is gone, replaced by an unsettling calm, as if he's solved the problem of me and is waiting for me to catch up.

That calm closes my chest harder than the panic did.

"At least," he says, "tell me why you're sitting in my car."

The faintest trace of an Italian accent. Refined down to something that comes with old money and boarding schools.

The explanation tumbles out in one long humiliated rush. "There was this girl, she saw me posing near the car, asked if it was mine, told me to prove it, and I panicked, and the door opened, and I thought the car was empty, I swear, and I sat down, and I really am sorry. If there's dry cleaning, detailing, I'll pay. This is probably trespassing. It's definitely trespassing."

He listens. When I finally stop, the silence stretches long enough that I calculate how fast I can reach the door handle.

His eyes move to the window. Back to me. His fingers rest flat against his knee while his gaze runs the length of my face as if he's reading a document he didn't request.

He smooths his jacket. Once.

"So." He leans back. "You trespassed. Lied. And now you expect my cooperation."

"I'm not expecting anything. I'll go. I'll turn myself in if you want."

My hand finds the door handle.

He nods, unhurried. "Very well."

I stop. Turn back.

Same composed expression. A small spark in his eyes. "You'll accompany me to several events over the next month," he says, the same tone he'd use to close a meeting. "Consider it restitution."

"Sorry, what?"

He types something on his phone, slow and even. "I need a companion for some social functions. Galas, dinners, fundraisers. You showed creative pressure management today. I value that more than polish." His gaze meets mine. "One month. Then we're even."

"You want me to go to events with you."

"One month. Then your debt is paid."

He tilts his head. "Unless you'd prefer I report the incident. I imagine the police would find it interesting. Columbia's dean of students as well."

He doesn't think I can do it. I see it underneath all that professional calm. He expects me to apologize and disappear back to Brooklyn where I belong.

The way out is right there. Pretend for a month. Skip expulsion. Avoid a scene. Let Bianca's story fall apart on its own.

The same bullheaded pride that put me in this car refuses to let me back down.

"One month," I say. "Then we're done."

A flicker moves behind his eyes. Gone before I can read it. He holds out his hand.

"Albert Rossi."

His hand is warm when I take it. Firm grip. A current moves up my arm before I can process it.

I give him my name.

He produces a business card from his wallet. Heavyweight stock, deliberately understated. His name and one word.

*CEO.*

Everything in my chest does a slow, full rotation.

"My assistant will send you the details. Saturday. Black tie." His gaze moves over my thrifted sweater, my wrecked jeans, the bare slope of my shoulder where the fabric slipped. "Do you own formal wear?"

Heat moves up my neck. "I'll manage."

The corner of his mouth shifts. Gone before it becomes anything. "I'll handle the wardrobe. Consider it part of the agreement."

Before I can answer, he nods toward the door.

I grab the handle and step out onto the sidewalk. The door closes behind me with a soft, final click.

Through the glass, he's back on his phone. As though none of this happened. As though I didn't upend both our afternoons in four minutes..

The G-Class pulls into traffic and disappears toward Park Avenue.

I look down at the card in my hand. His cologne clings to my jacket, faint and woodsy.

The screen lights up.

*Unknown number: First event Saturday 7 PM. Car will collect you at 6:30. Address on file. Dress will arrive Friday. M. Romano, Executive Assistant to Mr. Rossi.*

They have my address.

Of course they do. I'm sure men like Albert Rossi doesn't do anything halfway.

The screen lights up again. Different number.

*Walk away from Albert Rossi before he destroys you. This is your only warning.*

I stare at it.

When I look up, a black car idles across the street. Not Albert's. Different plates. The window tinted past seeing through.

By the time I blink, it's gone.