Accidentally His: The Girl Who Trespassed

Adeline's POV --- I'm surely 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. Businessmen in tailored coats rushing with heavy briefcases, a delivery cyclist weaving through traffic almost running into tourists squinting at Google Maps on the corner. Me? I'm here with one goal. Borrow a little luxury for my i********:. 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. "It's vintage, darling," the trader said, and I was gullible enough to buy it. My brown boots have seen better years. Step into the right light, angle myself just 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. Or more like I didn't pay my electric bill earlier. In this sunlight my hazel eyes swirl close to gold. That'll do. I'm mid-pose, phone lifted, when I hear that laugh. Every muscle in my back locks cause I know that high pitch sound. Everyone at Columbia does. Bianca f*****g Moretti. Queen of Columbia. Engine noise rumbles through the street before her cherry-red convertible pulls alongside the G-Class. Her always shining blonde hair whips through the wind, looking like a hair commercial. Designer sunglasses perched perfectly on her head, and three friends draped across the leather seats as if placed there for a magazine shoot. I glue myself to the car. Please don't see me. "Adeline?" Her voice carries out. Nooo, it's my twin sister. My eyes almost roll to the back of my head. 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, eyes gleaming. "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, glancing at me. The rest giggle. "Is it yours?" Bianca smiles, head tilting to the side. She knows I take the train, knows about my part-time jobs and the way I count coins at the grocery store. My taxes get filed in a bracket that can't even spell Mercedes. No, it's not mine and you know. My mouth parts to spit that at her but it has its own plan. "It is." Why did I do that? Four years of Bianca's dominance pressed into my chest, 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. Just a call from her father and five months of my work vanished. My professor said it was a funding issue. Like I would believe that excuse. Her eyebrows arch. Her friends shift closer, eyes flicking between me and Bianca. A drama they never expected with pushover Adeline. "Really?" Her tone dares me. Tell her you're joking. Don't dig this hole any deeper. But I won't hand this moment to her. "You don't think I can afford it?" "Then prove it," Bianca says, her back leaning against her seat. Phones are out, her friends looking way too eager to watch me get embarrassed. "Hi lovelies, you won't imagine this, our darling Adeline bought a Mercedes car! We have to celebrate with her." Bianca smirks, turning her live stream towards me. Chills run down my spine. I can't back out now or else I'll be tagged a fraud for the rest of my years in Columbia. My feet take little steps to the driver's side door with confidence I don't feel. My hand wraps around the handle, the metal warm from the afternoon sun. My brain logs off when the handle clicks and the door swings open. There is someone inside. A man mid text stares up at me. Dark hair swept back with gel, gray eyes going wide, a suit tailored to all those muscles. He looks like someone who has never once in his life been interrupted, hands hovering over his phone, frozen there. We stare at each other. I'm so dead. I know I should pick up my boots and run until the city swallows my shame and destroyed reputation. But my legs remain stuck to the pavement because Bianca and her friends are pressed against her car, watching to catch what's going on at the driver's side, and there's only one thought left in me, commit or be humiliated forever. My body moves before my brain logs back on. I slide in. Expensive leather presses under my weight, solid resistance where I expected empty space. I land hard, a second too late to fix any of it. I am sitting on him, a total stranger. A lap that did not give consent. We both turn into statues. His arms lift wide, hands spreading open as if I'm a ticking time bomb. A muscle moves in his jaw, his breath catches, fanning across my chin. His eyes travel over my face. I glance past his shoulders. His cologne reaches me, cedar wrapped tight in the smoky embrace of oud wood, the kind that lingers in elevator air long after the man has gone. I pull the door shut, hands trembling. "Please," I whisper. "Wait for them to leave and I swear I'll explain everything." Outside, Bianca's convertible makes a show of its engine, phones lowering. Through the tinted glass I see her face one last time, the smirk faltering. The light flashes green. They drive off into the city. The air inside the car sits heavy. The air conditioner does nothing to cool the heat under my skin. 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." His fingers smooth over his jacket as whatever shock crossed his face already fades, replaced by a calm that closes my chest harder than the panic did. "At least," he says, the faintest trace of an Italian accent underneath it, refined down to something that comes with old money and boarding schools, "tell me why you're sitting in my car." The explanation tumbles out in a humiliated rush. "So there was this girl, she saw me posing near the car, asked if it was mine, and told me to prove it. I was foolish cause I said yes. 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 but please don't file a lawsuit." When I finally stop, the silence stretches long enough that I start calculating how fast I can reach the door handle. His eyes move to the window, back to me. His fingers come to rest flat against his knee while his gaze runs over my face like he's reading a document he didn't request. "So." He leans back. "You trespassed. Lied. And now you expect my cooperation." "I'm not expecting anything. I'll go and turn myself in to the police if you want." My hand finds the door handle. He nods. "Very well." I stop and turn back. His expression giving no information, only a small spark in his eyes. "You'll accompany me to several events over the next month, consider it restitution." "Sorry, what?" I think my ears need checking. He types on his phone. "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? Sir this isn't a Chinese series..." he cuts me off. "One month, and I'll let this slide." He tilts his head. "Unless you'd prefer I report the incident. I imagine the police would find it interesting." I gulp, this is basically blackmail but I got myself into the mess and I can't afford to let it reach Columbia's Dean. A light bulb flips on over my head. The way out is right there. Pretend for a month, skip expulsion, avoid a scene and 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. How hard could this go? "One month," I lift my chin. "Then we're done." He holds out his hand. "Albert Rossi." I've heard the name somewhere, I can't remember where. His hand is warm when I take it, his grip firm, a current moves up my arm. I pull my fingers away. "Adeline Carter." He produces a business card from his wallet, heavyweight stock, his name and one word underneath it. CEO. My chest does a slow, full rotation. "My assistant will send you the details. First event on saturday." 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. "What do you think I own? Don't worry, I'll manage." His mouth almost moves, and he flattens it. "I'll handle the wardrobe. Part of the agreement." "Um, since that's part of the agreement. Would I get you know paid as well?" The smile fully forms on his face. "No." Before I can retort, he nods toward the door. I grab the handle and step out onto the sidewalk, the door closing behind me with a final click. The tinted glass completely blocking the interior. The engine purrs as the G-Class pulls into traffic and drifts toward Park Avenue. I look down at the card in my hand, his cologne still clinging to my sweater. My screen lights up, I pull it out of my pocket. Unknown number: Gala event Saturday 7 PM. Car will collect you at 6:30. Address on file. Dress will arrive Friday. From M. Romano, Executive Assistant to Mr. Rossi. They have my address just like that. Of course they do. I'm sure men like Albert Rossi don't do anything halfway but he's too greedy to at least pay for my presence. The screen lights up again. Different number. Walk away from Albert Rossi before he destroys you. This is your only warning. I blink at it. When I look up, a black car idles across the street, the window tinted past seeing through. By the time I blink, it's gone.