Accidentally His: The Girl Who Trespassed

Adeline's POV

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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 glowing against the gray Manhattan sidewalk, screaming money I'll never have.

Just another Friday on the Upper East Side. The street runs with its usual chaos. Businessmen rushing with heavy briefcases, a delivery cyclist almost committing vehicular manslaughter against a tourist squinting at Google Maps.

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

My feed is becoming a graveyard, my grand plan to escape poverty by turning into a content creator overnight is flopping. 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.

Today's ensemble is high fashion at its finest. An oversized cream sweater hanging off my shoulders, twelve dollars at a Brooklyn thrift store. Jeans with a knee hole I didn't pay extra for. "It's vintage, darling," the trader said. I was gullible enough to buy it. My brown boots have seen better years.

Step into the right light, angle 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. Messy waves because I skipped the blow dryer. Or more like I didn't pay my electric bill on time. In this sunlight my hazel eyes swirl close to gold.

That'll do. The internet will believe it.

I'm mid-pose, phone lifted, when I hear that laugh. Every muscle in my back locks cause I know that high-pitched sound. Everyone at Columbia does.

Bianca Fucking Moretti. Queen of the trust-fund babies.

Engine noise rumbles through the street before her cherry-red convertible pulls alongside the G-Class. Her blindingly blonde hair whips through the wind like a walking shampoo 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. "Is that you?"

Nooo, it's my twin sister, Chadeline. 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 never sit inside.

Bianca slides her sunglasses down her nose, eyes gleaming. "Nice car."

Her friends shift forward, familiar faces from campus, the ones who spend more on coffee than I spend on groceries. One whispers, glancing at my boots. 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 Trader Joe's checkout line. My taxes get filed in a bracket that can't even spell Mercedes.

'No, it's not mine, you demonic barbie.' My mouth parts to say exactly that but it has its own plan.

"It is."

Why did I say that?

Four years of Bianca's dominance pressed into my chest at once, years of never measuring up. Showing up with Tupperware leftovers while everyone else ordered $40 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 called it a funding issue, like I was stupid to buy that.

I want to win against her, just once. Even if it's a massive, legally binding lie.

"Really?" Her tone dares me.

'Tell her you're joking. Don't dig this hole.' But I won't hand this moment to her.

"You don't think I can afford it?"

"Then prove it," Bianca says, leaning back against her seat.

Phones are out, her friends look way too eager to watch my public execution. They're going to talk about this until graduation.

"Hi lovies!" Bianca goes live, turning her camera toward me. "Our darling Adeline bought a G-Wagon! We absolutely have to celebrate with her."

Chills straight down my spine. I am officially past the point of no return. Back out now and I'm a pathetic fraud for the rest of my years at Columbia.

My feet take agonizing steps toward the driver's side door. My hand wraps around the handle, the metal warm from the sun. I've watched enough viral skits to know the play. Pretend I forgot my keys in a café nearby, act annoyed, walk away with my dignity intact.

My brain logs off when the handle clicks and the door swings open under my hand.

My heartbeat gets so loud everything else disappears.

There is someone inside!

A man mid text stares up at me. Dark hair swept back, gray eyes going wide, a suit tailored so perfectly it should be illegal. He looks like someone who has never once in his life been interrupted, hands still hovering over his phone, frozen there.

We stare at each other.

I am so dead. I should pick up my thrifted boots and run until the city swallows my shame but Bianca and her entourage are practically standing in the convertible to see what's happening, and there is only one thought left. Commit or be humiliated forever.

My body moves before my brain logs back on.

I slide in.

Everything happens in slow motion, exactly how the opening scene of the cheesy Chinese dramas I binge watch when I'm depressed starts. 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 warm air across my chin as his eyes travel over my face.

His cologne reaches me, cedar wrapped 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 burning 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 a carjacker...I'm so sorry."

He straightens one sleeve, whatever shock crossed his face already faded, 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 only comes with old money and boarding schools, "tell me why you're sitting in my car."

The explanation tumbles out.

"So there was this girl, she saw me posing near the car, asked if it was mine, told me to prove it. I panicked, the door opened, I thought it was empty, I sat down, and I'm really 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.

He glances toward the street where Bianca disappeared, then back at me. His fingers rest flat against his knee while his gaze runs the length of 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 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 gives nothing away, except a spark in his eyes. "You'll accompany me to several events over the next month, consider it restitution."

"Sorry, what?"

"I need a companion for social functions. Galas, dinners, fundraisers. You improvise well under pressure." 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.

"Agree, and I'll let this slide. Unless you'd prefer I report the incident." He tilts his head. "I imagine the police would find the security footage quite entertaining."

I gulp, this is basically blackmailing but I got myself into this and I can't let a criminal record reach Columbia's Dean.

Hold on. 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. 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 through the adrenaline.

His hand is warm when I take it, his grip firm. That's all. I still pull mine away too fast.

"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 the details. First event Saturday." His gaze moves over my thrifted sweater, my wrecked jeans, the bare slope of my shoulder where the fabric slipped. "Do you own formalwear?"

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 we're organizing the terms." I clear my throat. "Do I get paid as well? Like an appearance fee?"

A full, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face.

"No."

Before I can retort he nods toward the door. I grab the handle and step out, the door closing behind me with a final click. 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.

'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. Men like Albert Rossi don't do anything halfway, though apparently too greedy to pay me for my premium presence.

The screen lights up again. Different number entirely.

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

My smile disappears. When I look up, a sleek black car idles across the street, its windows tinted far past the point of seeing through.

By the time I blink, it's gone.