Eye for Adrian

EYES FOR ADRIAN - Chapter Two – The Wedding & The First Weeks

The morning of my wedding began in silence.

No birdsong, no breeze against my window, no laughter from the hallway. The house felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something inevitable and unpleasant to arrive.

In the mirror, I hardly recognized the woman staring back. The makeup artist had painted a perfect stranger with flawless skin, dark-lined eyes, soft lips the color of rose petals. My hair was pulled into an elegant knot that felt like it was pulling at my skull. The dress clung to me as if it knew it was a prison.

The ceremony was held in one of the city’s grandest hotels, a place where the floors were so polished I could see the reflection of the chandeliers above. Guests arrived in silk, in gold, in the quiet arrogance of the wealthy. They smiled politely when they saw me, as if I were a business investment rather than a bride.

I saw Adrian Cole for the first time as I walked down the aisle.

He stood tall, his posture a wall of composure. His suit was black, perfectly tailored, the white of his shirt almost luminous beneath the lights. His eyes hidden behind dark glasses gave nothing away, but there was a slight tilt to his head, as if he was listening for me, measuring my steps in sound.

He did not smile.

Neither did I.

The vows were short. My father’s presence loomed behind me, his approval a silent threat pressing between my shoulder blades. Adrian’s voice was deep and even when he repeated the words, his tone stripped of emotion, yet threaded with something I couldn’t quite place, not indifference, not cruelty, but control.

When the officiant declared us husband and wife, Adrian reached for my hand. His grip was firm, almost unyielding, and I realized at that moment that his blindness did not make him any less aware of me. He held my hand as if he had claimed it, not as if he was offering his own.

The reception blurred into a haze of champagne, laughter that wasn’t mine, and the rustle of expensive fabrics brushing past me. Adrian spoke little, leaning close only when necessary to ask me to describe the expression of a guest, to confirm if a certain man looked nervous when discussing a business proposal. I answered without thinking, realizing this was already part of my new role: to be his eyes in a room full of hidden agendas.

That night, we drove to his mansion. The car was silent except for the low hum of the engine. I kept glancing at him, searching for a hint of warmth, but his face remained unreadable.

The mansion was an ocean of marble and glass, its ceilings high enough to swallow echoes. The staff moved like shadows, speaking in low voices. Mrs. Carver, the housekeeper, greeted me with a measured smile, the kind that said she would be watching.

Adrian led me to a room at the far end of the west wing. “This will be yours,” he said, his tone polite but distant. Not ours. Yours.

He didn’t enter with me. He simply turned and walked away, the sound of his cane tapping softly against the floor, fading into the emptiness of the house.

That night, I lay in a bed big enough for two but meant for one, staring into the darkness. The walls felt too far away, the silence too loud. Somewhere down the hall, my husband slept alone.

And I realized the wedding was not the end of my freedom.

It was the beginning of my service.