Dreamed You, Found You

Chapter 4 ## The Pattern

**POV:** Adrian

"Boss."

Marcus stood in the doorway of Adrian's office, tablet in hand, expression carefully neutral. In eight years, Marcus had learned that the best way to deal with Adrian Volkov was to deliver information without commentary. The commentary, if any, would come from Adrian.

"The Viktor deal is finalized. The Singapore office is reporting a twelve percent increase in Q3." Marcus paused, glancing at something on his tablet. "And—your physician called. He says you should follow up on the sleep study."

Adrian didn't look up from his screen. The numbers blurred—Q3 projections, Q4 forecasts, the endless arithmetic of empire. "Cancel it."

"Cancel the sleep study?"

"I said cancel it."

Marcus set the tablet down. He didn't move, didn't leave, didn't do any of the things Adrian's other employees would have done. Marcus was different. Marcus had earned his place through blood and loyalty and eight years of standing exactly where Adrian needed him to stand.

"Boss. With respect—you've been going to bed at nine o'clock for four nights straight. You're not sleeping more. You're just... leaving earlier." Marcus chose his words carefully. "The board is noticing."

"The board can notice whatever they want."

Adrian finally looked up. His gaze was flat, unreadable. The face he showed the world—the mask that had taken thirty years to perfect, the expression that had intimidated senators and CEOs and men who'd done far worse than he had.

"Is there anything else?"

Marcus hesitated. It was the kind of hesitation that meant he wanted to say something but wasn't sure if he should. Adrian recognized it. Marcus had the same hesitation before delivering news about Viktor—always a few seconds of weighing consequences, of calculating risk.

"Are *you* okay?"

The question was so un-Marcus that Adrian actually blinked. In eight years, Marcus had asked about his health exactly zero times. Adrian had cultivated an environment where such questions were unnecessary—where weakness was never shown and concern was never expected.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Marcus stopped himself. The words were already out. "You're—"

"Never mind." Adrian turned back to his screen. "Cancel the sleep study."

He heard Marcus turn to leave. The footsteps stopped at the door.

"Marcus."

Marcus turned back.

"If someone—" Adrian started, then stopped. He'd never asked Marcus for advice on anything personal. There was nothing personal to ask about. Until now. Until the dreams. Until her. "If someone were experiencing recurring dreams. The same dream. The same person. Night after night. What would that mean?"

The silence that followed was profound.

Marcus stared at him. His expression went through several phases—confusion, concern, amusement, and finally something that looked almost like tenderness. Marcus wasn't a man who did tender. Marcus was a man who did practical, efficient, loyal. But in this moment, Adrian saw all of those things dissolve into something else.

Something human.

Then, slowly: "Boss. Are you having dreams?"

"No."

"Because if you are, I know a guy who—"

"I said no."

"Right." Marcus nodded. "Of course. No dreams. Just the boss who's suddenly interested in dream interpretation at eight in the morning."

"Get out."

Marcus left, but not before Adrian caught the look on his face: concern. Confusion. And something else—amusement. Marcus had never looked at him with amusement before. Adrian didn't do amusing. Adrian did fear, respect, and the occasional grudging acknowledgment of competence.

But amusement?

Marcus was going to be insufferable about this.

Adrian turned back to his screen. The numbers still blurred. The Q3 projections meant nothing. The Q4 forecasts meant nothing. None of it meant anything, because his mind was elsewhere—in a rainforest, by a river, watching a woman who shouldn't exist.

*The same dream. The same person. Night after night.*

He opened his phone. The notes app still had the line he'd typed last night: *"River. Woman. Warm eyes. Closer."*

He stared at it.

Then, beneath it, he typed: *"Tonight, I'll try to touch her."*

He deleted it immediately.

Then typed it again.

And this time, he left it there.

---

That night, the dream came faster than ever.

Rainforest. River. And she was there—closer than before. Close enough that he could see the color of her skin (warm brown, like honey in sunlight), the length of her hair (long, dark, falling over her shoulders in waves), the shape of her face (still blurred, but the blur was thinning, like fog burning off in the morning sun).

She was at the edge of the water. Looking at him.

Not with fear. Not with the caution he was used to seeing in people's eyes when they looked at him. She looked at him like he was... ordinary. Like he was just a man standing in a river, instead of a man who'd built an empire on the bones of his enemies.

And then she spoke.

He couldn't hear the words. Not exactly. The dream didn't work that way. But he could feel their meaning, pressing against his consciousness like a hand against glass.

*Are you real?*

The question hit him like a physical force.

*Are you real?*

He wanted to answer. Wanted to tell her that he didn't know, that he was just as lost as she was, that he was a man who controlled everything except this—one thing he couldn't control, couldn't understand, couldn't walk away from.

But the dream didn't give him words. The dream only gave him feeling.

He reached toward her.

She reached back.

Their fingers almost—

The alarm.

Adrian woke at 3:33 AM, exactly, and for the first time in his life, he felt something he'd never felt before.

Grief.

Not the sharp, functional grief he'd felt when his father died—the grief that had been useful, channeled into action, weaponized into success. This was different. This was the grief of loss without object, of mourning without death.

He was grieving for a woman who didn't exist.

He lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling and tried to make sense of what was happening to him. Adrian Volkov did not do feelings. Adrian Volkov did not dream about women with warm eyes. Adrian Volkov did not wake up at 3:33 AM aching for something he couldn't name.

And yet.

Here he was.

Aching.

The penthouse was silent. The city hummed below, indifferent. Everything was exactly as it should be—cold, controlled, predictable.

Except him.

He reached for his phone. Typed one more line in the notes app, beneath all the others:

*"I'll find you."*

He didn't believe it. He didn't even know what it meant.

But he left it there anyway.

And then, for the first time in four nights, Adrian Volkov fell asleep smiling.

Because somewhere—in a dream, in a fantasy, in the broken machinery of his exhausted mind—

A woman was waiting.

And he was going to touch her.

No matter what it took.