THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

CHAPTER 10: JEALOUSY

POV : Adrian

I'm not a jealous person.

I don't get possessive over people or things. I'm rational, controlled, above base emotions like jealousy.

At least, that's what I tell myself right up until I see Isla walking into Le Bernardin with another man.

I'm supposed to be at a business dinner three blocks away—meeting with the Hong Kong investors Marcus has been courting for months. It's important. Critical, even. The kind of meeting I never miss.

But I left early, claiming a migraine, because all I could think about was getting home to Isla. To the conversation we promised to have. To figuring out what the hell we're doing.

I'm walking past Le Bernardin when I see them through the window.

Isla, in a dress I've never seen before—dark red, fitted, stunning. Her hair is down in soft waves, and she's laughing at something the man across from her is saying. He's young, handsome in that boyish way some women find appealing, leaning forward like everything she says is fascinating.

She told me she had a client meeting tonight.

This doesn't look like a client meeting.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm pushing through the doors, past the maître d' who tries to stop me, heading straight for their table.

"Adrian?" Isla looks up, surprised and confused. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." I barely glance at her companion. "I thought you had a client meeting."

"I do. This is—"

"Ryan Martinez," the man interrupts, extending his hand with an easy smile. "Isla's told me so much about you."

I don't take his hand. "Has she."

"Adrian," Isla says, and there's a warning in her voice. "Ryan is a potential client. He needs branding for his new startup."

"At Le Bernardin. At eight p.m. On a Wednesday."

"It's where he suggested."

"How convenient."

Ryan's smile falters. "I'm sorry, is there a problem?"

"That depends. Are you aware that Isla is engaged?"

"Adrian!" Isla stands abruptly, her napkin falling to the floor. "Can I talk to you? Outside?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, just grabs her clutch and heads for the door. I follow, my pulse pounding with something I refuse to name as jealousy but absolutely is.

We end up on the sidewalk, the spring evening suddenly feeling too warm.

"What the hell was that?" Isla demands.

"What was what?"

"That! Bursting in, acting like—like you have some claim on me."

"I do have a claim on you. You're my fiancée."

"Fake fiancée. This is a business arrangement, remember? You don't get to show up at my meetings and act possessive."

"That wasn't a meeting. That was a date."

"It was not a date!"

"He's into you, Isla. Clearly. And you're having dinner with him at one of the most romantic restaurants in Manhattan."

"He chose the restaurant! And so what if he's interested? I'm allowed to have clients. I'm allowed to have a career."

"I'm not saying you're not—"

"That's exactly what you're saying. You're saying I can't have a professional dinner with a male client without you assuming something inappropriate is happening."

She's right. I know she's right. But the rational part of my brain has been completely overridden by the image of her laughing with someone else, looking happy with someone who isn't me.

"I don't like seeing you with him," I admit.

"Too bad. You don't get to control who I meet with."

"I'm not trying to control you—"

"Aren't you? Because that's exactly what this is. Control. Just like everything else with you. You control your schedule, your emotions, your environment, and now you're trying to control me."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? Adrian, we kissed once. We had one honest conversation. That doesn't give you ownership of my time or my choices."

"I'm not claiming ownership—"

"Then what are you doing? What is this?" She gestures between us. "Because I thought we were figuring things out. I thought maybe we were becoming something real. But if you're going to show up at my meetings and act like some jealous—"

"I am jealous!" The words burst out of me, loud enough that a couple walking past glances over. "Okay? I'm jealous. I saw you with him, looking happy, laughing, and I couldn't stand it. I wanted to be the one making you laugh. I wanted to be the one you were having dinner with. Is that what you want to hear?"

She stares at me, surprised into silence.

"I know I don't have the right," I continue, quieter now. "I know we haven't defined this thing between us. I know I have no claim on you beyond a contract we signed and a ring on your finger. But seeing you with someone else made me feel things I don't know how to process."

"What things?"

"Possessive things. Irrational things. Things that make me want to go back in there and tell that guy to find another graphic designer because you're mine."

"I'm not yours, Adrian."

The words hit like a punch to the chest.

"I know that," I say stiffly. "I apologize for interrupting your meeting. It won't happen again."

I turn to leave, but her hand catches my arm.

"Wait. That came out wrong." She takes a breath. "I'm not yours because you haven't asked me to be. We kissed, we admitted we have feelings, and then we went right back to pretending this is all transactional. You can't have it both ways. You can't treat this like a business arrangement when it's convenient and get jealous when I act single."

"You're right."

"I know I'm right. So what are we doing? Really. Because I need to know. Is this real or is it fake or is it some confusing middle ground where we kiss sometimes but maintain separate lives?"

I look at her—standing on the sidewalk in her red dress, angry and beautiful and demanding honesty I'm not sure I know how to give.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit. "Relationships. Vulnerability. Any of it. My parents' marriage is a nightmare. My longest relationship lasted six months before she realized I was emotionally unavailable and left. I have no template for healthy intimacy."

"So we figure it out together."

"What if I mess it up?"

"What if you don't?"

"Isla—"

"Look, I don't know how to do this either. My parents died when I was eight. I was raised by my grandmother who, bless her, was amazing but not exactly a model of romantic relationships. My dating history is a series of guys who either wanted to fix me or couldn't handle that I didn't need fixing. So we're both disasters. At least we're disasters together."

Despite everything, I almost smile. "Disasters together."

"Yeah. It's very romantic when you think about it."

"It's really not."

"Okay, fine, it's not. But it's honest. And I think that's worth more than some perfect, polished version of a relationship where we both pretend to have our s**t together."

A taxi honks nearby. Somewhere, the city continues its chaotic symphony. And I stand on this sidewalk with Isla, having possibly the most important conversation of my life.

"I want this to be real," I say finally. "Not fake, not pretend. I want to date you, court you, whatever the proper term is. I want to take you to dinner and not have it be for appearances. I want to kiss you without wondering if it's allowed by our contract. I want—" I stop, swallow hard. "I want you. Actually want you. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense."

"But I'm going to be terrible at it. I'm going to work too much and forget to communicate and probably get irrationally jealous more times than I should."

"And I'm going to be independent to a fault and push you away when I'm scared and probably take on clients who are clearly into me because I'm oblivious about that stuff."

"Was he into you?"

"Extremely. I genuinely didn't notice until you showed up."

Some of the tension in my chest eases. "I'm sorry I interrupted. And I'm sorry I acted possessive. You're right—I don't get to control who you meet with."

"But you can tell me when something bothers you. Like an adult. With words."

"Words. Right. I'll try to remember those."

She steps closer, and her hand finds mine. "So we're doing this? For real?"

"For real."

"The contract—"

"f**k the contract. We'll write a new one. Or better yet, no contract at all. Just two people trying to figure out if what they feel is sustainable long-term."

"That's the most Adrian Blackwell way to describe a relationship I've ever heard."

"I'm working on my romantic vocabulary."

"Work faster."

And then she's kissing me, right there on the sidewalk, in front of Le Bernardin and passing strangers and probably someone with a camera phone who will sell it to Page Six.

I don't care.

I kiss her back, my hands in her hair, pulling her closer, trying to communicate everything I don't have words for yet.

When we break apart, she's smiling. "You should probably let me go back in there and finish my meeting. You know, like a professional."

"Do you have to?"

"Yes. Because Ryan is a legitimate client with a legitimate startup and I'm not going to let your jealousy cost me a job."

"I wasn't jealous."

"You were incredibly jealous."

"Fine. I was moderately jealous."

"Extremely jealous. But it was kind of hot, so I'll allow it this once."

"This once?"

"Okay, maybe twice. But that's my limit. After that, you need to work on your trust issues."

"Deal."

She starts to walk back inside, then pauses. "Adrian? For the record? I wasn't laughing with him because I was interested. I was laughing because he said something about how his app is going to 'disrupt the disruption' and it was absurd."

"What does that even mean?"

"Exactly. It's startup nonsense. You have nothing to worry about."

"I wasn't worried."

"Liar."

She disappears back into the restaurant, and I'm left standing on the sidewalk, feeling like I just ran a marathon.

My phone buzzes. Marcus.

Marcus: Where did you go? The investors are asking for you.

Me: Had to take care of something.

Marcus: Something or someone?

Me: Mind your business.

Marcus: That's a someone. Is everything okay?

I look at the restaurant window, at Isla sitting back down with her client, clearly wrapping up the meeting now. She glances out, catches my eye, and waves with a small smile.

Me: Yeah. Everything's okay. Better than okay, actually.

Marcus: Are you going to elaborate?

Me: No.

Marcus: You're impossible.

Me: That's what Isla says.

Marcus: And yet she's still there.

Marcus: That's how you know it's real.

He's right.

Despite my jealousy and control issues and emotional unavailability, Isla is still here. Still willing to try. Still believing we can figure this out together.

I wait outside the restaurant like a complete i***t until her meeting is done. When she emerges twenty minutes later, she finds me leaning against a building, hands in my pockets.

"You waited," she says.

"I wanted to take you home. If that's okay."

"Very okay." She takes my offered arm. "Did you really leave your investor dinner early for me?"

"Yes."

"Marcus is going to kill you."

"Worth it."

We walk toward where my driver is waiting, and Isla leans into me slightly, her head on my shoulder.

"You know what this means, right?" she says.

"What?"

"You're officially my boyfriend now. Not my fake fiancé. My actual boyfriend who happens to also be my fake fiancé that's becoming a real fiancé. It's very confusing."

"Incredibly confusing."

"But good?"

"Very good."

We slide into the car, and this time, there's no careful distance between us. She curls into my side, my arm around her shoulders, and it feels right in a way nothing has in years.

"Adrian?" she murmurs.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for being jealous. Even though it was irrational and possessive and kind of caveman-ish."

"You're welcome?"

"It made me feel wanted. Like you actually care about this being real."

"I do care. More than I know how to say."

"Then show me."

So I do.

I kiss her temple, her cheek, finally her lips, trying to communicate through actions what I'm still learning to say with words.

And for the first time in my carefully controlled life, I let myself fall without worrying about the landing.