THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

CHAPTER 4: MOVING IN

POV : Adrian

I've lived alone for five years.

I prefer it that way. No one to answer to, no one disrupting my routines, no one leaving dishes in the sink or moving my things or existing in my carefully controlled space.

So why, exactly, did I think it was a good idea to invite Isla Sterling to move into my penthouse?

I stand in the guest bedroom—now Isla's room—and survey the space with a critical eye. King-size bed with high-thread-count sheets. En-suite bathroom with a soaking tub. Walk-in closet that's currently empty but won't be for long, given the wardrobe I've arranged to have delivered. Windows overlooking Central Park.

It's impersonal. Sterile. Like a hotel room.

Which makes sense, given I designed it.

"Mr. Blackwell?" My assistant, Grace, appears in the doorway with her ever-present tablet. "The moving company will be here with Ms. Sterling's belongings in twenty minutes. And the wardrobe consultant arrives at two."

"Thank you, Grace."

"Also, your mother called. Three times."

Of course she did.

"I'll call her back."

"She said it was urgent."

"Everything is urgent to my mother."

Grace doesn't quite hide her smile. She's worked for me for three years and has developed an unfortunate immunity to my intimidation tactics.

"Will that be all, Mr. Blackwell?"

"Yes. Take the rest of the day off once Ms. Sterling is settled."

She nods and disappears, leaving me alone in the too-quiet apartment. I check my watch. Isla said she'd arrive around noon. It's 11:47.

I shouldn't be nervous.

This is a business arrangement. She's moving in because it's practical, because we need to sell the fiction of our engagement, because separate residences would raise questions we don't want to answer.

It's logical.

It's necessary.

It's making my chest tight in a way I don't appreciate.

My phone buzzes. Marcus.

Marcus: Heard Isla's moving in today. Want company for moral support?

Me: No.

Marcus: That's what I thought. Good luck, man. You're going to need it.

I ignore him and move to the living room, trying to see the space through Isla's eyes. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Minimalist furniture—all glass and steel and clean lines. Original artwork on the walls, carefully curated by a designer I hired and never met. A kitchen I barely use, a dining table that seats twelve but has never hosted a meal.

Sophie always said this place felt like a museum.

"Do you actually live here, Adrian? Or do you just exist between meetings?"

"I live here."

"Do you? I don't see any proof. No photos, no mess, no life. It's like a showroom."

"I prefer order."

"You prefer isolation."

She wasn't wrong.

The elevator dings, and my pulse kicks up. But it's just the moving company—three guys with dollies and boxes, professional and efficient. Grace directs them to Isla's room, and I watch them unload, cataloging her belongings.

There isn't much.

A few boxes of clothes. Some books. A worn laptop bag. A single box labeled "kitchen stuff" in messy handwriting. Another marked "important—fragile" with multiple pieces of tape securing it.

That's it. That's everything she owns.

The realization sits uncomfortably in my chest.

Twenty minutes later, the elevator dings again, and this time it's her.

Isla steps into my apartment—our apartment, I suppose, at least temporarily—wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, her hair in a messy bun, carrying a duffel bag and looking around with wide eyes.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi."

We stand there awkwardly, her in the entryway, me by the windows, an ocean of expensive flooring between us.

"This is..." She trails off, still staring. "Wow."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just—it's very you. Very clean. Very... controlled."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't really meant as one."

The movers brush past her with another box, and she steps further inside, setting down her bag. She's wearing the same shoes she wore that day in the coffee shop—scuffed Converse that have seen better days. They look wrong against my polished marble floors.

Everything about her looks wrong here.

And yet—

"Your room is this way," I say, leading her down the hall. "The movers are just finishing up."

She follows, quiet, taking everything in. I show her the bedroom, the bathroom, the closet. She nods at appropriate moments but doesn't say much.

"There's a wardrobe consultant coming at two," I tell her. "We need to get you appropriate clothing for—"

"Appropriate clothing?" Her voice goes sharp. "What's wrong with my clothing?"

"Nothing. But you'll be attending events with me. Galas, dinners, business functions. You'll need—"

"A costume. Right. For the performance."

"Isla—"

"It's fine." She cuts me off, moving to one of her boxes. "I knew what I was signing up for. Play dress-up, smile pretty, pretend to be someone I'm not."

"That's not what I—"

"Isn't it?"

We stare at each other across the pristine bedroom, tension crackling.

"I'm trying to make this easier for you," I say finally.

"By telling me my clothes aren't good enough?"

"By ensuring you have what you need to be comfortable in situations you're not used to."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Adrian. Really."

The sarcasm is clear, and it irritates me more than it should.

"If you'd prefer to attend a black-tie gala in jeans and a sweater, be my guest. I'm sure the press will love it."

She flinches slightly, and I immediately regret the words.

"I'll leave you to settle in," I say, heading for the door. "The kitchen is fully stocked. Help yourself to anything. If you need me, I'll be in my office."

"Adrian, wait."

I pause in the doorway but don't turn around.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "You're right. I'm not used to this world. Any of it. And I'm taking my discomfort out on you, which isn't fair."

I turn back. She's sitting on the edge of the bed now, looking small and lost in this big, impersonal room.

"I'm nervous," she admits. "About living here. About pulling this off. About..." She waves vaguely at the space around us. "All of it."

Something in my chest loosens.

"I'm nervous too," I hear myself say.

Her eyes snap to mine, surprised. "You are?"

"I haven't lived with anyone since Harvard. I'm not sure I remember how."

"Well, that makes two of us."

A moment of understanding passes between us—acknowledgment that we're both out of our depth here, both trying to navigate something neither of us planned for.

"The wardrobe consultant isn't about changing you," I say carefully. "It's about giving you armor. Tools. This world can be cruel, especially to outsiders. I'm trying to make it easier."

She considers this, then nods. "Okay. I can accept that."

"And for what it's worth—your clothes are fine. I just want you to feel confident."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

We're being so painfully polite, so careful with each other, like we're walking on glass.

"I should let you unpack," I say.

"Adrian?" She stops me again. "Where's Sophie's room?"

The question catches me off-guard. "What?"

"Sophie's room. You said she stayed here sometimes. Where—"

"It's not here."

"Oh." She looks confused. "I thought—"

"She stayed at my parents' estate when she was in town. Not here."

"Why not?"

Because she called this place a mausoleum. Because she said it made her sad to see how I lived. Because the one time she stayed over, she spent the whole night rearranging my furniture and opening curtains and trying to make the space feel "lived-in," and I asked her not to come back.

The last conversation we had before the accident was her telling me I was going to die alone in my "ice castle."

"We had different styles," I say instead. "It was easier if she stayed elsewhere."

Isla watches me with those too-perceptive eyes, seeing more than I want her to.

"That must be hard," she says softly. "Not having her things here. Reminders."

"I don't need reminders. I remember perfectly well."

"That's not the same thing."

"It's enough."

I leave before she can push further, retreating to my office and closing the door with more force than necessary.

My office is the only room in this apartment that feels like mine—dark wood, leather chairs, walls lined with books I've actually read. I sink into my chair and pull up my emails, trying to focus on work.

But I can hear her moving around down the hall. Boxes being opened. Drawers sliding. The soft sound of her humming something off-key.

She's been here less than an hour, and already the apartment feels different.

Occupied. Lived-in.

Less mine.

My phone buzzes. My mother, of course.

Mother: We need to talk about your engagement. Dinner tonight. 7 pm. No excuses.

I consider ignoring it, but that will only make things worse.

Me: Isla and I will be there.

Mother: Just you. This is family business.

Me: Isla is family now. We come together or not at all.

A long pause. Then:

Mother: Fine. 7 pm. Don't be late. And Adrian? Do try to prepare your fiancée for what she's getting into. The Blackwell family isn't for the faint of heart.

I set down my phone and lean back in my chair, closing my eyes.

What have I done?

I've brought Isla into my world, my space, my life. A woman who makes me feel things I've trained myself not to feel. Who sees through my carefully constructed walls with alarming ease. Who hums off-key while unpacking and wears scuffed Converse and calls me out on my bullshit.

A woman I've spent seven years keeping at a distance for very good reasons.

And now she's down the hall, in my home, wearing my ring, preparing to play my wife.

For a year.

This is going to be the longest year of my life.

At 1:30, I hear voices in the living room. The wardrobe consultant must have arrived. I consider staying in my office, but something—concern? curiosity?—makes me check on them.

I find Isla standing in the middle of my living room, surrounded by clothing racks and garment bags, looking overwhelmed. The consultant—a severe woman named Margot who I've used before—is holding up dress after dress, talking rapidly about "season-appropriate colors" and "event-specific silhouettes."

Isla catches my eye, and her expression is pure panic.

"Margot," I interrupt. "Could you give us a moment?"

"Of course, Mr. Blackwell." She glides away with her assistants, leaving us alone among the racks of expensive clothing.

"This is insane," Isla hisses. "She wants to spend forty thousand dollars on clothes. Forty thousand. I could live for a year on that."

"Consider it an investment."

"In what? Making me into a Blackwell wife?"

"In making you comfortable."

She looks at the racks, at the dresses and shoes and accessories, and I can see her trying to reconcile this with her values, her sense of self.

"I don't need all this," she says quietly. "I just need a few good pieces. Something I can mix and match."

"Tell Margot that. She works for you, not me."

"Really?"

"Really. This is your wardrobe, Isla. Choose what makes you comfortable."

She studies me for a moment, suspicious. "Why are you being nice?"

"I'm always nice."

"You're always something, but nice isn't the word I'd use."

Despite everything, I smile. "Fair enough."

She returns to Margot, and I watch as she takes control of the situation, eliminating ninety percent of what's been suggested, choosing pieces that suit her style while meeting the requirements of my world. Practical, elegant, still distinctly her.

It's the first time since she arrived that she's seemed comfortable.

My phone rings. Marcus.

"I need you to look at the Hong Kong contracts," he says without preamble. "There's a clause that concerns me."

"Send them over. I'll review tonight."

"How's domestic life?"

"Fine."

"That doesn't sound fine. That sounds like you're standing in your kitchen drinking scotch alone."

"It's 2 pm."

"Your point?"

"Marcus—"

"Just checking on you, man. This is a big adjustment. You sure you're ready for this?"

I watch Isla laugh at something Margot's assistant said, her whole face lighting up, and feel that uncomfortable tightness in my chest again.

"No," I admit. "I'm not sure at all."

"Well, you're in it now. Might as well figure it out."

After he hangs up, I stay in the kitchen, watching Isla try on jackets and debate the merits of different heel heights, and I realize something unsettling.

I like having her here.

I like the sound of her voice in my apartment. The way she's already making the space feel less empty. The way she argues with Margot about practicality versus fashion, standing her ground, refusing to be steamrolled.

I like her.

I've always liked her, from that first Thanksgiving when Sophie brought her home and she made me laugh at dinner—actually laugh, something I rarely did. When she challenged me on hotel labor practices and didn't back down when I got defensive. When she saw through the CEO persona to the person underneath.

I've spent seven years keeping her at arm's length precisely because I liked her.

Because she was Sophie's friend. Because she was too young. Because I was too damaged. Because every relationship I'd ever attempted ended in disappointment and distance.

Because liking someone meant being vulnerable, and vulnerability meant pain.

And now she's here, in my space, wearing my ring, and I'm supposed to spend a year pretending to be in love with her while keeping my actual feelings locked away.

This is a disaster.

The elevator dings, and Grace appears with lunch—Thai food from Isla's favorite restaurant in Brooklyn. I'd asked her to order it this morning, a small gesture to make Isla feel welcome.

"Lunch is here," I call out.

Isla emerges from the clothing mountain, eyes lighting up when she sees the take-out bags.

"Is that Charm Thai?"

"You mentioned it was your favorite."

"You remembered that?"

I shrug, uncomfortable with her surprise. "I pay attention."

Something shifts in her expression—gratitude, maybe, or something softer I can't quite name.

"Thank you, Adrian. Really."

"It's just lunch."

"No," she says quietly. "It's not."

We eat on the couch—her idea, not mine—spreading containers across my coffee table in a way that would normally make me twitchy. She tells me about the wardrobe choices she's made, asks about tonight's dinner with my parents, worries that she's not ready.

"You'll be fine," I assure her.

"Your mother hates me."

"My mother hates everyone. Don't take it personally."

"That's not reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be reassuring. It was meant to be honest."

She laughs, and the sound fills my apartment in a way nothing has in years.

And I think: I'm in trouble.

Because this was supposed to be simple. Transactional. A mutually beneficial arrangement with clear boundaries and expectations.

But sitting here with Isla, eating Thai food on my couch, listening to her laugh—

It doesn't feel simple at all.

It feels like coming home.