THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

CHAPTER 8: AFTER THE STORM

POV : Adrian

I've ruined everything.

I stand in my entryway long after Isla's door closes, still wearing my suit jacket, keys in hand, and wonder how I managed to make such a spectacular mess of a simple arrangement.

I love her.

What the hell was I thinking?

I wasn't thinking. That's the problem. I was feeling—angry at my mother, protective of Isla, desperate to make a point—and the words came out before I could stop them.

And then, when she asked if I meant it, I couldn't lie.

But I couldn't tell the truth either.

Because the truth is complicated and terrifying and would destroy what little equilibrium we've managed to establish.

I pour myself a scotch—Macallan 25, because tonight requires the good stuff—and stand at the windows overlooking the city. Somewhere out there, people are living normal lives with normal problems. They're not fake-engaged to women they might actually be falling for. They're not standing in their apartments wondering how to fix something they're not even sure is broken.

My phone buzzes. Marcus, of course.

Marcus: How was dinner?

Me: Disastrous.

Marcus: Define disastrous.

Me: I told my mother I love Isla.

Marcus: ...

Marcus: Do you?

I stare at that message for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Me: I don't know.

Marcus: That's not a no.

Marcus: Adrian. Be careful. You're in dangerous territory here.

Me: I'm aware.

Marcus: Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're falling for your fake fiancée and lying to yourself about it.

Me: That's not what's happening.

Marcus: Isn't it? You cook breakfast together. You take lunch breaks you've never taken before. You come home early. You SMILE at your phone when she texts. Do you think I don't notice these things?

Me: Your point?

Marcus: My point is that this arrangement was supposed to be transactional. And somewhere along the way, it stopped being fake for you. Maybe it was never fake. Maybe that's why you offered to marry her in the first place.

I don't respond because I don't have an answer.

Marcus: Talk to her. Be honest. Figure out what this actually is before someone gets hurt.

Me: It's too late for that.

Marcus: What do you mean?

But I don't respond. I silence my phone and down the rest of my scotch, then pour another.

At midnight, I'm still awake, still at the windows, still trying to sort through the chaos in my head.

That's when I hear her door open.

Isla emerges in pajamas—those same worn yoga pants and Sophie's old Columbia t-shirt—hair in a messy bun, eyes red like she's been crying.

My chest tightens.

"Can't sleep?" I ask.

She startles, not expecting to find me still up. "Yeah. You?"

"Same."

We stand there in the semi-darkness, the city lights casting shadows across her face. She looks small, vulnerable, nothing like the fierce woman who stood up to my mother hours ago.

"I'm sorry," I say finally. "For tonight. For what I said. For putting you in that position."

"Which part are you apologizing for?"

"All of it. Any of it. Take your pick."

She moves closer, leaning against the window beside me, and I catch the scent of her shampoo—something citrus and clean.

"Your mother is a piece of work," she says.

"That's putting it mildly."

"Your dad surprised me though. At the end."

"He surprised me too." I take a sip of scotch. "I don't think he's said that many words to me in a year. And certainly never anything that... honest."

"He misses Sophie."

"We all do."

"Yeah." Her voice goes soft. "We do."

We're quiet for a moment, both lost in thoughts of the person who connected us and the hole she left behind.

"Can I ask you something?" Isla says.

"Always."

"Did you mean it? When you said you loved me?"

There it is. The question I've been dreading.

I could lie. Should lie. It would be easier, cleaner, safer.

But I'm tired of lying.

"I meant it in the moment," I say carefully. "Whether that was real or reactive or somewhere in between, I genuinely don't know. I was angry, and you were there, and the words came out. But I can't tell you if they were true."

"That's frustrating."

"For both of us."

She turns to face me fully, and in the dim light, her eyes are luminous. "Do you want them to be true?"

The question catches me off-guard.

"What?"

"Do you want to love me? Is that something you'd want, if you could sort through whatever emotional constipation is happening in your brain right now?"

Despite everything, I almost laugh. "Emotional constipation?"

"Sophie's term. I'm just borrowing it."

"Of course it was."

"You're deflecting."

"I'm processing."

"Process faster."

"Isla—"

"Adrian." She steps closer, and suddenly the space between us feels charged. "I need to know. Because I can't keep doing this—living here, playing house, pretending—if I don't know what's real and what's performance."

"What do you want to be real?"

"I asked first."

We're both deflecting now, both terrified to admit what we actually feel.

"This is complicated," I say.

"Life is complicated. That's not an excuse."

"We have a contract. An arrangement. Rules."

"f**k the rules." Her language surprises me. Isla rarely curses. "I'm serious, Adrian. f**k the contract and the arrangement and the carefully constructed boundaries we set up to protect ourselves. I want to know what you actually feel. Not what you think you should feel. Not what's convenient or strategic or appropriate. What do you actually feel?"

"I don't know."

"Liar."

"Isla—"

"You're a liar." She's getting worked up now, color rising in her cheeks. "You know exactly what you feel. You're just too scared to say it. Because saying it makes it real, and real means you might get hurt, and you'd rather die alone in your ice castle than risk being vulnerable with someone who actually gives a damn about you."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? Name one person in your life besides Sophie that you've been honest with. One person you've let see past the CEO mask."

I can't.

"Exactly," she says, reading my silence. "You're so busy protecting yourself that you've forgotten what it's like to actually live. To actually feel. To let someone in."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly. You're afraid. You're afraid of being like your parents—cold and distant and incapable of real connection. You're afraid of disappointing people the way you think you disappointed Sophie. You're afraid of—"

"I'm afraid of failing you!" The words explode out of me, loud in the quiet apartment. "I'm afraid that if I admit what I'm feeling, if I let this be real, I'll fail you the way I failed her. That I'll let you down or push you away or destroy something good because that's what I do, Isla. I destroy things. I couldn't protect my own sister, so how the hell am I supposed to—"

I stop, breathing hard, my composure completely shattered.

Isla stares at me, eyes wide.

"Adrian," she says softly. "You didn't fail Sophie."

"I did. We argued, she left angry, she died. If I had just—"

"If you had just what? Been psychic? Known the future? Adrian, what happened to Sophie was a tragedy. An accident. It wasn't your fault."

"She was upset because of me."

"She was upset because she was Sophie—impulsive and emotional and struggling with things neither of us fully understood. You didn't put her in that car. You didn't make it rain. You didn't cause the accident."

"I should have—"

"What? Been a different person? Not cared about her choices? Let her make mistakes without trying to help?" Isla moves even closer now, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. "You loved your sister. You tried to protect her, even when it pushed her away. That's not a failure, Adrian. That's being human."

"It doesn't feel human. It feels like I'm drowning and I can't—" My voice cracks. "I can't breathe sometimes. I can't think about her without feeling like I'm being crushed. And then you moved in, and suddenly there are moments where I forget to hurt. Moments where I'm just... happy. And that feels like betrayal. Like I'm moving on when I shouldn't be."

"Moving on isn't betrayal. Sophie wouldn't want you to suffer forever."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. She told me. After your dad had that health scare two years ago, she told me she was worried about you. That if anything ever happened to her, you'd blame yourself and shut down completely. She made me promise that if something happened, I'd check on you. That I'd make sure you were okay."

I stare at her. "She made you promise?"

"Yes. So technically, I'm fulfilling a deathbed wish. Well, pre-death wish. You know what I mean."

It's such a Sophie thing to do—trying to take care of everyone even in hypothetical scenarios—that I feel my throat tighten.

"She really said that?"

"She loved you so much, Adrian. She was frustrated with you, sure. But she loved you. And she'd be furious with you right now for carrying this guilt around like penance."

"How do you know?"

"Because I knew her. And I know that she'd want you to be happy. She'd want you to let people in. She'd want—" Isla's voice breaks slightly. "She'd want us to be okay. Both of us."

The us hangs in the air between us, heavy with meaning.

"Isla," I say quietly. "I can't promise I won't fail you."

"I'm not asking for promises. I'm asking for honesty."

"I'm terrified of what I feel for you."

"That's a start."

"I don't know how to do this. How to be... open. Vulnerable. Any of it."

"Neither do I. We can figure it out together."

"What if we can't?"

"What if we can?"

We're standing so close now that I can feel the warmth of her body, see the pulse beating in her throat, count the freckles across her nose that she tries to cover with makeup.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," I say.

"I know."

"We had rules."

"Terrible rules."

"A contract."

"The worst contract in history."

"Isla—"

"Adrian." She reaches up, her hand cupping my jaw, and the touch sends electricity through my entire body. "Stop thinking. Just for one second, stop analyzing and strategizing and protecting yourself. What do you want?"

The truth comes out before I can stop it.

"You. I want you."

Her breath catches. "As your fake fiancée?"

"As whatever you'll let me have."

"What if I want more than fake?"

"What if I want that too?"

We're a breath apart now, every carefully constructed wall between us crumbling. Her hand is still on my face, my hand has somehow found her waist, and the air feels thick with possibility and terror and something that might be hope.

"We should talk about this," I say, even as I lean closer. "Establish parameters. Discuss what this means for our arrangement—"

"Adrian?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

And then she's kissing me.

Or I'm kissing her.

Or we're crashing together like we've been orbiting each other for seven years and finally gave in to gravity.

The kiss is nothing like I expected. Not tentative or careful or appropriate. It's desperate and messy and real—her hands in my hair, my arm around her waist, pulling her closer like I'm afraid she'll disappear.

She tastes like toothpaste and tea and something uniquely her, and I'm drowning in it, in her, in the feeling of finally letting go.

We break apart gasping, foreheads pressed together, both breathing hard.

"That was—" I start.

"Don't. Don't analyze it or explain it away or tell me it was a mistake."

"I was going to say 'incredible.'"

"Oh." She pulls back slightly, eyes searching mine. "Okay then."

"Okay."

We stand there, still holding each other, the city glittering behind us, and I realize something fundamental has shifted.

This isn't fake anymore.

Maybe it never was.

"What do we do now?" Isla asks quietly.

"I don't know. I've never done this before."

"What, kissed someone?"

"Been honest about wanting them."

Her expression softens. "Well, you're doing pretty well so far."

"Am I?"

"For someone who's emotionally constipated? Definitely."

I should be offended. Instead, I'm smiling—really smiling, the kind that Sophie used to tease me about because it was so rare.

"Stay with me tonight," I say, surprising myself. "Not—I don't mean—just stay. Please. I don't want to be alone."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

We move to the couch, the same couch where we watched The Third Man, and this time when Isla curls into my side, there's no pretense. No performance. Just two people who've spent too long pretending they don't need anyone finally admitting they need each other.

"Adrian?" Isla murmurs, half-asleep against my shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"For the record? I think I'm falling for you. Like, actually falling. Not fake falling."

My heart does something complicated in my chest.

"For the record? I think I've been falling for you since the first Thanksgiving you crashed at my parents' house and argued with me about labor practices for twenty minutes."

"That was seven years ago."

"I know."

"You've been falling for me for seven years?"

"Apparently."

She lifts her head to look at me, and her smile is luminous. "You are so emotionally constipated."

"I'm aware."

"We're going to have to work on that."

"We?"

"We. You think I'm letting you go now? After that kiss? You're stuck with me, Blackwell."

"Stuck with you," I repeat, testing the words. "That doesn't sound terrible."

"It sounds kind of nice, actually."

"Yeah," I agree, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "It really does."

We fall asleep on the couch, tangled together, and for the first time since Sophie died, I don't have nightmares.

I dream of possibility instead.